C3

Viktor’s howl of pain was short-lived. A second later, Mikhail’s fist collided with my solar plexus. The world didn't go black; it went white. My lungs seized, and I hung from the ceiling-mounted chains like a broken marionette, swaying in a sickening arc.

Seraphina didn't flinch at the violence. She stood by the security panel, her silhouette sharp against the flickering fluorescent lights. "Strip her," she commanded. Her voice had lost its melodic lilt; it was now as clinical as a coroner’s. "I want to see exactly how much of a 'Devereux' is left when she’s exposed."

I didn't give them a scream. Not when Viktor’s tactical rings snagged and shredded my blazer, nor when the silk of my camisole was torn away. I locked my jaw, staring directly into Seraphina’s hollow blue eyes. My silence was the only weapon I had left—a refusal to acknowledge her power.

It drove her into a frenzy.

The first strike of the weighted leather cord didn't just hurt; it felt like a line of liquid fire being drawn across my shoulder blades. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The rhythm was hypnotic and horrifying. My back arched, the suspension chains rattling violently against the steel beam above. Warm trails of blood began to map the geography of my skin, pooling at my waist before dripping onto the grey concrete. The guards, usually so eager for cruelty, began to step back. Even for the Voss Syndicate, this was shifting from "discipline" to an execution.

"Scream!" Seraphina roared, her face flushed with the exertion of her hatred. "Beg me for mercy! Beg for the Voss family to save you!"

I clamped my mouth shut, focusing on a single bolt in the wall. But then, the familiar, terrifying stutter started in my chest. My heart didn't just race—it skipped, fluttered, and then tightened like a fist.

The air in the room suddenly felt like concrete.

"Stop!" Mikhail’s voice cracked the air, thick with panic. He lunged forward, wrestling the whip from Seraphina’s hand. "Look at her face—she’s turning gray!"

"She’s faking," Seraphina hissed, though her grip on the handle loosened.

"She’s having a cardiac episode, you idiot!" Mikhail snapped, his eyes darting to the security cameras. "If she flatlines in this cell, the Morettis will use it as an excuse to burn this estate to the ground. We’re all dead if an asset this valuable dies under 'unauthorized' interrogation."

The bloodlust in Seraphina’s eyes vanished, replaced by the panicked calculation of a bad investment.

They dropped me.

Viktor hit the biometric release, and I collapsed onto the floor, my knees hitting the stone with a dull thud. I wheezed, a pathetic, airy sound that barely moved the oxygen in my lungs.

"What’s the play?" Viktor whispered, his voice trembling. "If we take her to medical, Vincent will see the marks. He’ll know we broke protocol."

Seraphina let out a shaky, cold laugh, smoothing her hair as if she hadn't just committed a felony. "Who cares if she expires? Leave her. If she wakes up, it never happened. If she doesn't... the Syndicate just trimmed the fat."

She leaned in, kissing Mikhail’s cheek with a terrifying, doll-like normalcy before sauntering toward the elevator. The heavy steel door slammed shut, the electronic bolt engaging with a finality that sounded like a coffin lid.

I lay in the dark, my fingers slick with my own blood. My heart was a dying bird, fluttering against my ribs. Breathe, Valeria, I told myself, the thought a jagged shard of spite. Don't let these corporate ghouls win. Live out of pure, unadulterated malice.

The next few days were a fever dream of thirst and the smell of my own healing skin. I was a "glitch" in the system, kept alive on the bare minimum—tepid water and the occasional protein bar tossed through the slot.

On the fourth day, the door slid open. A guard I didn't recognize yanked me upward by my bruised arm. I couldn't suppress a sharp hiss of pain. He dragged me toward the back of the sub-level, to the industrial decontamination showers.

"Strip," he grunted, shoving a bar of harsh lye soap into my hand. "The Luna wants you serving the board of directors tonight. We have 'guests' from the Moretti Empire."

I hit the start button. The water was ice-cold, hitting my shredded back like a thousand needles. I bit my lip until it bled again, scrubbing until the floor ran red, then pink, then clear. I washed the scent of the Undercellar out of my hair, lathering until the shivering became a rhythmic vibration in my bones.

When I stepped out, the guard threw a rough, scratchy towel at me. I wrapped it around myself, my teeth chattering, and met his gaze with a look that made him flinch. I was a Devereux. I was a Nero. And tonight, I would be their perfect, silent servant—while I memorized every secret whispered over the wine.

"Wait," Viktor called out from the surveillance desk, his voice taut with uncharacteristic irritation. He tossed a bundle of dark fabric at my feet. "You forgot her uniform. She can't serve the Morettis in a towel. We have appearances to maintain."