Page 6 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I set the phone down and rubbed my face with both hands, feeling the grit of two days without proper sleep. “Just finish the list, Zara. Please. We can psychoanalyze my self-destructive tendencies later.”
Zara sighed but went back to her tablet. “Fine. But after this, you’re eating something that isn’t sugar, and then you’re getting at least four hours of sleep. I don’t care if I have to tie you to a bed.”
“Kinky.”
“Shut up.” But she was smiling, that bright flash of perfectly white teeth that made photographers swoon. Zara had the kind of face that could sell anything, which was probably why she was so good at her job.
She started reading names again, and I tried to listen, I really did. But my head was pounding, and the words seemed to blend together into white noise. Fashion bloggers withpretentious names and followings that could make or break careers. Magazine editors who held the power of life and death in the fashion world. Celebrities who wore your designs because it was trendy, not because they understood the artistry behind every stitch.
“Eleanor?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re not listening again.”
“Sorry. My brain feels like it’s made of cotton balls.” I pushed back from my desk and stood up, my legs unsteady for a moment. “I need some air. Just give me five minutes, okay?”
Zara looked like she wanted to argue, but she nodded instead. “Five minutes. Then we finish this list, you eat something, and we figure out how to make sure you don’t face-plant on the runway.”
I walked out of my office and through the studio, past the mannequins wearing my creations, past the tables covered in fabric and sketches, and all the beautiful chaos that had consumed my life for the past six months. The elevator was at the far end of the floor, next to the emergency exit that led to the stairwell.
Fresh air. That was all I needed. A few minutes to clear my head, to remember why I was doing this, to find the strength to make it through the next three days.
I pushed open the door to the stairwell, expecting to find the usual silence and echo of concrete steps. Instead, I heard footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving up toward me.
That was weird. Nobody used the stairwells in this building unless the elevators were broken, and I’d just seen people getting on and off the main elevator bank.
I stepped into the stairwell, looking down to see who was coming up. The footsteps stopped.
“Hello?” My voice echoed off the concrete walls, bouncing back at me like a question without an answer.
Nothing.
Then the footsteps started again, faster now, and I realized with a cold certainty that settled in my stomach like a stone that something was very, very wrong.
I turned to go back into the building, back to Zara and safety and the familiar chaos of my studio, but the door had closed behind me. I grabbed the handle and pulled.
Locked.
The footsteps were getting closer, echoing up the stairwell like a countdown to something terrible. My heart started beating faster, that familiar rhythm of panic that I recognized from childhood nightmares and adult anxiety attacks.
I pounded on the door, hoping someone would hear me, hoping Zara would wonder where I’d gone and come looking. But the studio was soundproofed, designed to keep the noise of sewing machines and cutting tables from disturbing the other businesses in the building.
“Help!” I called out, but my voice just bounced back at me, hollow and useless.
When I turned around, I saw a figure lurking behind me. I froze, my heart pounding as they drew closer. “Please,” I whispered, backing away as much as possible. “I don’t have much money, but you can have whatever—”
“This isn’t about money.”
Though I tried to run, I didn’t make it far.
A hand. Rough. Fast. It came out of nowhere, clamping over my face. A cloth pressed hard against my mouth and nose. Chemical. Sharp. Sweet. The smell hit like a blow, forcing its way into my lungs before I could turn my head.
I jerked back, twisting, thrashing. My elbow slammed into something solid, my heel scraping the concrete as I kickedout. A muffled grunt, but the grip didn’t loosen. I tried to scream, to bite, to do anything that might make noise, but my breath came shallow and weak. My body was screaming for air while my brain felt like it was sinking underwater, the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears.
The stairwell blurred at the edges, light smearing into shadow. My knees buckled. My fingers clawed at the hand holding me, nails scraping skin, but my strength slipped away, draining fast.
And then, nothing.
