Part of me knew I did it to spite Seraphina.
She had slithered back into Dmitri’s orbit through manipulation and timing, embedding herself into his household..
The next morning, I woke to darkness.
Not silk sheets or filtered sunlight—but cold concrete beneath my feet and the metallic sting of fear flooding my senses.
My wrists and ankles were bound to a splintered chair, rope cutting into skin already raw. The air was thick with rust, dampness, and decay.
Seraphina sat beside me.
Her once-perfect gown was torn, dirt smeared across silk and skin alike. She looked afraid
Then Dmitri was dragged in.
Blood streaked his face. His suit—always immaculate—hung in ruins. He barely stayed upright as they forced him to his knees. The men surrounding us spoke in harsh Albanian accents, their smiles cold and businesslike.
They gave him a choice.
Save me.
Or save Seraphina.
Time fractured.
Dmitri’s eyes lifted to mine, anguish written plainly across his face. For a heartbeat, I thought—I hoped—he would choose me. That somewhere beneath the guilt and fear, he would see Penelope.
“Seraphina,” he rasped.
The word shattered something inside me.
I didn’t scream.
The pain that followed was worse than any bullet—cleaner, deeper, final. My heart splintered, each shard embedding itself somewhere vital.
Dmitri Volkov had chosen who mattered.
And it wasn’t me.
The Albanians stepped forward next, their leader speaking in clipped tones, bargaining as though negotiating livestock. I was sold. Purchased. Reduced to a transaction.
They transported me deep into the forgotten veins of their land—far from cities, far from law. A place untouched by modernity, where dirt roads replaced asphalt and oil lamps flickered in place of electricity.
Where customs belonged to another century, and women were owned openly.
Now, twelve months later, I stand in this godforsaken yard.
One of the seven slave girls in this particular cell—known among the captives as the “Cell of Doom,” one of several such cells, each housing seven women under the control of a single master.
Our hands are clasped behind our backs, as tradition demands.
Our thin shifts do nothing to keep out the cold wind slicing across packed earth scarred by countless footsteps.
High stone walls loom around us, jagged wire crowning them like a warning.
Our master’s whip cracked again—closer this time.
“You will be inspected,” he said calmly, as if announcing the weather. “Any disobedience will be corrected.”