CHAPTER 13
ROSE P.O.V.
The metallic tang of Liam’s rage still coated my tongue, a phantom sensation lingering from his brutal claiming hours ago.
My body felt ravaged, tender in places I didn’t want to acknowledge, a burning testament to his possessive fury.
He had slammed me against the bed, ripped my clothes, and filled me with his dominance, leaving no doubt who was in control, who owned me.
Mine, he’d growled, each thrust a declaration, each word a brand.
And I had broken, whimpering his name, admitting I was his.
The humiliation was a hot, bitter bile in my throat.
He thought that had sealed my fate, that his violence, combined with the desperate, unwelcome heat that always flared between us, would crush my spirit.
He was wrong. It only fueled a colder, more determined fire.
The recent attack on his penthouse – our penthouse, as he’d brutally reminded me – had solidified my resolve.
The danger was real, pervasive, and I was a pawn.
No longer a willing pawn, but a captive piece he would use until I was broken or discarded.
He wanted me to feel like property? Fine. But property could be stolen. Or, more fittingly, property could escape.
My previous attempts at flight had been impulsive, born of raw fear and desperation.
They had been childish, easily thwarted.
This time, I needed a plan. Something more elaborate, more befitting a historian who understood intricate patterns and hidden passages.
My mind, a relentless engine, had been working overtime since Liam’s last brutal "lesson," sifting through every detail, every guarded word, every nuance of this opulent prison.
The key, I realized, lay in the same access he had so carelessly granted me: my work.
He allowed me freedom within my studio, within his vast art collection.
He expected me to be engrossed in ancient tapestries and religious icons.
He expected me to be distracted. And that, precisely, was my advantage.
I started small, mapping the movements of the rotating guard shifts, noting the blind spots in the security cameras – tiny, almost imperceptible flickers that a casual observer would miss, but my eye, trained on centuries of hidden details, could spot.
I observed the various service entrances, the delivery schedules, the frequency of personnel entering and exiting the less-trafficked areas of the penthouse.
The kitchen staff, the cleaners, the maintenance crews.
They all had specific routes, specific times, specific access points.
Liam’s empire ran with terrifying efficiency, but even the most impenetrable fortress had its vulnerabilities, its necessary functions.
My studio, located in the West Wing, had a rarely used service corridor connecting it to the larger ventilation system of the building.
I’d noticed it weeks ago, a small, unassuming door disguised as part of the wall paneling, similar to the secret passage I’d found to Volkov’s documents.
It was where the cleaning staff occasionally accessed to deal with spills or dust accumulation in the larger ducts.
It was also, crucially, rarely monitored by Ivan, my silent, ever-present shadow, whose primary focus was the main doors and windows.
Over the next few days, I became a phantom myself, moving with a new purpose.
While Natalia assumed I was restoring some obscure Roman sculpture, I was slowly, meticulously, tampering with the locking mechanism of that service door.
A tiny bit of rust, a strategically placed sliver of a broken tool, a loosened screw.
Imperceptible damage, but enough to jam the archaic lock, preventing it from fully engaging.
It wouldn’t open freely, but with enough force, it could be pushed open.
My heart hammered against my ribs with a frantic rhythm as the designated night approached.
Liam had been absent from the penthouse for the past two days, dealing with the fallout from the attack.
He was punishing Petrov, tearing his world apart piece by piece, as he’d promised.
But his absence didn't mean my freedom. It only meant I had a window of opportunity, a brief reprieve from his overwhelming presence. A chance.
I dressed in simple, dark clothing – a pair of Liam’s forgotten sweatpants I’d found in the laundry room, far too big, but practical, and a dark t-shirt I’d confiscated from a cleaning cart.
I tied my hair back tightly, securing it with a discarded elastic band.
No jewelry. No distinguishing features. I was a ghost.
Midnight. The penthouse was silent, save for the distant hum of the ventilation system and the occasional soft click of the automatic locks cycling through their routine.
My nerves were strung tight, a violin string about to snap.
I waited until Ivan’s patrol shifted to the other end of the West Wing, a ten-minute window I had meticulously timed.
I moved silently to the service door, my hands clammy, my breath catching in my throat. I pressed against it. The lock groaned, resisting, but it held. My heart sank, a cold wave of despair washing over me. Had he known? Had he anticipated this?
No. Not yet. I had to try harder.
I braced myself, took a deep breath, and slammed my shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. The old wood splintered slightly, but the metal bolt still held. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed it down. Think, Rose. Use your head.
My eyes darted around the small, cramped space.
A small, rusty crowbar, left by the maintenance crew, lay discarded in a corner.
A godsend. I grabbed it, the cold metal heavy in my hand.
With renewed determination, I wedged the crowbar into the narrow gap between the door and the frame, just above the lock.
I heaved, straining every muscle in my body.
The wood groaned, protesting, then with a sharp, echoing crack, the bolt gave way.
The door flew open, revealing a dark, dust-choked service tunnel. The air was stale, metallic, but it was outside. Outside Liam's immediate grasp. A desperate, exhilarating surge of triumph ripped through me. I was doing it. I was actually doing it.
I scrambled inside the tunnel, pulling the door shut behind me, not caring if it clicked back into place or not.
The darkness was absolute, pressing in on me, but I welcomed it.
It was freedom. I fumbled for the small, cheap flashlight I’d pilfered from Natalia’s utility drawer, flicking it on.
The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a narrow, claustrophobic passageway lined with thick cables and pipes.
It smelled of dust, old metal, and the faint, unsettling scent of... something organic.
My heart hammered, a drumbeat of pure adrenaline. I knew this tunnel led to an emergency exit stairwell, rarely used, that opened onto a discreet alleyway three blocks from the main Morozov compound. It was my best bet. My only bet.
I moved, not caring about the dust, the cobwebs, the fear of what lurked in the shadows. Each step was a defiance, a frantic race against the clock. My hands brushed against rough concrete, my shoes scraped against loose debris. I could hear my own ragged breathing, loud in the confined space.
Almost there. I saw a faint glimmer of light ahead, a promise of escape. My pace quickened, my lungs burning. I was going to make it. I was going to be free.
And then, a shadow. A silent, unmoving presence directly in my path, blotting out the faint light ahead.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat, the flashlight beam trembling in my suddenly weak hand.
Ivan.
He stood there, a monolithic figure, his dark suit blending seamlessly with the shadows of the tunnel. His face was impassive, unreadable, his eyes like chips of obsidian. He held no weapon, made no aggressive movement. He simply was. A wall. An insurmountable barrier.
My blood ran cold. He hadn't needed to chase me. He had simply known. Anticipated. Waited.
"Ms. Collins," his voice was deep, devoid of emotion, a low rumble in the confined space. "Mr. Morozov will be displeased."
The words were a death knell. My entire body went numb. Displeased. An understatement so vast it bordered on cruel. Liam would be beyond displeased. He would be furious. And I, in my pathetic attempt at freedom, had just given him another reason to remind me of my place.
"Move, Ivan," I choked out, my voice raw, desperate, trying to find a flicker of defiance, even now. "Let me go."
He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. His dark eyes remained fixed on mine, unwavering. "I cannot do that, Ms. Collins. Your safety is paramount."
My safety. His code for my imprisonment.
The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.
I had underestimated Liam’s reach, his insidious foresight.
Even when he was away, his control was absolute, his men his silent extensions.
Ivan wasn't just a guard; he was a manifestation of Liam’s power, a constant, chilling reminder that I was never truly alone, never truly unsupervised.
A sob clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down, refusing to break. Not here. Not in front of him. The adrenaline that had propelled me forward now drained away, leaving me weak, hollow. The escape had been a futile fantasy, a desperate dream.
"Let's go, Ms. Collins," Ivan said, his voice unchanging, his hand reaching out, not to grab me, but to gesture back the way I had come. A silent command, an unyielding authority.
Defeated, humiliated, I turned around, my shoulders slumped.
Each step back into the penthouse, back into my gilded cage, felt heavier than the last. The service door, now gaping slightly from my desperate attempt, looked less like a gateway to freedom and more like a wound, an open maw of my own failure.