3: AMAYA’S POV

I had no idea how long I had been in that cold van, praying to God that this was not the night I went to meet my mother.

There were no windows for me to look out of and I could barely hear anything other than the sound of heavy tires pressing against gravel.

Eventually, the van stopped with a violent jolt.

My body slammed against the cold metal floor, the ropes cutting into my wrists and ankles.

The masked men didn’t speak.

At least not to me. They simply grabbed me and dragged me out.

I realized quickly that arguing, begging, or moving would be useless.

I was also worried that they would lose their temper and hurt me if I made too much of a fuss.

I was yanked to my feet the few times that I lost my footing, stumbling, legs weak, every nerve screaming.

My dress was torn, my hair plastered to my face, my skin stinging from bruises. I wanted to collapse, but the hands that held me were iron.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked again, voice cracking, though I knew no one would answer.

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

I obeyed.

I was dragged down a corridor I didn’t recognize. Concrete walls, bare, harsh lights flickering overhead, and the echo of boots on the floor.

The sound followed me like a heartbeat I couldn’t escape.

“Please… I just…. let me go,” I begged, trembling. “I’ll do anything. Just… don’t…” My voice broke.

I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

What exactly could I offer up in exchange for my life?

The men didn’t answer. They just pushed me forward. I stumbled again, hands scraping against the cold concrete.

My chest felt hollow.

Who were these people? What did they want? Was I going to die here, alone, in this strange place?

They stopped in front of a heavy metal cell door.

One of them pushed me inside, shoving me hard enough that I fell to my knees.

The door slammed behind me with a sound that made me flinch, and the lock clicked into place.

I was alone.

The room was small. Bare. Cold. The only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead, making the shadows dance across the walls.

My wrists ached from the ropes. My legs trembled. I collapsed against the wall and wept.

I thought of my mother.

Of the last time I had seen her, the soft warmth of her hands, the way she had held me close and whispered that I was safe.

That she would protect me.

She wasn’t here. She had died in her sleep and couldn’t protect me now. She never would again.

The memories twisted inside me, pain cutting sharper than any slap, deeper than any wound.

I had been sold. Beaten. Humiliated. And now… I didn’t know if I could survive this next step.

Laughter came from the corridor outside. Harsh. Cruel. Mocking.

“What’s the matter, little girl?” a voice sneered from outside the cell. “Scared? Think you’re going to cry your way out of this?”

I didn’t respond but the mockery did not stop there.

“You look really cute when you cry you know. Maybe we could have a taste of you before the boss has you”

Another one of the guards spoke.

“Looks like the wife of Raul the great is now at the bottom of the barrel,” laughter exploded, “Oh how the mighty have fallen”

I curled into myself, rocking slightly, unable to respond.

My body shook violently, my lips trembling as sobs racked through me.

I pressed my hands over my face, the ropes cutting into my skin, my body trembling.

My father would have allowed a lot of things to befall me but I couldn’t believe that he would allow this

His daughter, in a dirty cell, mocked by guards who would not be able to look me in the eye on a regular day.

He must have heard about the attack on Raul’s compound by now.

He must have heard that Raul was killed and he probably believed that I must have been killed as well.

I wasn’t dead…… at least not yet but nobody else knew about that.

Which meant that one wrong move and I just might die here. I could die here.

Alone. No one would know. No one would notice and no one would even care.

I finally allowed myself to fall into despair. .

Outside the cell, the laughter continued.

I could hear their voices joking about what they would do when the “boss” came for me.

“You better leave that one alone,” one said, mockingly. “The boss would not like to hear about his playthings being bullied”

I flinched at the words, my chest tightening.

Plaything? Was that was I about to be reduced to? Amaya Vancouver, daughter of a powerful man, now reduced to the plaything of this mysterious Boss?

My entire life was falling away.

And as I lay there, listening to the mocking voices fade, my tears mixing with the cold concrete, I wondered about “The boss”

Whoever he was, I knew from the sound of it that he was the one in control.

He would decide my fate.

If I lived or died here was up to him and I had no say in it.