Chapter 47

Chapter 47
Her eyes widened, flying around the establishment as if one of her customers could enlighten her. Surely, this crazy Aussie chick couldn’t be telling the truth.

My chest heaved as panic swelled. What if she didn’t believe me? What if no one did? I was so close to freedom, but it felt like it was slipping through my fingers, like sand I couldn’t hold on to.

I looked over my shoulder, trying to seem casual, but every nerve inside me screamed. A handful of patrons stared back at me like I’d escaped from the local zoo. Not with concern—more like morbid curiosity.

The little café would’ve been charming on any other day. A red colour scheme, too many rooster figurines, and walls plastered with faded posters made it feel warm, lived-in. But to me, it was suffocating. Hostile. Like every ornament had eyes, judging me, waiting to come alive and peck at my skin for ruining their peaceful lunch.

I’d just poured my soul out to a stranger and all she did was stare.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I choked out. My voice trembled, thick with unshed tears. Being this close—so excruciatingly close—to freedom made my limbs jitter with adrenaline.

She nodded hesitantly, brows furrowed, clearly not understanding the gravity of my words.

I spotted the phone behind the counter and lunged for it, my arm brushing over a tray of bagels and muffins. My hands shook uncontrollably. Fingers hovered over the keypad. I wanted to call the police—but I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed to hear one voice first. Just one.

I dialled the number burned into my memory. My lifeline.

It rang.

And rang.

Every second was agony.

Please. Please pick up. Be alive. Be okay.

Behind me, I felt the air shift. The woman disappeared through a swinging door and returned seconds later with an elderly chef trailing behind. Both wore matching yellow uniforms and white aprons, their faces mirrored in suspicion.

Still, I waited.

My time was evaporating.

"Hi, you’ve reached Adrian. I’m unable to get to the phone, but you know the drill. Leave your details, and I’ll get back to you. Or, if it’s life and death, please contact my girlfriend, Each. Her number: 044-873-4937. Cheers."

Beep.

Something shattered inside me. Hearing my name on Adrian’s voicemail, in his familiar Aussie drawl, broke me. All the steel I’d wrapped around my heart crumbled. I shrunk into the version of myself I thought I’d buried—timid, scared, innocent. The girl before Mexico. Before Lucien. Before I learned what I was capable of.

Tears rushed down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them.

“Adrian, it’s me. I’m—I’m alive. I was sold to a man named Lucien Lorine Mercer. I’m not hurt. I’m on my way home. If you get this message, I’ll be at the Greece Embassy, hopefully working out passports and… everything.”

I swallowed. My chest hurt. There was so much I wanted to say. So many things I’d never have the courage to confess.

But I couldn’t tell him what Lucien did. I could never say the words aloud—how my body had betrayed me. How part of me responded to the darkness. Adrian would hear it in my voice, even if I tried to lie. He’d remember that night, the one where I asked for more, where I gave him a glimpse of the kind of hunger I tried so hard to ignore.

No. That part of me had to die with this nightmare.

“Adrian,” I whispered, trembling, “if I don’t make it, promise me you’ll find a man named Lucien Lorine Mercer. He’s in a small region of France. A big house. Staff. Tell the police. I love you.”

The line went dead.

A sob strangled in my throat as I immediately dialled Each’s number. Desperation clogged my thoughts.

But the chef—his white apron stained with flour and sauce—stepped forward and yanked the phone from my hand.

“Hey!” I snapped.

He glared, shaking his head, voice thick with an accent. “You spreading lies. I do not believe—”

The front door slammed open, bell clanging like a siren.

I turned, breath caught in my lungs.

Francois.

He stood framed in the doorway, eyes wide with fury. For a split second he froze—then he launched into motion.

His hand dove into his jacket. Searching.

Gun? Knife?

I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

I shoved past the stunned chef and the woman, barreling through the kitchen door. My shoulder cracked against the wood, pain shooting through my collarbone, but I didn’t stop.

The door blasted open, and cold air slammed into me. A narrow cobbled lane sprawled ahead like a lifeline. I ran.

I ran like the devil was at my back.

My ankle throbbed, still tender from earlier abuse, but I ignored it. I darted down the alley, skipping puddles and trash bins. I zig-zagged, desperate to shake Franco. Desperate to stay free.

A shout echoed behind me.

No. No. Please.

I took another corner, nearly slipping on damp stone. The world blurred as tears filled my eyes again. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t. Lucien would destroy whatever was left of me. This was my chance—my only chance.

I shot from the alley and onto a bustling street.

A car horn screamed. I stumbled mid-run, hands flying out for balance. Pedestrians screamed as I burst into the flow of traffic, forcing cars to swerve. One came so close the bumper grazed my knees.

“Putain de merde!”

A man leapt from the driver’s seat of the small grey car. Late twenties, messy red-brown hair, wide terrified eyes.

“I could’ve killed you!”

“I need help!” I gasped, rushing toward him. “Please. Take me to the police. I’ve been kidnapped.”

I glanced behind me, terrified François was seconds away. My heart pounded like a war drum.

The guy hesitated, scanning me from head to toe. His eyes flickered with panic. He didn’t know what to do.

I braced to bolt again. Another alley. Another plan.

Then—“Wait! I take. I take!”

He raced around the car, flinging the passenger door open.

My legs shook. I hesitated.

What if this was another trap?

But then—

“Esclave!”

That word.

It split me open.

I dove into the seat and screamed, “Go! Drive!”

Franco’s voice thundered behind us. The man jumped into the driver’s seat and floored it. Tires screeched. The engine howled.

Franco’s palm slammed the roof as we took off, weaving through traffic, jumping the curb. I ducked low in my seat, heart hammering.

We were moving. Really moving.

I twisted to look back. Francois was in the middle of the road, jumping, screaming, tearing at his hair like a madman. He bolted for his car.

I slumped in the seat, gasping. Trembling.

The man beside me drove like he was born for this.

My throat was raw, my body exhausted, but a strange clarity settled over me.

I’d done it.

I was free.