Chapter 23 – Elara
I wake to a mouthful of dust and the aftertaste of metal.
Darkness presses against my eyelids; when I force them open, the room tilts into focus—low ceiling, cracked plaster, the sour smell of damp and old smoke.
My wrists sting. Cold iron bites my skin.
I’m strapped to a metal chair bolted to the floor.
Panic is immediate, stupid, and hot. I shove at the restraints. They do not budge. The seat is heavy beneath me, the chair’s bolts nailed into concrete. My breath comes fast; I taste fear, and it tastes like pennies.
This is one of my father’s properties, I think, because only he has houses that look like abandoned museums—grand in decay, expensive in neglect. I don’t know which one, and I don’t care. I only care that I am here and I have to get out.
I spit out the gag in my mouth; it’s rubber, rough, and it slides free with a wet, humiliating sound. My voice cracks when I call, “Roman?” but the name dies in the rafters. Silence answers back, thick and patient.
Why do I keep calling for him? He’s not here!
Light fractures through a high, barred window, slivering across the floor.
Dust motes float like slow satellites. I turn my head, trying to catalogue everything—plaster flaking, a tarnished chandelier, a low table with a single glass of water sweating on it.
A newspaper lies folded, the headline hidden. Nothing else moves.
I test my wrists again. The metal cuff doesn’t slip.
Fuck. I’m in trouble. I’m still trying to shake myself loose when the door swings open.
My head snaps up, but the breath hitches in my throat when my father walks in.
He’s here. My father. The man whose shadow has always loomed over my life, whose approval I’ve never truly earned.
Fear coils in my chest, sharp and suffocating, but beneath it, anger rises like wildfire.
“Let me go!” I shout, voice raw, trembling with fury. “I’m your daughter! Your own blood! You can’t do this to me!”
He stops a few feet away, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. The light catches the lines in his face, the tiredness masked by his composure. He shakes his head slowly, deliberately, and the gesture feels like a punch.
“I didn’t want to do any of this, Elara,” he says, his tone almost…calm, clinical even. “But you chose to run. You chose to destroy the paintings, the property, the evidence. You forced my hand.”
I gape at him, disbelief burning hotter than fear. “Forced your hand? You’ve gone mad!”
His eyes harden, glinting with a cold practicality that chills me. “I need the money, Elara. And to me, you’re just a commodity. A tool to secure what’s mine. Nothing more. Don’t think emotions will make a difference here.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight, my hands shaking. Rage battles with terror, but my mind claws for a way out. I will not let him own me like this. Not ever.
“You’re sick,” I whisper, barely holding back tears. “I’m your daughter. You have no right.”
He tilts his head, as if humoring a child’s tantrum. “Rights are for people who follow rules, Elara. You didn’t. Now, everything has a price. You will learn that soon enough.”
The words cut deeper than any physical blow. I tense my muscles, straining against the chair’s metal cuffs, willing my hands to find leverage, to force freedom.
My father steps closer, and I can feel the heat of his presence, the menace of control radiating from him. His cologne, sharp and familiar, makes my stomach turn.
“You’re about to make me so much money,” he says, his voice low and slick with pride, as if he’s talking about a business deal, not his own daughter.
“I’m married!” I spit, venom flooding my throat. “I’m not playing your stupid games.”
He laughs—a deep, cold sound that slices through the air. There’s nothing amused about it. “Married to Roman Rusnak?” he says, eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction. “You think that makes you untouchable?”
He leans in closer, his smile widening. “If anything, it made you more valuable. Men are crawling out of their holes, Elara. They hate him, envy him. And now they all want what he had. To them, you’re not just beautiful—you’re revenge. A trophy taken from the great Roman Rusnak.”
I freeze, bile rising in my throat.
He straightens his suit jacket, casual, almost proud. “You see? You finally did something useful for me.”
I shake my head, tears burning my eyes, fury shaking my chest. “You’re disgusting. You’re not even human.”
He smirks. “Maybe not. But I’m rich. And soon, I’ll be richer.”
He turns to leave, and the sound of his shoes echoes through the empty room like a countdown to hell.
The door slams shut, and for a long moment, I just sit there, frozen.
My father’s footsteps fade down the hall, but the sound stays lodged in my chest like a thorn. My pulse is racing so hard it hurts.
He’s really going to sell me.
The thought hits me like a punch to the ribs. I can’t even breathe right. No one’s coming for me. No one except maybe Roman—but what if he doesn’t know? What if he’s too late?
Panic rises fast, choking me. I pull at the ropes around my wrists, rough and tight, slicing into my skin. I twist and yank until the chair rattles, but it’s useless—it’s bolted to the floor. A dull clink rings out, mocking me.
“Think, Elara. Think,” I whisper to myself, the words breaking.
I scan the room—cracked walls, boarded windows, one thin shaft of light bleeding through the ceiling. Nothing I can use. No sharp edges. No weapons. Just dust, cold air, and my own fear.
My hands are slick with sweat. The harder I pull, the deeper the rope cuts. My breathing turns shallow, erratic.
He’ll do it, I realize, my chest tightening. He’ll actually sell me.
Something in me snaps. I jerk against the ropes again, ignoring the burn, the blood, everything. “You won’t win!” I scream, the sound bouncing off the walls, raw and wild.
But no one answers.
The door bursts open again, and a group of men storms forward. Before I can react, rough hands grab me.
“No! Don’t touch me!” I thrash, but it’s pointless. The ropes bite deeper, my arms screaming in protest.
They drag me down a narrow hallway, my bare feet scraping against the cold floor, until we reach another door. The scent hits me first—expensive cigars, perfume, cologne, sweat. Then the sound—male laughter, low and predatory.
They shove me inside.
I stumble forward, catching myself on my knees. The room is lavish—gold-trimmed walls, velvet chairs, crystal decanters gleaming under chandelier light. And men. At least six of them, all seated like it’s some kind of show.
I recognize some of their faces—foreign buyers. The same ones who used to come to my father’s dinners, laughing over wine, pretending to admire the paintings I’d destroyed.
Now their eyes are on me.
“Well, well,” one of them says, his accent thick. “So this is the girl.”
Another laughs. “Rusnak’s wife. I must say, Roman has excellent taste.”
Their laughter scrapes across my skin like knives.
My stomach twists. I want to throw up, to scream, to disappear. I pull against the ropes even though they’ve already rubbed my wrists raw.
One of them lifts a hand lazily. “How much are we starting at?”
The room erupts in murmurs—numbers, currencies, offers.
I freeze, the world tilting around me.
They’re bargaining. For me.
One of the men stands, smooth and deliberate, a grin splitting his face. He’s tall, pale, his suit sharp enough to slice through the tension. I recognize him—an arms dealer from one of my father’s parties. His name sits on the edge of my memory like a bad taste.
He walks toward me, holding a small velvet box. My stomach knots.
“This,” he says, flicking it open to reveal a diamond ring, “will be yours. Before sunrise, you’ll be my bride.”
His voice is oily, smug, and I can smell his cologne. It’s rich and suffocating.
My entire body goes cold. Bride?
Before I can stop myself, I spit—hard—right in his face.
Gasps ripple through the room.
He freezes, then wipes his cheek slowly, eyes narrowing with something dark and cruel. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
The slap comes fast and sharp. My head snaps to the side, the sting radiating through my jaw, my vision blurring.
“Enough,” my father’s voice booms from across the room. He doesn’t even look at me. “Take her back inside. Let her learn her lesson.”
Hands grab me again, rough and unrelenting. As they drag me away, I lock eyes with my father one last time—searching, begging for something human. But all I see is greed.
The door slams shut behind me, and the echo feels like a verdict.