Chapter 8

Cleo collapsed onto the cold floor.

Her body burned, but inside felt hollow—like something had been ripped out, leaving nothing but cold rushing through.

She clenched her teeth, fighting the pain and the spin in her head. With her good hand, she dragged out her phone and called an ambulance herself.

***

Cleo got discharged from the hospital the same day as Nora's birthday banquet.

The Carrington house was glowing, packed with people.

As the so-called eldest daughter, Cleo had to show.

She stayed off to the side, out of sight, watching Harold grin as he held Nora's hand—showing her off, calling her his perfect daughter, announcing most of his assets would go to her.

Praise and envy buzzed around them.

Cleo watched, her heart flat and frozen.

All these years, she'd never had a real birthday.

Her mom died early. Her dad didn't care.

Every year, it was just her and a cold cake, making wishes no one heard.

The party hit its peak as gifts started rolling in.

Harold transferring property was already wild. Then Damian stepped up—velvet box in hand. He opened it, revealing a diamond necklace worth a fortune, and clasped it around Nora's neck himself.

The room gasped.

Nora lit up, glowing with pride. Her smug eyes flicked toward Cleo.

Cleo looked away. She walked to the bar, grabbed a drink, and downed it in one shot, trying to drown the noise in her head.

But trouble never missed her.

A pack of Nora's friends rolled up and "accidentally" slammed into her.

"Well, look who it is—Cleo. It's Nora's birthday. Everyone's vibing. Why do you look so pissed? Can't handle her winning?"

Cleo wasn't playing. She set her drink down and turned to go.

"Hey. We're talking to you. You deaf?" A girl grabbed her arm.

That did it.

Cleo ripped free, shoving her hard enough to make her stumble.

She grabbed a half-full wine bottle off the table, eyes cold as hell.

"I gave you a shot. You blew it."

No pause. No warning.

She swung.

The bottle cracked against the nearest girl's head.

Bang.

The bottle shattered—wine and blood spilling together.

Screams ripped through the room. Everything went chaotic.

Cleo didn't stop. She swung again and again, fast, brutal—until Damian rushed in and grabbed her wrist.

"Cleo, what the hell are you doing now?"

He took in the mess—the girls clutching their bleeding heads—his face going dark.

Cleo let out a cold laugh. "You saw it. They tried me. I hit back."

"You hit back?" Disappointment and anger burned in Damian's eyes. "That was straight-up assault. Revenge. And if they're talking about you, maybe fix yourself. Apologize."

"In your dreams."

That was it—his patience snapped.

He knew exactly what she feared: the dark, tight spaces.

"If you won't admit it, then think on it." He nodded to the guards. "Lock her in the basement. No one lets her out without my permission."

His voice went ice-cold. "Fear might teach you."

They dragged Cleo out of the party and tossed her into a narrow, windowless room.

The door slammed.

Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything.

Memories hit—being locked in the dark as a kid. She curled into the corner, shaking, cold sweat soaking her back.

Time dragged. Endless.

Hunger. Thirst. Cold. And that pitch-black pressure clawing at her nerves.

By day three, she was barely holding it together.

Then the door cracked open.

A thin slice of light cut through the dark.

Nora stood there, smiling like she won.

"I thought Damian would go harder. Guess locking you up was too soft."

She clapped. Two guys in black stepped in, faces blank.

"What are you doing?" Cleo's voice came out rough, barely there.

"Making it stick." Nora's smile went sharp. "Tie her to the chair."