Chapter 3

When I woke up, I had no idea how long I'd been out.

Still in that same windowless closet. My entire body felt like it'd been taken apart and put back together wrong. Every breath came with a metallic scrape in my throat.

But I heard voices outside.

A woman's voice.

"How'd she end up like this?"

I went rigid.

I knew that voice.

Nora.

My friend. The one who'd sold me for twenty thousand dollars.

"Come on,Nora," the guy who'd beaten me said, his tone all sycophantic. "She wouldn't cooperate. Refused to work. And she had the nerve to say she's the Don's fiancée. Can you believe the audacity?"

Nora kicked me.

"You? Don's girl? Keep dreaming."

I lay there, too broken to curl up, too weak to do anything but take it.

"Why isn't she moving? She dead?"

"Nah. Still breathing."

"Don't let her die. That'd be too easy." Nora's voice curled into a cold laugh. "Let her live. Work her to death in this shithole."

I clenched my fists—nails digging into my palms—but I could barely even make a fist anymore.

Someone ran in. "Everyone gather up! The Don's calling a meeting."

They all cleared out.

I forced myself to stay conscious, dragged my body inch by inch to the door, pressed my ear against the crack.

I couldn't see. Could barely speak. But my ears still worked.

From the hall outside, Caleb's voice cut through—cold as steel:

"Where did this photo come from?"

My whole body jolted.

My photo. They must've found it in my bag and left it lying around. And Caleb found it.

"I—I picked it up at the door. Just brought it in." The answer was thin, nervous.

Caleb's voice dropped another degree. "You picked it up? You sure? Lying to me has consequences."

The man's voice started shaking. "I—I found it, I swear..."

"I want to see this person." Caleb enunciated each word slowly. "Do you know where she is?"

"I don't know... she was probably just passing through. Dropped it by accident."

A beat of silence.

Then Caleb's tone shifted—not cold, but dangerously quiet: "Find her. Now."

Quick footsteps came toward me.

I pushed myself back, shrinking behind the door.

The iron door swung open. The man who'd beaten me grabbed my collar and dragged me out like a bag of trash, hauling me to the center of the hall and dumping me on the floor.

"Don, just some worthless whore. Not worth dirtying your eyes over."

I lay facedown, blood and grime caked across my face. My eyes half-open, barely making out the silhouette in front of me. My hair was a rat's nest, my face swollen and bruised—so bad even I wouldn't recognize myself.

His gaze swept over my face, then dropped lower. To my neck.

There—a thin silver chain. So fine it was almost invisible. Hanging from it, a tiny pendant.

The ring he'd put on me himself. Three years ago.

Caleb's pupils contracted sharply.

He walked toward me. One step. Two. Three.

Kneeled down in front of me.

He reached out, white handkerchief in hand, and began wiping the blood off my face. Bit by bit. Across my forehead. Down the bridge of my nose. Over my cheekbone. Until he stopped at the tiny brown mole at the corner of my left eye.

The air went still. Nothing but breathing.

"You—" His voice cracked. For the first time, that lazy drawl was gone. His tone bottomed out, low and raw.

Caleb looked down at me, fingers closing around the ring. He turned it slightly.

The name engraved inside—Olivia—caught the light overhead. Just a flash.

He froze. Completely.

I opened my mouth. Only a broken whimper came out.

Tears mixed with blood dripped into his palm.

Caleb turned his head slowly and said to the men behind him:

"Anyone who touched her—dead."

Then he bent down and lifted me off the floor.