Chapter 45
“How many days has it been?”
The words scraped out of my throat like gravel. My mouth was dry, my tongue swollen, my voice a stranger I barely recognized.
Days blurred into nights, nights into nothing. Time didn’t exist here.
Only agony existed. The cracks of leather. The sting of fists and boots. The metallic taste of blood I stopped spitting long ago.
The mirror in the corner mocked me. Cracked. Dust-streaked. Barely enough to see.
Me. But not me.
A version of myself I used to be, stared back. Sharp emerald, green eyes, hair perfect, smirk untouchable. Queen of everything. Everyone bowed. And now… this… thing chained to the wall, ribs protruding, hollow face, eyes raw and red.
My reflection tilted her head. Contempt burned in her eyes. I wanted to smash the glass.
“Are you really going to let them win?” she hissed.
I blinked.
Starving, weak, maybe hallucinating. But I heard her.
“No one is coming for you, Versace. Just like your parents.”
The words crashed into me. My lungs felt like they’d caved in.
“No. Not that,” I whispered. My voice cracked, a tiny, useless sound.
Her laugh was cruel, filling the empty corners of the room, echoing off concrete walls, mixing with the drip of water and my ragged breath.
“You always thought you were untouchable. Thought someone would fight for you. But look. You’re alone. Broken. And if you stay here, you will die.”
Tears burned. Humiliating. “What do you want me to do?”
Her eyes blazed in the mirror. Queen Versace. The woman who once had the world at her feet.
“Fight. Find a way. You’re not a victim, Versace. You’re a weapon. So, use yourself.”
Her fire. My ash.
“Get out before they bury you in a nameless grave. Do you hear me?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, she was gone. Only a cracked reflection remained. But the voice lingered.
Fight. Find a way.
I dragged my gaze to the floor. I was too important to be given a mattress. They wanted me to feel small. To know that I was nothing. Like a damn dog.
Maybe, filth could be a weapon.
I pressed my fingers into the grime. Sand stuck under my nails. My chains rattled. Every sound had become a part of me, part of this body they wanted to break.
I lifted a fistful of sand, staring at it. My throat clenched. My body screamed at me not to.
“This is stupid,” I rasped. “Disgusting.” I didn’t need a microscope to tell me how infected it was. But that was all I had.
So, I shoved it in my mouth.
It was bitter. Sharp. Like swallowing glass. I gagged, recoiling as tears stung my eyes.
My stomach lurched. I spat half out, snatching more to shove down, pinching my nose shut, forcing it.
Keep it fucking down, Versace.
It felt like knives scraping down my throat. I gagged again, vomiting bile and sand in a wet, burning mess across the floor. My body shook.
Panting, I laid pressed to the stone, sweat blinding me. Chest heaving like I’d run miles. But I was not done.
I shoved more in.
This time, I clawed at my arm. Nails digging deep. Blood beads. The pain distracted my brain, giving me enough seconds to swallow. My vision spotted black dots. I swallowed anyway.
Then it came.
A wave of nausea, violent, crushing. My insides twisted. I curled on the floor. Gagging, retching, but nothing came up. The room tilted. My ears rang.
Good. This was good.
I looked at the mirror. My queen-self smirked. Now they’d believe it.
Footsteps echoed. Two guards. Voices cutting through the fog of sickness.
“What the hell—look at her. She’s—”
“She’s puking. Shit, Kashani said torture, not kill.”
“What do we do?”
“Open the damn window. She needs air. If she dies, it’s on us.”
Keys rattled. And with a click, the window creaked open. Fresh air spilled in. Liquid gold on my face.
I inhaled, coughing, letting them think I was dying. Well, I was dying, my head lolled, eyes glassy and I slumped.
“Pathetic,” one muttered. “Too far gone to move.”
“Good. Less trouble.”
Idiots.
Pathetic idiots.
They left. The door locked but the window opened. That was their mistake.
The cold air on my face was a slap. Sharp, real. I could feel it in my bones. This was my chance. My only chance.
I dragged myself forward, elbows scraping against concrete, wrists raw and bleeding. My vision narrowed. Every inch felt like broken glass beneath me.
“Move,” I whispered. “Move, Versace.”
I hooked my fingers under the sill. Nails tore. Pain shot to my elbows, shoulders, ribs. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
I put one leg up. Then the other. My shoulder scraped. My skin ripped.
Finally, my hips pushed through but my foot slipped and I fell.
I landed on shards of glass. Pain exploded in my foot, white-hot. I choked on a scream, teeth biting down, tasting bitter iron again.
My palms tore as I rolled free. Breath ragged. Every move sent the shards deeper.
But for a minute I paused, the hot light bringing tears into my eyes. The Sun!
Who would have thought I’d see sunlight again?
I pushed up, legs trembling. Blood trails behind me, a smear across the ground. I stumble-lurched forward, each step agony. My feet burned and my arms shook.
Suddenly, gunshots echoed behind me. Shouts. Every sound made me flinch.
“They’re coming,” I whispered. “Move, Versace, move.”
The road shimmered ahead. A stretch of asphalt, open, dangerous, but freedom was ahead. I broke into a run, or the closest my battered body can manage. Feet scraping, blood and grit mixing. Each step was a battle.
I turned back, watching as the men ran towards me. No. They were gaining on me.
Run Versace, Run!
I stumbled onto the road and suddenly a horn blares. Screeching tires. I barely had time to register the sound before impact.
BAM!
Pain exploded across my spine, my head slamming into the asphalt. The world blurred, tilted.
And then, hazel eyes clouded my vision. Ha-Hazel eyes?
Dominic?
He was here. Kneeling over me, hands cradling my bloodied face. His voice was breaking. “Oh God, Ara, look at me! Look at me!”
I reached for him, trembling violently, tears cutting tracks through the grime on my cheeks.
“Is… is this real?” I whispered. “Old man… you’re late.”
He shook his head, frantic. “Don’t die. Don’t—you hear me? Don’t go quiet on me!”
“Don’t…” My voice faltered, caught in the blood and dirt. “…don’t let me go.”
“I’m not. I won’t. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” His voice cracked, raw with fear, rage, relief. “I’ve got you, Versace. Always. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
I tried to focus, fingers twitching to touch his jaw. “This… this gives me, Déjà vu…”
Pain, blood, exhaustion, they all crashed over me, and I finally let it take me. I was so sleepy.
But before darkness swallowed me, I felt him pressing closer, holding me like he could keep the world from breaking me again.
Gunfire rang out behind us. Shouts. The chaos of rescue. His hands, warm, real, tethered me to life.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself to believe it. Survival wasn’t a fight anymore. It was a promise.
And Dominic didn’t let go.
But I was gone.