Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

"Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret."

- Ambrose Bierce

Sofiya

When I finally opened my eyes, a piercing cold and an unsettling disorientation gripped me. I was enveloped in a stark white room that felt eerily sterile—like stepping into a hospital or a retirement home, places devoid of warmth or life.

White, for me, had always been the color of clinical detachment.

In contrast, colors like green, blue, and red held profound significance.

Green signifies hope, peace, and happiness.

Blue stands for fear, sadness, and anxiety.

But red—my favorite—encapsulates the full spectrum of human experience: life, passion, hatred, love, and pain. Red is woven into the fabric of our daily existence, a reminder of both our joys and our struggles.

While some may argue that we are merely shades of black and white, I believe we are all unique hues of red—each of us distinct yet interconnected.

After blinking a few times, I tried to orient myself, staring at the cold, unyielding ceiling. My attempt to lift my hands revealed they were unnervingly heavy.

What the hell?

He handcuffed me?

Desperately, I tried to free myself, but my efforts only left me more exhausted.

The room was a bleak, oppressive space, illuminated only by a narrow beam of light from a tiny window. The bed I lay on felt like a slab of concrete, discomfort gnawing at my spine. Panic began to rise in my throat as I struggled to sit up, my heart pounding with fear.

Why was it so cold? Where the hell was I?

With trembling hands and sweat-soaked palms, I managed to push myself to my feet, breathing in short, ragged gasps.

"I don't have any other choice but to crawl," I muttered, frustration seeping into my voice. "Why now, of all times, do I have to have a panic attack? Come on, Sofiya, get it together!"

Summoning every ounce of strength, I threw myself onto the floor with a loud thud, determined to escape this nightmare .

Crawling like a wounded animal, I made my way towards the door, each movement feeling like an eternity.

Just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open violently, narrowly missing my head. My heart leaped into my throat as I looked up to see Dimitri, his eyes glinting with malice and a sinister grin spreading across his face.

"You spend more time on the floor than our average whores, Sofiya. Maybe we should sign you up at our brothel downtown. I'm sure plenty of men would be willing to pay for your services, including me," Dimitri sneered, his yellow teeth on full display.

Kneeling beside me, he reached for a strand of my loose hair, but I tried to turn away.

His grip tightened on my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze despite my resistance.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me off the ground, pressing me against the wall. His tongue trailed up my neck, and his erection pressed against my stomach, making bile rise in my throat as his hands gripped my hips tightly.

"Please, let me go," I begged, desperation creeping into my voice.

"You know, when the boss said he had a daughter, I think he forgot to mention how fuckable she was," Dimitri chuckled, his hands roaming over my body. "What do you think? Should I make you my whore?"

As his hands pushed my t-shirt higher, I winced, trying to fight him off.

"Get your hands off her, now."

A deafening silence followed as Dimitri slowly got off me and turned around. My heart raced, and my mind reeled as I pushed myself off the wall and looked over. But what I saw left me in shock .

There stood Dasha, right in front of me.

What was she doing here? How did she know Dimitri?

My mind struggled to make sense of it all.

"I won't tell the boss anything if you leave now," Dasha spoke, breaking the silence.

Boss?

"Now, Dasha, you know I was just playing with the girl. A little prank never hurt anyone," he said with a fake smile.

My eyes remained fixed on Dasha, trying to process what was happening. She looked different—older, wearing makeup, which was unusual for her. Her deep raven-black hair was tucked into a low ponytail, and she wore a black silk skirt with a matching shirt. But it was the dark blood-red lipstick that caught me off guard the most. It was as if she was a stranger, not the Dasha I had known for more than twenty years.

Dasha had always been more than a maid to me; she was like a big sister. We had shared countless memories, from watching movies to playing in the pool together. She even used to take me to the supermarket and let me buy all the sweets my mom would never allow me to eat at home.

But now, as I slid down the wall and sat, hands cuffed to my face, hiding the tears, I couldn't believe what was happening. It felt like the world had turned upside down, and the person I had trusted the most had betrayed me.

"Leave, pridurok, asshole, " she said firmly.

Fear paralyzed me, keeping my head low even after the footsteps had faded away. I couldn't bear facing Dimitri's menacing gaze again. Suddenly, a soothing hand began to stroke my hair.

"Mne tak zhal', moya lyubov'. I am so sorry, my love."

A sob escaped my lips. I struggled to compose myself, but her familiar scent and voice offered both comfort and alarm in this cold, foreign place.

"What are you doing here? Where am I? Where's mama?" I fired off questions, desperate for answers.

"Calm down. I can't stay long. You need to listen to me."

Tears streamed down my face as I peered up through the blur. Though her face was barely visible, her voice revealed her sadness. I continued to sob as she gently cupped my face.

"Shh, listen to me," she whispered urgently. "You must obey him . Please don't resist, or they'll hurt you like they hurt…"

"Get out."

Dasha's startled yelp was followed by the chilling sound of Dimitri's voice, both frightening and unnervingly calm. It felt as if the world had stopped to hear what he would say next.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to imagine myself running through a lavender field in the South of France, far from this nightmare. But the minutes ticked by, and my tremors persisted.

Exhaustion took over, and I sobbed uncontrollably. Dasha's hand stroked my head one last time before her footsteps faded and the door closed behind her.

The room fell into unbearable silence. Anxiety coursed through me, and I remained frozen, hoping that if I stayed still and breathed slowly, I might disappear. Counting to a hundred in my head distracted me from my tears, and surprisingly, it worked.

Once my tears dried, I wiped my cheeks but kept my eyes closed, preferring the darkness to whatever sinister plan he had in store .

The room's tension suddenly escalated, the air crackling with an electric charge. I could feel the heat emanating from him and the deliberate rhythm of his breathing.

Was this part of his twisted plan? To leave me drained and helpless while he reveled in my suffering? It felt as if I was a toy for him to control. I could almost see his satisfaction at my vulnerability.

Summoning my courage, I lifted my head and took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. Meeting his dark gaze, I saw the same clothes he had worn earlier—his shirt even more crumpled, but his slicked-back hair still exuding a devious charm. He stood inches away from the door, giving an illusion of space and freedom, and I rolled my eyes at his false gentlemanly demeanor.

"I guess you won't meet your papa today."

My eyes widened.

What? My papa?

What was he talking about?

My papa's dead.

I sighed. "I've never met such a bad liar; it's quite embarrassing."

He smiled down at me—not reassuringly, but with a you-shouldn't-have-said-that look. I smiled back, offering one of my best fake smiles. He scratched his beard while my eyes traveled down his face, neck, and upper body.

"You're an embarrassment," I added, impatiently waiting for his response, which never came.

With deliberate slowness, he sauntered over, his gaze locked on mine. He effortlessly lifted me off the ground and placed me on the bed. The creaking of the bed springs sent a shiver down my spine, mingling apprehension with anticipation.

Dasha's warning echoed in my mind, and I found myself unable to resist him. As he drew closer, his musky scent enveloped me, stirring something deep within—an unsettling blend of manliness and illicit desire.

Without a word, he began to release the restraints on my wrists and ankles. As the cuffs came off, I wondered what awaited me next.

"What are you doing? Where are you taking me?" I panicked.

After rising to his feet, he wiped his hands on his pants and headed for the door. Just before leaving, he cast a lingering glance at me, taking in my appearance before departing.

In a rush of adrenaline, I leaped from the bed, wincing at a sharp pang of discomfort. I trailed behind him, catching a glimpse of his figure striding purposefully down the hallway.

"Why are you giving me the silent treatment?" I shouted, using the last of my energy.

I probably looked insane, but I didn't care. His dismissive behavior infuriated me, and his refusal to acknowledge my tantrum was the final straw.

"You're the lamest kidnapper ever!" I yelled.

Abruptly, he halted and turned to face me, his gaze slowly scanning my form. A grin spread across his face as he let out a dark laugh.

Without another word, he descended the stairs, leaving me speechless.

What a jerk!

What time was it anyway?

My heart raced as I waited, half-expecting him to return and lock me in again. As I scanned the corridor, I noticed three doors—two directly in front of me and another on my left.

Was this some sick game?

Taking a deep breath, I tiptoed towards the left door, careful not to make a sound. Slowly, I pushed it open and was greeted by the sight of a stunning dark bathroom, complete with a large mirror facing me.

The intricate details gave it a gothic feel, like a darker version of the Chateau de Versailles. The bathroom featured a dark-tiled Italian shower and a luxurious ivory Victorian bath with lion's feet. In the corner, a bonsai white willow tree added an air of mystery.

The room was a blend of opulence and enigma, clearly designed by someone with excellent taste.

Glancing back at my reflection, I cringed. My eyes were swollen, dark circles beneath them making me look sleep-deprived. My hair was a tangled mess, and my neck bore dark bruises. Lightly touching one bruise sent a jolt of pain through me. My top was ruined, exposing my black lacy bra. The skin around my wrists was red, my watch missing.

I looked pitiful, vulnerable, and helpless. I placed my head in my hands, trembling.

I needed to escape, but how?

I didn't speak Russian and had a terrible sense of direction.

Maybe I deserved to be locked in a gulag for not recognizing red flags, especially the self-centered asshole who kidnapped me. My ancestors must be rolling in their graves at my actions, especially for throwing myself at that man.

I can't believe I gave my first kiss to him.

Sofiya, what were you thinking?

After washing my hands, a shiver ran down my arms.

What did he mean by my papa is here ?

His words reopened a wound I wished would stay closed forever.

Shaking my head, I dried my hands with the soft black towel nearby. I reminded myself never to believe anything that came out of his mouth. He just wanted to mess with my head. And I prayed that I would come out of this... alive.