Page 19 of All The Pretty Little Lies

The car, hit from another side, begins to flip. The world outside the windshield becomes a violent phantasmagoria - pavement, sky, pavement, sky. Each rotation slams me against a new surface - the roof, the door, the shattered windshield. Pain explodes across my body, but there's no time to process it, no time to do anything but try to protect my head as I continue to roll.

One flip. Two. Three. I lose count, my senses overwhelm me, the cacophony of twisting metal, shattering glass, and my own strangled cries. Time seems to stretch and contract, each second feeling like an eternity and yet passing in the blink of an eye.

Finally, the car stops. It comes to a rest on its roof, the frame groaning as it settles. For a moment, everything is still. The only sound is the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal and my own ragged breathing.

I'm hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt, which is tightly pressing into my stomach, holding me in place. Blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears. Every inch of my body screams in protest as I try to move. My vision swims, dark spots dancing at the edges.

Through the broken windshield I can see figures approaching. I can’t tell who it is, my thoughts are too fragmented to make sense of anything. The door next to me is ripped open with a screech of protesting metal. A figure crouches down, peering into the wreckage. For a moment, hope flares in my chest. Oscar? Zaire? But as my vision clears, I realize it's a stranger - a man with cold blue eyes and a face like carved granite.

"Well, well," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends chills down my spine. "Looks like our little princess survived the ride."

I try to speak, to demand answers, but my tongue feels thick and uncooperative in my mouth. The man's lips curl into a cruel smile as he takes in my battered state.

"Good," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. "You're worth more alive."

My eyes widen as he pulls out a syringe, its contents a murky amber color. I try to struggle, to pull away, but I'm trapped by the twisted metal and my own injuries. Panic surges through me, lending strength to my leaden limbs.

"No," I manage to croak out, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please..."

But my pleas fall on deaf ears. The man's hand darts forward, quick as a striking snake. I feel a sharp pinch in my neck, followed by a burning sensation that spreads rapidly through my body.

“Be a good girl, princess. Don’t fight what comes next. It’ll be easier for you if you don’t.”

The world begins to tilt and blur around the edges. Colors bleed into one another, sounds becoming muffled and distant. I try to fight against the encroaching darkness, but it's a losing battle. My eyelids grow heavy, each blink lasting longer than the last.

The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is the man's face, those icy blue eyes watching me with a mix of satisfaction and contempt. Then, like a candle being snuffed out, the world goes black.

OSCAR

The morning sunfilters through the heavy velvet curtains of Father's study, casting long shadows across the antique Persian rug. Zaire and I sit in silence, perched on the edge of leather armchairs that still smell faintly of cigar smoke and brandy. Father's voice, low and intense, drifts from behind his massive mahogany desk as he speaks rapidly into the phone in hushed Russian.

I catch Zaire's eye, and he smirks, mouthing "Uncle Victor" with an exaggerated eye roll. Despite the gravity of the situation,I have to stifle a laugh. Our uncle's flair for the dramatic is legendary within the family.

"Yes, Victor. We have the upper hand now," Father says, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "The situation with my sons and Rossi’s heir has given us precisely the leverage we need."

I swallow hard, guilt gnawing at my insides like a hungry rat. This is my fault. If I hadn't asked Zaire to distract Luca so I could talk to Vesper. I glance at my brother, but his face is impassive, almost bored. How can he be so calm? Vesper’s life and the future of our family rides on our shoulders today. One wrong move and shit will hit the proverbial fan. Vesper marrying Dmitri is only the start of the cataclysmic shift in power that our uncle has planned. We can’t allow that to happen when it means that my father and our family are no longer an asset. He’ll have what he wants, Rossi-Petrov heirs. Uncle Victor will have no need for us.

Father's laugh, sharp and sudden, startles me. "Indeed, brother. The Rossis won't know what hit them."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. Father's eyes flick to mine, a warning in their depths. I school my features into neutrality, but my hands are clammy, and my heart races.

Zaire leans over, his voice barely a whisper. "Relax, Oz. You look like you’re a sinner stepping foot into a church right now. Keep it fucking together."

Father ends the call with a decisive click. "Boys," he says, leaning back in his chair, "it seems our family's fortunes are about to change. The Rossis have always thought themselves untouchable, but now..." He smiles, a predator's grin. "Now, we hold all the cards."

I force a smile, hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "That's fantastic news, Father.”

Father's eyes gleam with a mixture of pride and ambition. "Indeed, Oscar. This is the moment we've been waiting for. With Vesper Rossi as Dmitri's bride, we'll have unprecedented access to both families' operations. The wealth, the power. It's all within our grasp."

Zaire, ever the perfect son, leans forward with an eager expression. "Do we need to prepare to escort Vesper, Father? Ensure her safe passage to Moscow?"

"No need, boys. Your uncle has it well in hand." He waves a dismissive hand. "Your guard duty is over. Victor's men will take care of the transport. The car is already being sent over to the Rossi mansion. "

The irony of his words isn't lost on me. Our guard duty may be over in his eyes, but for Zaire and me, it's only just beginning.

"That's...efficient," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Uncle Victor always was one for thorough planning."

Father chuckles a sound that sends a chill down my spine. "Oh, you have no idea, Oscar. The wheels have been in motion for longer than you can imagine." Father stands, stretching his arms above his head. The sunlight catches on his gold watch, sending fractals of light dancing across the room. "The amount of money that I would have paid to be in the room when Victor calls Antonio. We might even see the explosion from here,” he chuckles to himself. “This calls for a celebration. I think I'll open that bottle of Macallan 1926 I've been saving."

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