Chapter 50
ANASTASIA
My head is pounding. He must have drugged me. My eyes flutter open and I try to orient myself. I’m in a dimly lit room. No, a plane?
“Buenos día, muneca, ya casi llegamos.”
He’s sitting next to me, laptop out and I hear the click, clack of his keys as he types.
I turn to him, “Yo no soy tu muneca.”
Sebastian stops typing, closes his laptop and signals for the flight attendant.
“?Mande Sr. Rivera, cómo lo puedo ayudar?”
“Un borbón.”
She walks away and returns quickly with his drink.
He turns to me, “You’ll be whatever I need you to be Anastasia.
My whore, my bitch, my wife, the mother to my children.
Like a fucking doll, you’ll do whatever I tell you to do.
You’ll learn to like it mi bella. Had you not run away from me, we could have started our training sooner.
But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to break you in.
Forget about your little boyfriend, cause he’s not coming to save you.
If he tries to get near you, I’ll kill him in front of you. Let you watch as I tear him a part.”
“I will never be yours.”
He takes a long pull of his drink, his hand grips my cheeks, squeezing them together. Forcing my lips open, he spits the amber liquid in my mouth then closes it.
“Swallow,” he commands.
I try fighting against him, but he covers my nose and mouth. He doesn’t let go until he feels my throat constrict, swallowing like I was told. Fury engulfs me, and if my hands weren’t tied I’d smash that damn glass and slit his throat.
“Good girl, such a quick learner,” he leans down and his lips are on mine. His tongue forcing its way in.
I’m going to be sick.
Eryx, please, I’m sorry for running. A silent prayer.
“I’ll have the doctor treat your burns once we land.”
Unable to do anything else, I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. An expanse of blue greets me. We’re flying over the ocean. How the hell is he going to find me out here?
The pilot makes and announcement and then I feel the plane start to make its descent. About twenty minutes later we are touching down in a small private airport. There’s a black car already waiting for us outside once we climb down the stairs, and are off the plane.
“Tonight you rest, I’ll have the doctor come see you as promised. Tomorrow you have a dress fitting. They’ll be coming to La Hacienda with your options. The wedding’s scheduled for three days from now.”
There’s that number again. No matter what, I can never escape it.
Its about an hour ride to La Hacienda, and by the time we arrive it’s already late afternoon.
The car slows, tires crunching over gravel, and I catch my first glimpse of the hacienda.
It rises out of the palms and sunlight like it’s been here forever—whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, balconies dripping with fuchsia bougainvillea.
It should look like paradise. To me, it looks like a fortress, waiting to swallow me whole.
The front doors are massive, carved oak that groan as they swing open.
Cool air washes over me the second I step inside, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and salt.
My footsteps echo against the polished tiles, every sound swallowed by the cavernous ceilings and heavy wooden beams. Courtyards open here and there, fountains trickling softly, the sound too gentle for how sharp my chest feels.
Beauty presses in from every angle—archways, mosaics, iron chandeliers—but all I can think about are the walls, how thick they are, how hard they’ll be to escape.
I’m led down a corridor until we stop at a set of carved double doors.
My room, if I had to guess. When he pushes them open, my throat tightens.
The space is breathtaking, a four-poster bed draped in sheer white linens, a balcony with French doors flung wide to the sea, the tiles painted in blues and yellows that catch the light like water.
A vase of orchids wait on the nightstand, delicate and perfect.
The estate opens onto a private stretch of beach, where palapas and hammocks dot the sand.
A curving infinity pool appears to spill directly into the ocean, its water reflecting both sunset and stars.
It should feel like a dream. Instead, it feels like a cage.
The curtains look like bars, the lock on the balcony door like a chain.
Beauty doesn’t disguise what this place really is. I’m not a guest here. I’m a prisoner.
“What do you think, mi bella?” He steps closer to me, “This is your new home.”
I step back, “This will never be my home.”
He doesn’t step towards me again, just retreats back to the door.
“How your life goes here is up to you muneca. You can enjoy all I have to offer—cars, money, this house—or I can keep you strapped to the bed, just a hole to be filled. Either way you will bare my children. You can be my whore or mi Reina. It’s up to you. ”
Then he leaves.
“Desgraciado,” I say under my breath. I hold back the tears threatening to fall.
My room is the size of a small apartment.
Next to the four poster bed is a small table and two lounge chairs that look out on to the balcony.
On the opposite end sits the en suit bath.
I walk to it and brace myself to look in the mirror for the first time in days.
There’s dark circles under my eyes, my hair is a tangle mess, and then I turn my head to the side.
There’s four small burns on my left cheek.
A moment later there’s a knock on the door.
“Disculpe senorita, soy el Dr. Fernández, estoy aquí para tratar sus quemaduras”
“Ok, sí, por supuesto, por favor pase.”
He comes in and sets his bag down on the table and he gestures for me to go over and sit.
He works quickly, cleaning the area then placing some antibacterial ointment on it and then some gauze.
Doesn’t say much else, only that I need to keep the area clean and that I can apply more ointment in a few hours.
He leaves me with some pain relievers and says hell come back before the wedding to check on the healing.
Once he leaves I walk to the door and flip the lock. I want to wash the day away. I need to figure out how the hell I’m getting out of here.
I walk to the en suite and turn the faucet to the hottest setting and begin filling the bath.
There’s bath salts and oils on the counter and I pour them in.
I sit in the water until its gone cold. I get out and grab the robe that’s hanging on the hook.
When I step back into the bedroom I notice clothes have been laid out and there’s a tray on the table.
So much for the fucking lock.
Slip into the clean clothes and remove the silver cover to find a perfectly cooked salmon, its skin crisp and glistening under a drizzle of lemon butter. Beside it, a small mound of roasted potatoes and bright green asparagus still steaming, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the room.
Dinner.
I want to throw the plate against the wall. Tell him to shove it and fuck off. But I also haven’t eaten anything in a few days and if I’m going to try and get out of here I’ll need my strength. I’ll be stubborn another day.