Chapter 13 #2
Either way—it didn’t matter.
She wasn’t important.
I exhaled slowly, letting the thought slip through my fingers.
I pushed her—every trace of her—out of my mind.
The room felt quieter now, emptier, as I crossed it in measured steps.
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of shadow cutting across the floor.
I pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it behind me with a soft, final snick.
I turned on the shower.
Steam rose fast, fogging the mirror.
I stripped the nightgown off—silk pooling at my feet like spilled moonlight—and stepped under the spray.
Water hit my shoulders. Ran in rivulets down my back, my breasts, between my thighs.
I closed my eyes.
And remembered.
His mouth on me—slow at first, then ravenous.
The way his tongue had circled my clit with ruthless precision.
The vibration of his groan against my core .
Then his fingers—two, then three—curling inside while his lips sucked harder.
The stretch.
The burn turning to liquid heat.
My thighs shaking.
My back arching off the mattress.
The scream I couldn’t hold back when I came—hard, shattering, soaking his face and the sheets.
The thrusts—slow at first, letting me feel every inch dragging out and sliding back in.
Faster.
Harder.
Deeper.
I pressed my palms to the tile.
Let the water pound against my back.
I didn’t regret it.
Not one second.
He was brutal. Possessive. Cruel more often than not.
But last night he’d been something else.
Hungry. Focused. Almost reverent.
He’d made my first time unforgettable—just like he promised.
And the memory of it—of him inside me, of the way my body had opened for him, of the pleasure that had drowned out every fear and humiliation—burned brighter than any suffering he had ever imposed.
I soaped my skin slowly. Washed away sweat. Traces of him.
The faint stickiness between my thighs.
But I couldn’t wash away the ache.
The soreness.
The quiet, dangerous satisfaction.
I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, skin still flushed from the heat and the echo of everything that had happened since last night.
Steam clung to the mirror in thick, curling waves, blurring my reflection into something less like myself.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Hair damp. Eyes slightly shadowed. Lips still faintly swollen from sleep... and from him.
I looked away first.
Reaching for the thick white towel on the heated rack, I wrapped it around myself.
The fabric was warm, plush, and faintly scented with lavender.
The comfort was almost unsettling, how something so soft could exist in a place like this.
Water dripped from the ends of my hair, tracing cold paths down my spine as I moved across the heated marble floor toward the wardrobe.
Every step felt too loud in the silence.
Too exposed.
The wardrobe doors opened without a sound.
I chose a black boyshorts.
A matching bra.
I let the towel fall.
Cool air kissed my damp skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and spine.
I slipped into the underwear first.
Hooked the bra next.
The straps adjusted easily over my shoulders.
I pulled on high-waisted black leggings, then reached for an oversized charcoal hoodie.
It swallowed me. Exactly as intended.
I hadn’t even fully settled into the space of my body—when the door exploded inward.
The sound shattered the quiet.
Wood splintered.
My entire body went rigid.
Vincenzo.
He stormed inside, his black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his posture rigid with barely contained violence.
His jaw was locked so tightly a muscle jumped along his cheek, eyes scanning the room with predatory precision.
Then they locked onto me.
Everything in him sharpened.
He crossed the distance in three strides.
Fast.
Before I could react—his hand closed around my throat.
“Explain to me what you did to Violet that made her bleed.”
His voice was lethal.
Each word carved from ice and fury.
“What?”
The word left me on instinct.
Confusion cutting through the shock.
“Answer me.”
His grip tightened just slightly.
Not enough to choke. Enough to remind me he could.
“Did you hit her? Push her?”
His thumb shifted, pressing lightly against the pulse at my throat.
“She passed out—bleeding between her legs—and the last thing she said before she went under was your name.”
For a moment—my mind stalled.
“You’re squeezing too hard... I can’t breathe,” I said, my voice shaking.
For a moment, the anger in his face softened—just enough for his grip to ease. A fraction.
But he didn’t let go.
His hand stayed on my throat—firm, warm, unyielding.
His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath his skin.
“I gave you three red lines,” he said, voice low and deadly, “and you just crossed one.”
He leaned closer, eyes burning into mine.
“You hurt Violet... because you think her baby is mine, isn’t that it?”
“I did not touch her!”
The words snapped out of me, cutting through the tension in the room.
My breath hitched slightly with the force of it, close enough that it stirred the dark strands of his hair across his forehead.
For a fraction of a second—he faltered.
“Violet is trying to set me up,” I continued, my voice steady now, even with his hand still locked around my throat.
Not pleading.
“I didn’t lay a finger on her.”
A pause.
“Yes, she came into my room and tried to get a reaction. I didn’t give her one. If she got hurt, that’s not on me. The cameras show everything—you can check for yourself.”
His eyes searched mine.
Merciless.
Searching for something to justify the conclusion he had already drawn.
“If Violet loses that child because of this,” he said at last, his voice low, and lethal.
“I will make sure you never conceive. I’ll see to it that a surgeon removes your uterus so you can never carry a child—not in this lifetime, not ever again.”
The threat landed deep.
Not just in my ears. But in my chest.
In my ribs. Between my thoughts.
Like a blade driven straight into something vital.
For a moment—the world narrowed.
His hand was still at my throat.
But the pressure no longer mattered.
It was the words.
The intention behind them.
That cut.
Then—he released me.
But his eyes—they stayed on me.
Burning. Cold. Violent.
Like he wanted to tear me apart with his bare hands.
Then—without another word—he turned.
And walked out.
The door slammed behind him with enough force that the frame rattled violently.
Silence rushed back in to fill the space he left behind.
I stood there for a second.
Unmoving.
Breathing shallow.
My throat still remembered the pressure.
But it wasn’t the physical pain that caught up to me.
It was something deeper.
A twisting ache that clawed its way up from my chest until it settled behind my ribs.
This was the same man who had been inside me last night.
Who had kissed me like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.
Who had groaned my name against my skin like it mattered.
Who had held me after—his forehead pressed to mine.
Breathing unsteady.
Like I was something more than just a pawn in whatever game he was playing.
And now—he was ready to destroy me.
To mutilate me.
Because another woman had pointed at me.
My knees gave out.
I didn’t fight it. Didn’t catch myself.
Just slid down the wall until I hit the floor.
The carpet pressed against my back as I sank into it, hoodie pooling around me, arms wrapping instinctively around my middle like I could hold myself together through sheer force alone.
Disappointment tasted like copper in my mouth.
Disappointment in the man I had allowed myself to see differently.
In the version of him I had let myself believe in—if only for a moment.
My chest tightened.
Last night returned to me in fragments.
The way I had climbed onto him. How I had taken the first step.
How I had let him in. Let him take what he wanted. Let him be my first.
I told myself it didn’t matter—that it was just bodies, just need.
Just a husband and wife finally consummating a dry marriage.
Now... shame coils through me.
I shouldn’t have.
I regret it.
I should have slept like I always did these past eight months.
Because the man who buried himself inside me last night—the man who whispered how good I smelled, kissed me like obsession incarnate—is now the same man threatening to steal my ability to conceive.
All because of his mistress’s pathetic lies.
I pressed my forehead against my knees.
Tight.
Breathing uneven.
My teeth sank into the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
Something hollow opening up where something else had just been crushed.
Goosebumps rising along my arms despite the warmth of the room.
I couldn’t stay here any longer.
Not under his roof, not within reach of his decisions, his rage.
Not after everything I had endured, not after the line he had just crossed so easily.
Something in me had finally given way—not in weakness, but in clarity.
If Violet lost that child, he wouldn’t hesitate.
He would have me taken to a hospital, pinned to a table, and carved open like I had no say over my own body.
He would take my future from me—my ability to ever conceive—because he chose to believe another woman over me.
The thought settled heavily in my chest, not as panic, but as something colder.
This was where it ended.
I had stayed through too much already.
Through humiliation, through control, through the slow erosion of my own boundaries.
I had told myself I could endure it, that there was a reason to stay, that I could manage him, understand him, survive him.
But this... this was not something to survive.
It was something to leave.
I was done being patient.
Done waiting for him to see me, to choose me, to be anything other than what he had just shown himself to be.
I would leave him.
Completely. Permanently.
It didn’t matter how much power he held, how many men he commanded, how tightly guarded his world was—none of it mattered.
I would find a way out, and once I did, I would never come back.
Never.
I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the weakness still lingering in my body, and moved toward the bed.
Dropping into a crouch, I pulled my bag closer and began to pack with steady movements.
Cash, neatly bundled.
A burner phone, wiped clean of any trace.
The fake passport, still hidden in the inner lining.
A Glock, wrapped carefully in cloth, the magazine already loaded.
One change of clothes—dark, simple.
And the knife, small and sharp, taped into the seam where no one would think to look.
I checked everything twice, making sure nothing was missing, nothing out of place.
This wasn’t impulsive or reckless.
It was a final decision.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of the bag pressing into my hands as I stared at the door he’d walked through just moments ago.
The door that had slammed shut behind him with the kind of finality that left no room for soft endings.
And something inside me—something fragile I hadn’t realized I was still holding onto—snapped clean.
There was no going back to whatever last night had been.
No pretending it meant something he would honor.
He could keep his threats.
Keep Violet.
Keep the twisted satisfaction of using me as collateral for a past I had no part in—punishing me for my father’s sins.
But he would never control my future.
Not this part of me. Not the part that refused to be erased.
Then I rose slowly, my body still taut.
I picked up the bag, its weight settling heavily in my hand—along with the knowledge of what it meant.
If he caught me trying to escape...
It was one of the red lines he had drawn. One he would not forgive.
I tightened my grip and walked toward the window.
The curtains parted with a quiet sweep, and light flooded in—soft, golden, almost gentle.
The lake stretched out beyond the glass, perfectly still.
This very night, I’m leaving.
It doesn’t matter how much it hurts to walk away.
It doesn’t matter where I end up—even if it’s back on the streets, hunger clawing at my insides, running again... always looking over my shoulder, making sure Ruslan Baranov’s men don’t catch up to me.
I’ll still go.
Even if I carry him with me.
The memory of him.
The weight of what happened between us—something I can’t undo, something that will follow me long after I’m gone.
I turn away from the window, letting the last of the light fall behind me, the lake slipping out of sight.
The room grows quiet.
Still.
And I wait.
Not helplessly—never that.
My mind is already working, running through every step, every exit, every blind spot.
I mapped this place out from the moment I stepped into it.
Counted doors. Watched patterns. Learned the guards.
By the time darkness falls... I’ll be gone.