Chapter Twenty-Three
Ayla
I’m sitting in the dark, bruised and broken—my skin a patchwork of burns, raw welts, and purple-black bruises that ache with every shift.
My arms and legs are covered in angry red stripes and mottled cuts, some old, some new, all of them reminders that my body is not my own.
I’m curled in the farthest corner of the bed, pressed tight to the wall, wearing another childish pink dress—this one stained and faded, the only thing they let me wear since I’ve been here.
I lose track of how many days have passed.
In this place, time dissolves into hunger, pain, and the relentless eye of the camera blinking from the ceiling. Someone is always watching me.
The door opens with a heavy thunk, and I flinch, arms tightening around my knees.
Nathan walks in, face unreadable, a chipped plate in one hand: a limp ham sandwich and a glass of water.
He sets it on the ugly nightstand and turns to leave without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
The lock slides into place, but the camera never blinks.
I eat the sandwich and drink the water in frantic gulps.
I tried refusing once—starvation as protest—but Nathan just laughed.
“Don’t fucking eat and starve, then, bitch.
” I gave up that fight. Nobody brought me anything for days.
Now, I eat because it’s survival, nothing more.
Some days, I wish they’d just kill me and be done with it.
But then I remember Dean’s voice—the last words I heard before the horror hit me.
“Don’t let him break you—I love you.” I cling to that memory like a lifeline, even as I wonder if he’s alive.
Maybe they already broke me. I curl back onto the bed after finishing the food, letting exhaustion drag me under.
In this room, time is elastic—there is only on-camera and off-camera, and I no longer know which is which.
The next thing I know, the door slams open and the lights blaze. The brightness stabs at my eyes, making me wince and fold deeper into myself. “People are getting bored with you,” Nathan says, his tone cold and clinical. “Time to move on to clause number four.”
My heart drops. Clause four—the threat I’ve dreaded most. My only protection has been the shot, contraception forced into my arm secretly before they brought me here.
Am I due? How long has it been? Panic claws at my chest as I try to remember, but I can’t.
I have no idea how long I've been here. “Come on,” Nathan orders, but I can’t move.
“I said, Come on, bitch!” He crosses the room and yanks me up by my hair; my legs buckle, and I collapse to my knees.
“Get the fuck up,” he snarls. I force myself upright, trembling, as he drags me out of the room that’s been my cell for who knows how long—my only sanctuary, even as it became my hell. I haven’t seen anything but that room and the bathroom since I got here.
He drags me down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the basement—a space that reeks of captivity, the air heavy with mildew, dust, and the unyielding stench of old concrete.
The basement is a warped imitation of a living space: a sagging bed shoved into a corner, a lumpy, stained couch, a battered table and mismatched chairs, and a fridge that hums with rot across from a rusted kitchenette.
A scratched microwave and a single-burner hot plate sit beside chipped counters, as if this place could ever be called a home.
The fridge is dented yellow, its hum a sick promise.
Cans and boxes are stacked in careful rows, the bare minimum for survival—nothing that lets me feel human, only the tools of my imprisonment.
But what truly shatters me is the chain: thick steel, bolted into the center of the floor, snaking out twenty feet to a heavy shackle.
I stumble back in panic, the urge to run overwhelming, but Charles is already behind me, his shadow swallowing what little hope I have left.
I am trapped, the reality of clause number four settling in: they mean for me to carry a pregnancy here, chained to this basement, in this mockery of an apartment. There is nowhere to go.
Nathan drags me to the bed and grabs my ankle.
I try to fight him, but it’s pathetic—my strength long gone.
He snaps the cuff around my leg, cold steel biting into raw skin.
“There’s food in the fridge, and the bathroom’s right there,” he says, pointing to a narrow door in the cinderblock wall.
I whimper, “Please,” but Charles just steps forward, his eyes flat and hard.
“Princess…” The word is bile in my throat. “We can’t trust you.”
They both turn and head up the stairs. I don’t hear the door lock, but the chain is enough.
I stand and pace the perimeter of the basement, searching for anything—anything—that could help me escape.
But the chain around my ankle is heavy and short, tethering me to this hell.
I run my fingers over the cinderblock walls, check the tiny, barred window near the ceiling, scan the shelves above the battered fridge and the rusty sink.
Nothing. No tools, no hope, just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the metallic scent of fear.
The door at the top of the steps creaks open, and I freeze.
Heavy footsteps echo down, and a man I don’t recognize appears, followed by Nathan.
The stranger is pale and nervous, clutching a medical bag.
Nathan’s voice is flat, almost bored, as he rattles off, “Clause number four. You agreed to bear a child for my son. If Derek is incapacitated, that right transfers to me.” My stomach lurches, horror rising in my throat, but Nathan just keeps talking.
“This is Andrew, a doctor and a dear friend. He’ll run some labs and give you a full exam.
We all want this to go smoothly, right?”
Andrew avoids my eyes as he sets his medical bag on the chipped table, pulling out gloves, vials, and a cold metal speculum that makes my stomach twist. He works in silence, his movements stiff and businesslike, clearly wanting to get this over with.
Nathan stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching everything.
“Lie back,” Andrew says quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. I do as I’m told, staring up at the dusty ceiling while he snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. The exam table is just the bed, a thin blanket beneath me, and I try to keep my mind far away.
He pushes my knees apart, the chain at my ankle clinking against the bed frame.
I stare at a crack in the ceiling and focus on my breathing—one, two, three—as Andrew gently but efficiently performs the pelvic exam.
Swabs. A cold, metal instrument. The clinical detachment in his hands, the snap of latex, the way he murmurs “almost done” but never meets my eyes.
Nathan hovers, making the humiliation worse, his gaze burning into me. I want to disappear, to float so far away I can’t feel any of it. I stare at the wall, picturing Alex’s hand on my knee, Zayn’s arms around me, Dean’s voice in my ear, grounding me.
When Andrew is finished, he wipes his hands and speaks to Nathan, “I’ll let you know when the results come in, but physically, she’s ready.” He turns and flees up the stairs, leaving me exposed and trembling, the chill of the exam lingering long after he’s gone.
Nathan’s voice cuts through the fog, “Well, you heard him.” I close my eyes. I’m somewhere else. I have to be. It’s the only way to survive.
As soon as Nathan’s hands are on me, I close my eyes and force myself somewhere else—anywhere but here.
I focus every shred of willpower on memory: the golden glow of the bonfire, the crackle of logs, the scent of woodsmoke curling in the night.
I hear him unzipping his pants, but I pull myself deeper into the memory—Dean’s arms strong and warm around my shoulders, Zayn’s crooked grin lit by firelight, Alex’s steady hand tracing comfort on my knee.
Nathan climbs on top of me, his weight a nightmare, his voice a distant echo.
I imagine laughter, gentle teasing, the safety of being surrounded by the people who love me, their voices weaving a cocoon of belonging while Nathan’s hand clamps around my throat and he forces himself inside me.
I refuse to let the present devour me; I cling desperately to that imagined warmth, holding tight as pain and humiliation threaten to pull me under.
Nathan’s hands violate my skin, but in my mind I am far away—at the fire, safe, loved, untouched by monsters.
By the time he cums inside me, I have all but left my body behind, surviving only by clinging to hope that someone—anyone—will find me before I disappear for good.
Dean
It's been two weeks since Alex brought me my computer, and I'm losing my fucking mind—anger and frustration burning a hole in my chest. No matter what I do, it's never enough. I’ve tried every trick I know, but the bastards who run the site are using advanced proxy chains and encrypted servers—layers upon layers of security, always one step ahead of me. I can barely get a ping on any IP address before the signal bounces to another continent. I tried tracking Ayla’s phone, but there’s nothing.
No signal, no GPS, nothing but dead ends.
I want to smash my laptop, throw it out the window, scream until my throat is raw.
Every failure feels like another nail in her coffin, another day stolen from her and from me.
I’ve been at this for long enough that I think I’m losing my mind, running on caffeine, rage, and the adrenaline of being back on my feet—because now I am.
But what good is surviving if I can’t save her?