Chapter 3

Patrick grabbed Vivian's wrist, his grip crushing, and dragged her toward the exit.

"Let me go... Patrick, please listen to me..." Her voice cracked, nearly hoarse.

Patrick didn't even glance at her.

He yanked the car door open and shoved her inside. Her head slammed against the seat. Her vision went black.

Patrick slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. His jaw was locked tight, the sharp line of his profile rigid. Those deep eyes that once made her fall—now they held nothing but icy hatred.

Vivian curled into the seat, arms wrapped around herself. Every part of her ached. The bruises on her throat, the marks on her wrists—none of it compared to the wound bleeding open in her chest.

The car pulled into the Sterling Estate, but it didn't stop at the main house. Patrick drove straight to a small, isolated building in the back.

Vivian's heart sank.

"Where... where are you taking me?"

Patrick stopped the car and hauled her out by the arm. The force nearly knocked her off her feet.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" Fear overtook love. She started to fight him.

"Taking you where you belong." His voice was flat, lifeless.

He opened the door to the basement. A damp, moldy smell rushed out. The stairs were dark. Only thin beams of light filtered through a high vent, illuminating dust drifting through the air.

Vivian was shoved inside. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind her.

She fumbled to her feet in the dark. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim space. It was about thirty square yards. Walls peeling, floor damp, abandoned furniture shoved into the corners.

"Patrick! Let me out!" She threw herself at the iron door, pounding it with her fists. "You have no right to lock me up! I didn't do anything wrong!"

His voice came through cold and detached. "You killed Jenny. You took a life. And you still think you did nothing wrong."

"I didn't! She jumped herself! She set this whole thing up!" Vivian's voice shook with emotion. "Why won't you believe me?"

Silence on the other side of the door. Then footsteps. Through the crack, Patrick's face appeared, half-lit, half in shadow.

"She set this up?" His voice was quiet. More terrifying than if he'd shouted. "She used her own life to frame you? Vivian, even now, you're still lying."

Vivian's blood ran cold.

Patrick pushed the door open and stepped inside. His tall frame was silhouetted against the faint moonlight. The cruelty on his face was unmistakable.

"She was so kind. Even as she was dying, she begged me not to blame you." His tone took on a twisted gentleness. "She said you only loved me too much. She asked me—if I could—to take care of you."

He moved closer with every word. Vivian backed up until her spine hit the cold wall.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you," Patrick said, stopping in front of her. He gripped her chin and forced her head up. "Since you love me so much you'd kill your own sister for me, I'll make sure you experience exactly what Jenny went through before she died. How's that sound?"

Vivian's eyes went wide. Terror swallowed her whole. "You... what are you gonna do?"

Patrick let go and turned toward the door. He paused at the threshold but didn't look back. "You'll find out soon enough."

The iron door slammed shut again.

Vivian slid to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and buried her face.

The cold from the basement seeped into her bones. But it was nothing compared to the cold in her heart.

She thought back to when she was eight. The boy who'd risked everything to save her from traffickers. Why was he doing this to her now?

Back then, Patrick had carried her on his back for five miles to get her home. His eyes had been so bright. He'd promised her forever.

Fifteen years. She'd loved him for fifteen years. And this was what it came to.

Time passed. She didn't know how long.

Voices drifted in from outside the door. Strange men, laughing crudely.

"Heard there's some rich girl locked up in there?"

"Mr. Sterling said we can do whatever we want. Just don't kill her."

"Heh, lucky us..."

The sound of a key turning in the lock.

Vivian scrambled to her feet and backed into the corner, her heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest.

No. Patrick wouldn't. He couldn't. No matter how much he hated her, he wouldn't...

The door opened. Three sleazy men walked in. Their eyes crawled over her like hands.

"She's a looker, all right," one of them—bleached hair—let out a low whistle. "Mr. Sterling's pretty generous."

"Don't come near me!" Vivian's voice shook. "Where's Patrick? I want to see him!"

"Mr. Sterling?" A bald man laughed. "He's the one who sent us. Said to make sure you feel exactly what your sister felt before she died."

That sentence shattered the last thread of hope Vivian had been clinging to.

She remembered Jennifer's self-inflicted wounds. The torn dress. The disheveled hair. The cuts on her arms. This was Patrick's revenge.

"No..." Vivian shook her head, tears spilling over again. "He wouldn't... he wouldn't do this to me..."

"Hey, don't cry, sweetheart," the third man—tall and lanky—stepped closer, reaching for her face. "We'll take real good care of you."

Vivian slapped his hand away and bolted for the door. The bleached-haired guy grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back hard.

She hit the floor. Her forehead slammed into the corner of a table. Warmth trickled down her cheek.

In that instant, her hand touched something cold and hard. A shard of broken mirror, its edge sharp as a blade.

"Feisty one," the bald man crouched down and grabbed her face. "Makes it more fun."

The tall guy started unbuckling his belt.

Vivian closed her eyes. The world collapsed around her. And the clearest image in her mind was still Patrick's face. The face she'd loved for fifteen years. The man she would've given everything for.

Right now, he was probably upstairs watching her suffering, savoring every second.

Her jacket was ripped off. The sound of fabric tearing. Her skin hit the cold air. She shivered.

Just as the man's hand was about to touch her, Vivian grabbed the glass shard and pressed it against her own throat.

"Don't touch me. Or I swear..."

Her voice was eerily calm.

The shard bit into her palm. Blood dripped between her fingers. But she didn't feel any pain.

She knew she couldn't fight off these men. But she could give them a corpse.