Chapter 27 #3
I'd been naive enough to think that at thirty thousand feet, I'd found the man who'd always leave a light on for me, who'd hold me tight in the darkness. I'd thought those fireworks, those promises, that ring on his finger—maybe someday they could be mine.
But now, in this pitch-black void, clutching the "call" he'd made and hearing those intimate sounds—I finally woke up completely.
He didn't love me. Never had.
Wife. Concern. Promises.
All lies. I, Nadia Cross, had been nothing but a toy for his amusement. A transaction with an expiration date. Garbage to be thrown in the basement and left to die once I'd served my purpose.
The tears dried up. After absolute despair came an eerie, bone-chilling calm.
I curled up in the cold corner, body shaking violently. The claustrophobia triggered physical reactions—dry heaving, cold sweat soaking through my clothes. Darkness was a beast slowly devouring my flesh and soul.
No one was coming to save me.
No urgent footsteps. No "I'm here, don't be afraid." No one would kick down this door for me anymore.
Was I going to die here? Like some pathetic creature, dying in this moldy basement because I was afraid of the dark, because a man betrayed me—curled up in a corner waiting for death?
Something shattered deep in my mind.
No.
I didn't want to die. Why should I? Why should that blood-soaked mobster and that lying bitch get to enjoy themselves upstairs while I died down here like a dog?
In that bone-deep cold, a low voice suddenly flashed through my mind without warning.
"Kitten, never wait for someone else to be your savior. Remember—the key is in your hand. The door can always be opened from inside."
The key is in your hand. The door can be opened from inside.
My eyes snapped open. In the pitch-black basement, my unfocused blue eyes suddenly burned with fierce, terrifying will to live.
Why should I wait for him to turn on the lights? Why should I put my life in someone else's hands?
Survival instinct crushed the claustrophobia's suffocating grip in an instant. Rage—absolute, tearing rage—transformed into impossible strength flooding my exhausted limbs.
I bit through my lip, tasting thick blood. I felt my way up from the floor in the darkness.
The iron door wouldn't open. But this storage room had been converted from a wine cellar. For ventilation, there had to be an air vent.
I followed the cold, rough wall, body trembling, groping blindly through the darkness like someone sightless. My fingers hit wood frames full of splinters, knocked over heavy metal cans with ear-splitting crashes. I didn't care.
Finally, my hand found a metal shelf piled with junk in the corner. And at the very top, where the wall met the ceiling, the faintest sliver of cold moonlight leaked through a narrow ventilation window.
The scent of wind and freedom.
But the vent was sealed tight with thick, reinforced louver glass.
I didn't hesitate. I turned and tore through the deserted junk pile, searching frantically. My hand closed around something heavy and rusted—a length of iron pipe, maybe an old water pipe.
I gripped that pipe with both hands. The wounds in my palms tore open again, blood running down the creases of my palms into the rusted grooves. Slick and sticky. I couldn't feel pain anymore.
I climbed the unstable metal shelf, heedless of danger. The scabs on my knees ripped open on the rough iron frame, leaving trails of blood in the darkness.
The shelf lurched violently.
I clung to the top crossbar, and by that faint moonlight, I raised the iron pipe and swung with every ounce of strength in my body at that sealed reinforced glass.
The glass held firm. The pipe rebounded, the impact nearly splitting my palms.
"Go to hell!"
I screamed hysterically, eyes bloodshot and crazed, raising the pipe again. Like someone beyond pain, I hammered the same spot. Once. Twice. Three times. Again and again.
Finally, with an ear-splitting shatter, that thick glass blocking my breath broke. A gaping black hole appeared.
Sharp glass shards rained down, slicing my cheek, my arms, the backs of my hands. Blood streamed down my arms, staining my white sleeves crimson.
I gulped the frigid, cutting, but utterly free air pouring through that gap.
The tears had long dried. I dropped the pipe and grabbed the jagged glass teeth still lining the vent's edge with my bare hands, letting them pierce deep into my palms.
Did it hurt?
It hurt like hell.
But I laughed.
Was I losing my mind? Maybe.
But I didn't care anymore.
I stood on top of that shelf and forced my bloody, battered body through that narrow opening lined with glass fangs.
When I finally tumbled out and hit the muddy ground behind the manor, freezing rain hammered down on my face without mercy.
I lay spreadeagled in the mud, staring up at that cloud-covered but infinitely vast sky, looking at my hands torn and bleeding from gripping broken glass.
No one was coming to save me. No one would turn on the lights for me.
But it didn't matter anymore.
Roman Sokolov, thank you. In that deepest darkness, you delivered the most fatal blow.
This time, I smashed that window myself. With my own hands, I broke free.