Pain wakes me. A throbbing, merciless ache pulses through my skull like someone swung a bat at my head. My eyelids flutter open, heavy and reluctant, and I freeze.

White.

Everything is white.

The sheets. The walls. The door.

The air smells faintly of bleach, sharp and sterile, like a hospital ward. Silence presses against my ears, broken only by the pounding in my head. I’m lying in a king-sized bed in a room so sterile it feels unreal. No windows. No furniture. Just me and this bed.

I try to sit up, but the headache slams me back down. My breath catches. Where am I? How did I get here?

“Okay, Azriel,” I whisper. “You’ve got to get up.”

It takes everything in me to swing my legs over the edge. The moment my feet touch the floor, dizziness hits hard. I clutch the sheets, steadying myself with deep breaths until the room stops spinning.

The door. The only thing in the room that isn't a repeat of sterile white.

I push off the mattress and stumble toward it, slow and shaky until I reach it. I twist the knob.

Locked.

“Okay… now what?”

My mind races. My pulse thunders. I tear through the bed , sheets, pillows, anything that might hide a key. Nothing. Panic rises like bile.

I slam my fists against the door.

“HELLO? CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?”

I pound the door until my wrists scream. No answer. No phone. No escape.

My husband.

He’s in hospital. I was supposed to visit him today.

He was stable. Healing.

I remember packing my bag. I remember-

Wait.

Lunch.

A memory flickers like a broken lightbulb. Lunch with my sister at Carlucci Rosemont. We were laughing. For once, things felt normal.

Then… nothing. Just a blank space where hours should be.

Footsteps. Laughter. A click at the door.

I scramble to my feet. The door creaks open.

A man steps in. Tall. Muscular. Dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Tattoos snake down his arms. His eyes are cold. His smile, cruel, sharp, mocking.

“You’re finally awake,” he says.

My throat tightens.

“Who are you? Why am I here?”

He smirks. “Relax.”

“I’m not relaxing until you tell me what’s going on,” I snap, though my voice shakes.

“You slept for three days. You should be grateful. Your body needed rest.”

Three days?

My skin goes cold .“Who are you?”

“That’s a question for another day.”

“Why am I here?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Then start answering them!”

His face hardens. “Listen carefully. You don’t get to shout at me. You’re a low-life con, and you have no authority here.”

“Con?" I shake my head. "I haven't done anything! "Did you kidnap me?”

He steps closer. I step back until the bed hits the back of my knees.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

He lunges.

His hand closes around my arm like a metal clamp. He throws me onto the bed with terrifying ease. My head smacks the mattress. My breath knocks out of me. He pins me down with one hand on my shoulder.

“You’re hurting me!” I choke out.

“Do I look like I care?” He replies, voice flat.

My head pounds. My body trembles. I’m seven weeks pregnant.

He doesn't know. He can't know. If he did-

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper, voice cracking.

He finally lets go. Walks to the door. Locks it. Turns to face me with an expression I don't understand. Not anger, Not annoyance.

Amusement.

“I’m Michael,” he says. “Right-hand man to Louise Givenchy. Ring a bell?”

My blood runs cold. Louise Givenchy the man my husband owes $100,000.

"No.." I whisper before I can stop myself.

“You and your husband owe him a lot. But don’t worry. Since your husband’s dead, the debt’s been halved.”

The room tilts.

Dead? No. He’s in hospital. He’s alive.

“You’re lying,” I whisper.

“You were unconscious for three days. He died while you slept. Now you owe $50,000. And guess who’s paying?”

My knees buckle. I fall to the edge of the bed.

"No," I whisper again. "No, he- he can't be-"

He grins. “We’re finding a buyer for you. China’s interested. Breakfast, lunch, dinner… you’ll be a feast.”

He laughs. A cold hollow laugh. Then he steps out, shuts the door, locks it.

And I’m alone again.

The silence presses against me like a weight. My chest tightens until the pressure becomes pain. I wrap my arms around myself, rocking gently, fighting the absolute terror clawing at my throat.

My husband is dead.

I'm trapped.

And someone is coming to buy me.

I place both hands over my stomach.

Not my baby. Please. Not my baby.

The room stays silent.

But inside, something steels itself.

I don't know how.

I don't know when.

But I will get out.

For me.

For my child.

For the life they want to take from us.

I will survive this.

I have to