Chapter 6
Three days after the hospital, I went to try on a wedding dress. Alone. No security detail. No press. No smug future father-in-law singing praises. Just me, in a faded boutique tucked behind a graffiti-stained church. The owner was some half-blind Russian seamstress who didn’t speak unless she had a needle in her mouth. It was perfect. I picked a dress. I didn’t even look at the price tag. Slipped it on, stared into the cracked mirror, and thought—briefly—what it might’ve been like if none of this had happened. If the man I was marrying wasn’t a monster. Or worse… wasn’t making me into one. I stepped into the alley behind the shop for a smoke. Heels clicking against concrete, veil still tangled in my hair. The cigarette was between my lips when the cloth came down. Sweet chemical. Too sweet. Chloroform. I fought—hard. But it hit fast. Numbness bloomed through my limbs like black water. I hit the ground before the cigarette did. — I woke up choking on the taste of my own blood. Blindfolded. Wrists bound behind the chair. My back already screaming. My mouth tasted copper and cotton and dirt. The room smelled like damp stone and gasoline. Somewhere underground. I could hear a fan humming above me, the occasional drip of water. My head throbbed in sync with my heartbeat. Then it started. The paddle cracked down across my back, sharp and immediate. Not like the one I used. My entire body jerked. My lungs refused to work. The pain struck so deep, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even scream. The sting burned down my back like fire, searing through every nerve, every muscle. My teeth grinded together, but I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t. The air was sharp, every hit slicing through me. I didn’t know how many there were. I stopped counting after twenty. After thirty. My body stopped reacting—my mind tried to shut it all down, but the agony was too much. Fifty strikes. Maybe more. I lost track of time. My back was a mess of blood and raw skin, and I could taste it. Salty, metallic, dripping from my lips. The pain blurred, twisted into something almost… familiar. And then, I heard it. A voice, muffled by the static of the phone. “Done what you asked, sir.” A pause. And then… “Send her back.” My breath caught in my throat. Creed. My heart stopped. He ordered this? The bastard—he did this because of Alina. Because that bitch had wanted to play the hero. She’d put herself in the way. But this? This wasn’t a punishment for that. This was him punishing me. I went still. My body betrayed me. My mind shut down, too shocked, too broken to process. It was too much. I wanted to scream. To fight. But I couldn’t. The blood in my mouth tasted like iron—felt like the last taste of my own destruction until I passed out from pain. — I woke up again in a hospital bed. White sheets, IV in my arm, pain wrapping around me like a second skin. Outside the door, I could hear the hushed murmurs of nurses, gossiping like vultures. “That man in VIP—what a dream. So gentle, holding his girl’s hand the whole night…” “She only had a bruise on her arm. But that one in 106? Covered in paddle marks. No visitors.” Guess who was in 106? I ripped the IV out, the sting barely registering. The room swayed, but I didn’t care. I dragged myself into the hallway, using the wall for support. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, but I kept moving. One foot in front of the other. And there he was. Creed. Outside Alina’s room. Holding a glass of water, lifting it to her lips like she was some porcelain doll, fragile and perfect. She batted her lashes at him, said something—her voice too sweet, too innocent. And he smiled. He smiled. Wiped a drop of water from her mouth with his thumb, that smile never faltering. My throat closed up. Not from jealousy—no. Not this time. It was the sheer absurdity of it all. I almost died becuse of him. And here he was, babysitting a liar who flinched at her own shadow. My back was raw—every movement felt like knives digging deeper into the flesh. But my heart? That had been shredded. Torn apart in ways I couldn’t fix, couldn’t even try to understand. I didn’t cry. I refused. I’d rather choke on this pain, swallow the hurt whole, than give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken. — No one came to discharge me. No flowers, no bodyguards, no apologetic father flying in to wrap me in gold and guilt. Just a quiet nurse handing me release papers and a bag with my torn dress and ruined heels. My father was “abroad on business.” Typical. I took a cab back to my villa. My ribs screamed with every bump in the road, but I didn’t flinch. I’d already learned to sit with pain. Live in it. Let it become part of the furniture. Once inside, I didn’t unpack. Didn’t shower. I just sat on the edge of the velvet chaise and stared at my phone. Then I dialed him.He picked up after two rings. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I know it was you.” Silence. “I know you’re the one who had me drugged, tied, and beaten to hell. I know every scream was your order.” “How—” “No worries, Creed. Or should I say—Winston Salerno?” A sharp inhale on the other end. I smiled coldly. “Whatever pain you gave me—I’ll return it tenfold. Count on it.” then I hung up.