Chapter 5
SOPHIA
The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
I freeze in the hallway, my heart leaping into my throat as darkness swallows the mansion whole.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Then I hear it: the distant hum of a backup generator trying to kick in, failing, trying again.
This is it. This is my chance.
I’ve been watching the security patterns for three days now, memorizing the guards’ rotations, noting the blind spots in the camera coverage.
Marco shadows me everywhere, but even he can’t be in two places at once. And right now, with the power out, those cameras are useless.
My hands shake as I feel my way along the wall, moving toward the servants’ staircase I discovered yesterday.
Elena mentioned it leads down to the wine cellar, where there are old service tunnels that connect to the neighboring properties. Tunnels that might lead to freedom.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t be Mrs. Artyomov.
Can’t be the vessel for Mikhail’s revenge. Can’t let my body betray me again the way it did last night.
The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth claiming mine, the way I screamed his name as pleasure tore through me makes my cheeks burn with shame even now.
I hate him. I hate what he’s done to me, what he’s turned me into. And I hate myself for wanting more.
The staircase is narrow and steep, the wooden steps creaking under my weight.
I pause every few seconds, listening for footsteps, for voices, for any sign that someone has noticed my absence.
But there’s nothing except the distant shouts of guards trying to restore power.
The wine cellar is colder than I expected, the air thick with the scent of aged oak and fermentation.
I pull out the small flashlight I stole from the kitchen earlier, its weak beam barely cutting through the darkness.
Rows of wine bottles stretch into the shadows, their labels dusty and faded.
There. At the back wall, partially hidden behind a rack of vintage Bordeaux, I spot what looks like a door.
My pulse quickens as I squeeze past the bottles, my fingers finding the iron handle.
It’s locked, but the mechanism is old and corroded. I grab a corkscrew from a nearby table and work it into the lock, twisting, prying, my breath coming in short gasps.
Come on. Come on.
The lock gives with a rusty groan, and the door swings inward, revealing a tunnel that disappears into absolute blackness.
Cold air rushes out, carrying the smell of damp earth and something else. Something that makes my stomach turn.
I should go back. Every instinct screams at me to turn around, to return to my gilded cage before anyone notices I’m gone.
But the thought of Mikhail’s cold green eyes, his possessive touch, the way he looks at me like I’m both his salvation and his damnation, propels me forward.
Rough stone walls scrape my shoulders as I move deeper into the darkness.
My flashlight beam bounces off the uneven surfaces, creating dancing shadows that make my skin crawl.
Water drips somewhere ahead, each drop echoing like a countdown.
I’ve been walking for maybe ten minutes when the tunnel branches.
I shine my light down both passages, but they look identical, stretching into darkness that my weak beam can’t penetrate.
Left. I’ll go left.
The passage grows narrower, the ceiling lower.
I have to duck my head, and the walls press in on both sides. My breathing quickens, becomes shallow.
The air feels thicker here, harder to pull into my lungs.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Just keep moving.
But the walls keep closing in, and suddenly I’m seven years old again, locked in that closet because I forgot to clean my room.
My father’s voice echoes in my memory. “You’ll stay in there until I tell you you can come out.” The darkness had been absolute, suffocating. I’d screamed until my throat was raw, pounded on the door until my hands were bruised.
He’d left me there for hours, the tv in the next room loud and burying my cries.
No. Don’t think about that. Focus on getting out.
I force myself forward, but my legs feel like lead.
The tunnel curves sharply, and I nearly trip over something on the ground. I swing my flashlight down and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Chains.
Rusted shackles attached to iron rings embedded in the stone wall.
And beside them, dark stains that could be anything but probably aren’t.
Oh god.
My stomach heaves, and I press my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
How many people has Mikhail brought down here?
How many have died in these tunnels, their screams swallowed by stone and earth?
I back away from the chains, my flashlight beam jerking wildly.
I need to get out.
Need to find another way.
But when I turn around, the tunnel looks different.
Did I come from the left or the right?
There was a curve, wasn’t there?
Or was it straight?
Panic claws at my chest. I spin in a circle, trying to orient myself, but every direction looks the same.
Stone walls, dripping water, darkness pressing in from all sides.
The flashlight flickers.
No. No, no, no.
I shake it desperately, and the beam steadies for a moment before flickering again.
The batteries are dying.
Soon I’ll be in complete darkness, lost in this maze with no way out.
The walls are closing in. I can feel them moving, squeezing the air from my lungs.
My chest tightens, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m back in that closet, terrified, screaming for someone to let me out.
I sink to my knees, my back against the cold stone wall.
The flashlight falls from my trembling hands, its beam pointing uselessly at the ceiling.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but I’m breaking apart.
Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move.
The darkness is alive, pressing against my skin, filling my mouth and nose.
I’m going to die down here.
They’ll find my body weeks from now, if they find it at all.
Just another victim of Mikhail Artyomov’s cruelty.
Footsteps.
I freeze, my panic momentarily forgotten.
Someone’s coming.
The sound echoes off the stone walls, making it difficult to tell which direction it’s coming from.
Heavy boots, moving with purpose.
Guards.
They’ve found me.
I scramble to my feet, grabbing the flashlight.
Its beam is barely a glow now, but it’s enough to see a few feet ahead.
I stumble forward, away from the footsteps, but the tunnel dead-ends at a wall of collapsed stone.
No. This can’t be happening.
The footsteps grow louder, closer.
I press myself against the wall, as if I could somehow melt into the stone and disappear.
My heart hammers so hard I’m sure whoever’s coming can hear it.
A beam of light cuts through the darkness, much brighter than my dying flashlight.
It sweeps across the tunnel, searching, and I hold my breath, praying they’ll miss me in the shadows yet desperately wishing someone to save me from this hellhole.
The beam finds me, pinning me like an insect under glass.
I can’t see who’s holding the light.
I can only make out a tall silhouette moving toward me with predatory grace.
Every muscle in my body screams at me to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m trapped.
The figure stops a few feet away, and I hear the click of a lighter.
A small flame illuminates a face I know too well.
Green eyes that glow like ice in the flickering light.
Sharp cheekbones shadowed with stubble.
Lips curved into something that might be amusement or might be fury.
Mikhail.
He looks at me for a long moment, taking in my disheveled appearance, my tear-stained face, the way I’m pressed against the wall like a cornered animal.
His expression is unreadable, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his free hand clenches and unclenches at his side.
His familiar voice, rough with amusement, cuts through the darkness. “Going somewhere, princess?”