6. Seeking a way out

I don't know how I managed to fall asleep last night after what happened, but once again, I woke up with a head-splitting migraine.

It wasn't the sun rays that disrupted my sleep this time. Rather it was the nausea that rushed to my throat, compelling me to bolt from the bed and throw up. Luckily, there happened to be a bucket lying beside my bed.

I don't know who kept it there, but whoever did deserves a reward.

I empty my bowels into the bucket, my insides churning as I grip the handle for dear life.

Swift and labored pants spill from my nostrils as I stifle a groan, fighting mentally to regain my composure.

Eventually, I do.

I pull away from the bucket, placing it back down before leaning against the headboard with a hand pressed to my temples.

My tastebuds are bitter, my head clogged with dizziness. It feels as though the world is spinning off its axis, trying to knock me off balance, but I fight to stay put.

I think I had too much to drink last night. Way too much.

It takes me a while to gather my thoughts again, and eventually, I do. The luxurious sight of the room I'm in finally comes into clearer view.

Memories from yesterday also come rushing in soon after.

My head is tainted with everyone's unexpected betrayal.

My sister's betrayal. Zayn's betrayal. My family's betrayal.

My drunken reaction to all of it.

And lastly, Lorenzo's wrath.

My fingers instinctively trail from my throbbing temples to where his lips touched mine last night. More like where he chose to punish me last night. Because there's no way I'm calling that a kiss.

That man fucking bit my insides till I bled. That was no kiss, that was a fucking warning.

I guess he didn't take what I did last night lightly. I must have provoked him.

Anyway, that's the least of my problems. He could piss off for all I care. What I do know is that I'm getting out of this death-trap called marriage one way or the other.

There's no way I'm living in the same house with a man who's been rumored—scratch that—it isn't a fucking rumor, it's the truth. I'm not sharing the same shelter with a man who killed his ex-wife in cold blood.

Speaking of his late wife, my eyes drift to the picture frame hanging by the wall and my heart skips a beat when I lock eyes with the inanimate portrait.

To think just yesterday I was admiring said woman's beauty, only to find out later that she had been unalived by a man she unfortunately found herself married to.

Lorenzo fucking Sorrentino.

He stole her freedom just like he did with me. Except in her case, he took it too far by permanently revoking her light. Literally.

He's a fucking monster, I don't care what anyone says.

And I'm getting the fuck out of here.

I avert my gaze from the frame to the floor-to-ceiling window, whose view overlooks the city. If I'm to escape, the best way I can do that is to study my environment and fucking flee when no one is watching. I don't care if I have to jump out of that window.

I'm about to act on my impulsive thoughts when a knock comes on my door.

My heart leaps like crazy as my head whips to the entrance.

I swallow, my nerves unraveling.

Who the fuck is it? Is it him?

Probably not. The last time he invaded my space, he didn't bother knocking. If anything, he said knocking was overrated and it was an atrocity to even do so.

Huff. That man is something else.

Well, if it isn't him, who is it then? Agnes?

I'm not able to finish my thoughts when the knock comes on my door again before it raps open from the other side.

I pull the duvet to my chest, my heart in my throat but my expression deadpan. I might be terrified inwardly, but I'm not fucking betraying my vulnerability right now.

When the door finally opens gently, an unfamiliar woman walks in. A tray in her hand.

It doesn't take long before the smell of freshly made ginger carrot soup wafts into my nostrils, tempting my starving stomach.

Just the perfect soup for a hangover.

I'm tempted to accept the tray the lady is currently offering me, which contains the soup. But I don't know who she is.

With a confused expression, I demand her identity. "Who are you?"

"Samantha, ma'am. One of the helps around the boss's home," she replies coolly, her beady eyes boring into mine, sincerity lacing her voice.

Just like Agnes, she seems warm. But then again, where's Agnes?

I'm still lost in my thoughts when she adds, "Boss insists you have this for breakfast, given how much you drank last night. I must say, ma'am, you're quite a drunkard."

I stiffen. My jaw is on the floor, my eyes shining with disbelief.

I'm dazed. Astounded at her audacity to drop that remark.

She seems slightly older than I am, but still. Is she even allowed to say something like that to me?

How dare she call me a drunkard? She has no idea how much I've been through in the last two days. I merely resorted to alcohol last night just to find solace from my sorrowful reality.

Same went for the other night too—my wedding night. Otherwise, I'm not normally a drinker.

But of course, she doesn't know that.

Samantha drops the tray on the bedside table and picks up the bucket filled with my vomit.

I wince as I watch her stalk towards the bathroom with it. She didn't even scrunch her face at the sight. She must be tolerant.

Even at that, I still feel a sting in my chest. It's embarrassment. Mortification.

After she enters the bathroom and closes the door, I direct my gaze to the tray she's placed on the table.

I'm just noticing the medications beside the soup bowl. Did Lorenzo also have her bring me this?

I wonder.

I gulp down the lump sticking in my throat as the door of the bathroom opens to reveal Samantha, her damp hands rubbing against her pinafore as she informs,

"All taken care of, ma'am. If you need anything else, please let me know."

I pause but I can't help but ask, my curiosity spiking. "Where's Agnes?"

Agnes is the only one I've managed to familiarize myself with around this hell house. I thought she was even my personal help.

Wait, what if Lorenzo had her removed because she's the one who aided my escape yesterday—unknowingly, of course.

No, he can't... do that.

But what if he did?

Samantha answers my question, pulling me from my conflicting thoughts. "She's helping the boss with something downstairs. If you need her, I can go get her for you, ma'am."

The boss?

Lorenzo.

What could she possibly be helping him with?

Not really my concern to know, I'm just glad she isn't in trouble because of me. I don't know if I'll be able to forgive myself if my actions did land her in trouble.

Ultimately, I shake my head and dismiss Samantha. She leaves my room after imploring me to eat, to which I reassure her I would.

I remain in bed for a few more minutes, still trying to adjust to my new reality.

Each time I try to push past the heartache of the betrayal of the people I once trusted, I end up feeling even more depressed.

I knew ever since Sky was born that my parents didn't really care about me much anymore, but to realize they willingly sold me to a dangerous Mafia boss is just beyond my wildest imagination.

And Skylar's betrayal is also something I'm still too stunned to speak about. She slept with my boyfriend. Zayn fucking let her in. He's just as terrible as she is. And I don't think I have it in me to ever forgive them for this.

For the rest of the day, I remain inside my bedroom, deliberately refusing to step out. I'm sulking. But deep down, I'm plotting my escape from this hellhole.

He didn't bother to show his face to me throughout the day, but when he eventually does, I'm going to fucking tell him what I want. And if he doesn't meet my demands, I'll resort to my sketchy escape plan.

I didn't leave my bed until it was past 10 PM. I've just been drifting in and out of sleep like I'm on heavy drugs. Well, I was. I swallowed the medicine Samantha brought me earlier after finishing off the soup. It was delicious, by the way.

I wasn't supposed to touch it due to my newly developed trust issues, but damn, I was feeling really hungry.

I'm still pacing the length of my bedroom, strolling towards the window when the door to my room suddenly opens, halting me in my tracks.

Even with my back turned to the door, I already know who it is.

He doesn't knock. Not a fan of the 'atrocious' act.

His expensive and intoxicating scent of cedarwood quickly dominates the simple air I once breathed in. Now, he's all over my senses.

I swallow down a gulp, schooling my features into annoyance before summoning the courage to turn and look at him.

My heart clenches when I meet his harsh gaze from across the room. He appears even more annoyed than I am. His form is frightening—as always—even though he's dressed in a casual outfit of jeans and a Gothic black jacket.

One hand is tucked in his pocket and the other holds onto the doorknob as he keeps the door open, his gaze glued to mine.

Silence remains in the room as he takes me in and I do the same.

And eventually, he speaks, clearing his throat.

His deep voice comes out surprisingly calm and gentle. "How are you feeling?"

I swiftly tuck away my surprise at his unexpected tone just to get my head in the game.

I'd be damned if I don't seize this opportunity to say what's been on my mind all day.

My gaze holding his intently—assertively, I say with a little defiance, my tone unwavering.

"I want an annulment."