Page 125 of Twisted Addiction
The mansion rose behind me, black and monolithic, like a prison I had finally managed to leave.
I froze for a moment, listening. Nothing but the distant murmur of voices and the rustle of leaves.
I moved like a shadow along the perimeter, hugging walls, keeping to the darkest areas, every muscle coiled and alert.
Security lamps painted bright circles on the lawn ahead, and I timed my movements between them, sliding past in silence.
A guard’s low laugh drifted to me, punctuated by the faint glow of a cigarette ember.
I pressed myself into the cold stone of the mansion’s wall, my breath shallow, trying to vanish into the darkness.
A rosebush snagged my gown, thorns tearing at the fabric, petals sticking to damp skin.
Pain flared, but I didn’t stop.
Only when I crossed the boundary of my father’s estate — when the mansion’s hulking silhouette sank behind me into the night — did I let out the breath I’d been holding for hours.
My legs trembled so hard it felt like they might fold beneath me, but I forced each step forward.
Behind me lay manipulation, betrayal, and cold-blooded murder; ahead lay nothing but uncertainty, survival, and the slim, stubborn promise that Dmitri’s child might one day grow up beyond their corruption.
My lungs burned and my chest tightened, but something in me clenched harder still — a small, fierce resolve.
For a moment I let myself think the word aloud: free. For now.
I paused on the empty street, my father’s mansions standing like black sentinels, windows shuttered, gardens manicured to the point of cruelty.
The betrayal sat under my ribs like a live coal: my parents had shaped me into a weapon, erased pieces of my past, and destroyed the only love I’d ever known.
Anger and grief flared hot and raw.
But under them all, a different heat steadied me — the life inside me. For him, for her, I would survive. I would fight.
I needed to know if Dmitri’s card would actually buy me that future.
The neon glow of the ATM sliced through the darkness, harsh and accusing, casting long shadows across the empty Brooklyn street.
My hands trembled so violently the black card—embossed with Dmitri Volkov’s name—slid slightly in my grip. It felt heavier than any suitcase I had ever carried.
A lifeline, yes—but also a verdict. His final act, a silent severance, and its weight pressed down on me with every heartbeat, each pulse a reminder that I was alone.
Every small sound — a dog barking, a car rolling by, a distant voice — tightened my shoulders.
Vulnerable, exposed, I fed the card into the slot, my hands trembling as if the machine itself might betray me.
Every nerve screamed, every memory clawed at me, but I forced my fingers to move.
The screen flickered to life, demanding a PIN.
I tried my birthday first, numbers flowing from muscle memory, but the machine spat back failure.
My stomach sank, a cold, hollow weight.
Desperation clawed at me.
I pressed the digits of a day etched deeper than any calendar, the first time Dmitri had kissed me beneath the old oak tree, the memory seared into my soul.
The machine whirred.
