They dragged her out of the crate like she was luggage, not a person. Her limbs screamed in protest. The cold bit into her skin. Somewhere along the way, the tape was ripped from her mouth and replaced with silence because even if she screamed, no one would hear her.
She wasn't in a basement. She wasn't in a cell.
She was in a room designed to make her feel safe. Lavish. Velvet curtains. A vintage chandelier casts a golden light over polished floors. But the beauty was a lie.
This was a prison dressed in pearls.
She was shoved into a chair. Her wrists were zip-tied behind her back. Her ankles too. But her eyes stayed sharp. Watching. Calculating.
And then—
He entered.
Philip Shepherd. Her uncle.
Smiling like the devil on vacation. Hair silver at the temples, suit sharp, presence sharper. He looked at her like a proud collector admiring a long-lost artifact.
