My eyes flew open to morning.
Light—soft, golden, almost gentle—filtered through heavy silk curtains, brushing my face like a hand that didn’t mean harm.
I inhaled sharply and bolted upright, panic detonating in my chest so violently the room lurched.
For one horrifying heartbeat, I was back there.
Stone walls pressing in.
The stink of damp earth and rot.
Boots on gravel.
The overseer’s voice, promising punishment, promising pain, promising that death would not be quick enough to save me.
My muscles locked, bracing for chains, for hands, for the sharp bite of a blade meant to remind me that rebellion always came with a price.
But nothing happened.
No shouting.
No pain.
No whip cracking through the air.
Instead—softness.
The mattress beneath me dipped slightly, cradling my weight instead of rejecting it. Clean sheets brushed my skin. Warmth surrounded me.
I sucked in another breath, then another, until my lungs burned and I realized—dimly, incredulously—that the air didn’t reek of blood or fear.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
The room came into focus.
A bed—massive, king-sized—draped in pristine white linen, the kind that whispered money with every fold.
Marble floors veined with subtle gold stretched beneath my feet. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, a crystal chandelier catching the morning sun and scattering it like fractured stars across the walls.
This room was larger than my entire apartment in Greece.
No.
This wasn’t Greece.
I turned my head slowly, dread and disbelief twisting together, and saw the windows.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed Lake Como in all its impossible beauty—the water smooth and silver-blue, villas clinging to lush green hillsides like jewels set into velvet.
Snow-dusted mountains rose in the distance, serene and indifferent to human suffering.
The scent hit me next.
Clean lake water. Pine. A faint hint of citrus drifting up from manicured gardens below.
Italy.
My hand flew to my chest.