Chapter 3
IVY
When my eyes finally focus enough to make out what she’s holding, my entire body instantly goes numb.
A scalpel.
For a split second, I think she’s here to kill me.
To finish the job I couldn’t, to carve me open as retribution for humiliating her, for making her cry in front of her peer, for the way I wrapped that cold metal chain around her neck and pulled until her body thrashed beneath me, until she gasped and clawed at the chain desperately for air she couldn’t have.
All because I wanted to use her as leverage against Mikhail.
All because I never considered what doing something like that could do to a person.
I see it all over again now—the panic in her eyes, the way her fingers clawed at mine, the sound of her gagging against the metal links. I used her like bait. Like Mikhail is using me. And now she’s come back to return the favor. An eye for an eye.
The silver edge gleams under the overhead light when she shifts on her feet. It’s a warning, a promise of what’s yet to come. An inevitability I will soon face because I had been stupid enough to think Mikhail cared about his staff in some capacity.
I swallow, my throat raw.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t blame her for using it on me.
Hell, if I didn’t have Leo to worry about, I’d gladly offer her my neck just to get this suffering over with.
That would be simpler than this, more merciful than this slow erosion of my sanity day by day, being stuck here with no hopes of ever getting out.
“What are you doing?” I croak.
She doesn’t answer. She only stares, eyes glassy and haunted. There’s no fury in them, just a tired, distant look I know all too well.
Even though I know there’s no point in doing so, I hold my hands up in surrender anyway. There’s no reason for her to listen to me, for her to take mercy or pity on me when I nearly did the unthinkable. But still, I try anyway.
I try for my boy. “Please… don’t.”
Her entire body trembles.
Her neck is heavily bruised. Even in the dim, flickering light, the bruises on her neck are unmistakable. A harsh ring of purple stretches across the pale skin where the chain bit into her, my desperation on full display for me to see.
Guilt slams into me instantly.
God, I didn’t mean to hurt her. That wasn’t the point. I was trying to force Maksim’s hand, trying to get my son back. I wasn’t thinking about her. She was just the tool I needed in the moment.
And the worst part? She’s not even the enemy.
She’s just another piece in Mikhail’s twisted game.
A pawn, like me. Doing what she’s told to survive.
Maybe he threatened her. Maybe he promised her something in return for her silence.
Maybe he promised her nothing and simply expected her obedience like he expects it from everyone.
Maybe she just knows exactly what happens to the people who say no to him.
I hold her gaze, my chest aching, willing her to see me not as the monster who wrapped a chain around her throat, but as what I am now—a desperate woman who made a terrible, irreversible choice.
And what she is, what she’s always been, is unfortunate collateral. A bystander in a war she never asked to be drafted into.
When she starts to move, my heart stutters.
She approaches the bed slowly, fingers still curled around the scalpel like she hasn’t yet decided what to do with it. The bundle of clothes is still clutched tight to her chest, almost like a shield she’s prepared to use if I somehow manage to wrestle the blade out of her hand.
My mouth opens before I can stop it. “I’m so sorry.”
She halts, not far, just a few feet from the bed. She blinks in surprise like she hadn’t expected me to speak at all, let alone apologize.
The words rush out now, faster than I can stop them.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I was scared.
I am scared. You don’t know what it’s like to be locked in here.
To not know if your child is alive. You don’t know what it’s like to imagine a thousand different ways he might be suffering without you.
To picture it, over and over, because your mind won’t give you any peace. ”
Her expression shifts, uncertainty flickering behind her guarded expression.
“Please… just tell me. Tell me if my son is alive,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Not right away, at least. She just stands there staring me down with that unreadable expression.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
The walls around me slowly close in. I can feel the edge of a panic attack rising like a tide, threatening to pull me under at any second to drown me in my own fear and sorrow.
“I need to know, ” I rasp. “I need to know if he’s alive or if they already… if they…”
The word killed lodges in my throat like a piece of broken glass.
A sound escapes me, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. My body curls inward as if instinctively trying to protect something that’s already been taken. I grip my midsection, arms wrapped so tight around my body I can barely breathe, as if I can physically hold in the grief.
My entire world starts caving in around me. The thought that I might never get to hold Leo again—never hear his voice, never see his smile, never get the chance to say I love you one more time—it crushes me.
“I don’t even care what you have to say. Just tell me. Please. Please tell me what they’ve done to him.”
There’s a long pause, and then something shifts in her face. Her mouth parts just slightly. Her shoulders lower, tension slowly unraveling from where it had been coiled. Her voice is quiet when it finally comes. “I saw him. Hour ago. I check his vitals. He is alive.”
The sob in my throat catches mid-breath, and I stare at her like I’m not sure I heard her right. I swallow, my whole body still shaking. “You’re sure?”
She nods slowly. “He is healthy. Tired, but… alive.”
Relief crashes over me so fast I nearly collapse. I have to reach for the edge of the bedframe where I’m usually chained to steady myself. I grip the cold metal like it might hold me together while the world around me spins. The tears don’t stop, but now they’re different.
They flow harder, faster, but they’re no longer falling from despair. They fall because I can breathe again.
My son is still alive.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
She hesitates for a long moment before carefully setting the bundle of clothes down at the foot of my bed. They’re simple—plain cotton with a neutral color, a pair of pants and a T-shirt. It isn’t much, but it’s a gesture of decency I haven’t seen in days.
When she straightens up again, her eyes glance down at the scalpel clutched between her fingers. She hesitates for a heartbeat, then extends it toward me, handle first. “For you.”
My breath catches. “What?”
She swallows hard, and in that moment I see it—the same fear in her that’s been in me since I woke up in this nightmare. She’s terrified. Not of me, not anymore, but of them. She’s not giving me a weapon to hurt her. She’s handing me something she’s not allowed to use but desperately hopes I will.
Is this real?
Or is this another test, another manipulation wrapped in kindness meant to gauge how far I’ll go?
“You will know when to use it,” she murmurs.
Then, without warning, she gently takes my hand in both of hers. She curls my fingers around the handle of the scalpel firmly as if to make sure I feel the decision she’s placing in my grasp. She squeezes once, brief but certain in a silent exchange. Then she lets go.
And just like that, she turns and slips back out the door. The lock clicks into place, soft and final.
I sit there, motionless, still clutching the scalpel in my hand like it might vanish if I blink too hard. My breath stutters in and out, shallow, uneven pulls that make me start to get lightheaded.
Slowly, I look down and open my palm.
Holy shit. She gave me a way out. Or at least the chance of one.
The metal glints in the light, a fragile, deadly promise resting against my skin.
She’s gifted me a chance at freedom.
I move fast, panic nipping at my heels. If anyone walks in right now and sees me clutching this thing, I’m done for.
I shove the scalpel into the seam on the side of the thin mattress where the top and bottom pieces are sewn together, forcing my fingers deep into the fabric until I feel metal springs.
Once it’s good and wedged in there, I sit up and smooth my sheets back over it, tucking the corners neatly.
If they search the room for anything, it’ll be the last place they look.
I settle back on the bed again and press a trembling hand over my heart. My pulse refuses to slow, my entire body wired and alive for the first time since the crash.
I have something now. A way out. A way to get Leo back.
It isn’t much, but it’s more than I’ve had before. A choked sound escapes me, half-sob, half-disbelieving chuckle. I press the heel of my hand over my mouth, trying to quiet myself on the off-chance another guard comes around to check on me.
A plan is already being woven inside my head.
I’ll get us out of here even if it kills me.
The next morning, I don’t resist when they come in.
I hear them before I see them—boots against concrete, keys jangling, the low murmur of voices just outside my door. The click of the lock disengaging is practiced, a familiar alarm I’ve grown used to by now.
I make it easy for them.
When the door swings open, I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on my lap. I don’t speak. I don’t even fight when their hands close around my arms and drag me out of bed like dead weight. My limbs stay loose and compliant as I’m manhandled out into the hallway.
I let them believe I’ve stopped trying, that the fight’s been bled out of me. As long they believe the isolation and the hunger have finally broken me, they’ll let their guard down.
Faking it isn’t that hard, anyway.