The world dissolved into a nightmare of grabbing hands and cold surfaces. These weren't Lucian's hands—the ones that could be both possessive and tender. These were impersonal, bruising grips that handled me like property.
"Let me go!"
My scream was raw, scraping against my throat as I kicked and fought with a desperation born of pure terror. Every movement was fire—my body a tapestry of fresh bruises and deeper, more humiliating pains.
Patricia's laughter was the soundtrack to my struggle. She stood framed in the mansion's doorway, arms crossed, watching with a smile of pure satisfaction. She wasn't just a spectator; she was the architect of this moment.
Who are these men? Where are they taking me?
The questions screamed in my mind, a frantic, silent litany with no answers.
