Chapter 4 — Seven Days

The first time Dante touched the collar after my collapse, he didn’t do it gently.

He came into my room late afternoon, the house quieter, the party guests gone. He shut the door, locked it, and stood there like a storm deciding where to land.

“Turn around,” he said.

I didn’t. “It’s hurting me.”

His eyes were ice. “Turn around.”

My hands trembled as I obeyed.

I felt his fingers hook under the leather.

Then he yanked.

White-hot pain ripped through my throat. I gasped, stumbling forward.

The clasp snapped, and the collar fell away—dragging skin with it.

Dante’s hand was suddenly slick with blood. He looked down at his palm like it annoyed him.

“Happy?” he said.

I pressed my fingers to my neck. The skin felt raw, swollen, wet.

He didn’t ask if I could breathe.

He didn’t ask if the allergy was killing me.

His gaze lifted to the dresser, to the small, pathetic collection of things I’d gathered in five years—tiny proof I existed outside his control.

The ceramic cat nightlight.

A sketchbook.

A bundle of letters I’d never dared send.

The old hoodie he’d once tossed at me after a fight, and I’d kept like it meant something.

Dante crossed the room and grabbed the sketchbook.

“No,” I said, stepping forward. “That’s mine.”

He didn’t even look at me. He swept his arm across the dresser and sent everything crashing to the floor.

Glass shattered. The cat nightlight broke into pale pieces.

Something in me broke with it.

Dante picked up the letters next. His mouth curled. “Pathetic.”

“Give them back,” I whispered.

He turned, and his hand closed around my throat—not where the collar had been, but close enough.

He squeezed until stars sparked in my vision.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, voice low and lethal. “Not tonight. Not next week. Not ever.”

My lungs fought for air. I clawed at his wrist.

He released me abruptly, as if disgusted by his own impulse, and threw the letters into the fireplace.

The paper caught quickly, flames licking through my handwriting.

I stood there, shaking, watching my hope burn.

Later, after he left, the villa turned into a haunted museum.

In the dark, I heard their door close down the hall.

Then her laugh—soft, intimate.

Then the bed creak.

Then the low murmur of Dante’s voice.

I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound that would give me away.

My phone vibrated against my thigh.

I’d hidden it inside my mattress weeks ago, an old spare with a cracked screen. No one knew it existed.

A new message glowed on the screen from an unknown number.

SEVEN DAYS.

ENGAGEMENT BANQUET.

BE READY.

—R

My entire body went cold.

R.

Rossi.

A name I’d been warned never to say too loud in this house.

My birth father’s shadow. His people.

I stared until my eyes stung, then typed back with shaking fingers:

Who are you?

The reply came instantly.

A door. WALK THROUGH IT.

I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.

Seven days.

Seven days until the engagement banquet—the night Dante would parade Katerina like a queen.

Seven days until my last chance to disappear.

I moved without thinking, driven by survival.

I pulled a suitcase from the closet. I didn’t pack dresses. I packed passport copies I’d secretly made, cash I’d hidden, a plain sweater, shoes that wouldn’t slow me down.

I left the broken ceramic cat where it lay. A tiny grave.

Near midnight, the door opened.

Dante.

He stumbled in, drunk enough that the sharp lines of him softened. His tie was gone. His shirt collar open. The scent of whiskey and expensive perfume clung to him.

He didn’t look at the suitcase.

He didn’t look at the fire-scorched ashes in the fireplace.

He looked at me like instinct.

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me, dragging me against his chest with brutal strength.

My body reacted—muscle memory—then rebelled, nausea rising.

“Come here,” he murmured, mouth near my hair. “Katerina…”

The name hit me like a slap.

I stiffened. “Dante. Stay awake.”

He blinked, confused, still holding me too tight. “Shh,” he breathed, as if I was the problem making noise.

“Look at me,” I demanded, pushing against him. “Don’t— don’t do this.”

His grip tightened. Not sexual. Not tender.

Possessive.

I couldn’t move. My back hit the mattress. He followed, heavy, pinning me with his weight.

I turned my face away, heart pounding.

He didn’t force his mouth on me. He didn’t go further.

But he didn’t let me up.

I lay trapped under the man who had just erased me, listening to his breathing slow as sleep claimed him.

His arm across my waist was a chain.

In the dark, I stared at the ceiling and counted.

Seven days.

I was going to live long enough to leave.