Page 81 of Rescuing Sophia

“Please,” I try again, desperation creeping into my tone. “I need to know?—”

“Get out.” His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion, as if I’m nothing more than cargo to be delivered.

In a way, I suppose that’s true.

Before I can move, he’s out of the car, yanking my door open. His grip on my arm is brutal as he drags me onto the tarmac. Pain blossoms where his fingers dig into my flesh, the promise of a bruise to come.

The chill of the night air bites through my clothes as I stumble onto the asphalt. A sleek private jet looms before me, its engines already humming with impatience.

No questions, no explanations. Just a silent command to board.

Inside, the jet is a study in contrasts. Plush leather seats and polished wood paneling speak of luxury, but the cabin is eerily empty. No flight attendants, no amenities. The cockpit door is firmly shut, separating me from any human contact.

As the plane takes off, my stomach drops—not from the ascent, but from the finality of it all. I’m leaving everything behind. Blake, my friends, the life I built. With each passing minute, the distance between who I was and who I’m being forced to become grows insurmountable.

Hours blur together in a haze of discomfort. The cabin is cold, unnaturally so, as if the temperature has been deliberately lowered. There are no blankets, no food, no water. Just me, alone with my thoughts and the growing ache in my empty stomach.

I drift in and out of consciousness, my dreams plagued by Luke’s terrified cries when he was taken from me and the image of Blake’s face when he finally realizes what I’ve done.

When we finally land, the sun sets in an unfamiliar sky.

As I’m ushered off the plane, a man in a dark suit approaches. His face is as impassive as the driver’s had been.

“Welcome to Montenegro.” His accent is thick, Eastern European.

The words should be welcoming, but his tone is anything but. It’s a statement of fact, cold and impersonal. We’re halfway across the world from everything I know, and I’ve never felt more alone.

He gestures to another waiting car, as nondescript as the first. Once again, I’m treated like cargo, not a person.

No one speaks as we wind through narrow mountain roads, each turn taking us higher into terrain that feels as alien as my new reality.

Finally, we crest a hill, and I see it—a sprawling villa perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Adriatic Sea. But as we draw closer, the illusion of luxury fades, replaced by a growing sense of dread.

Tall, imposing walls surround the compound, stretching at least fifteen feet high. Razor wire coils along their tops, glinting menacingly in the fading light. Armed guards patrol the perimeter,their silhouettes stark against the darkening sky. Watchtowers loom at regular intervals, searchlights sweeping across the grounds.

On the sea-facing side, sheer cliffs plummet hundreds of feet to the churning waters below. The waves crash against jagged rocks, the sound carrying even to where we are—a constant reminder of the deadly drop.

This isn’t a villa—it’s a fortress. An inescapable prison disguised as a luxury retreat.

The car stops in a circular driveway. Before I can move, a new man appears, yanking my door open.

“He’s waiting for you.” His words are more of a growl than anything else. He yanks me out of the car, his grip on my arm as bruising as the first driver’s had been.

I’m nothing more than a package to be delivered. Their callous disregard cuts sharper than any knife.

I’m led through ornate doors into a cavernous foyer. My footsteps echo on marble floors, the sound somehow ominous in the silence. At the far end of the room, a figure stands silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Ah, Sophia.” Malfor’s voice sends ice through my veins. “How kind of you to join me.”

He turns, and I get my first real look at the man who’s orchestrated my personal hell. He’s shorter than I expected, maybe 5’5”, but after spending so much time around Blake and his team of 6-foot-plus men, Malfor looks diminutive. Yet what he lacks in stature, he more than makes up for in presence.

His eyes, a pale, watery blue, hold an intelligence that belies their simpleton appearance. They bore into me, dissecting every nuance of my posture, every flicker of emotion I fail to suppress. Those eyes have seen countless cruelties and inflicted just as many.

Malfor’s attire is a study in contrasts. An impeccably tailored suit hangs slightly askew on his frame. His tie is loose, the knot off-center. A single button on his jacket is undone. It’s as if he’s deliberately cultivating an air of dishevelment, a silent statement that he’s above such trivial concerns as appearance.

“I trust your journey was—illuminating?” A cruel smile plays on his lips. “Realizing just how far from home you are?”

I struggle to find my voice, to remember the rules of this old, terrible game.

---