Chapter 64

Chapter 64
I don't move for a long time.

The silence presses in like a second skin, heavy and suffocating. I pull my knees tighter against my chest and stare at the door as if I can will it to open again. Or maybe to disappear entirely.

None of this feels real.

The air smells like lavender—some diffuser on a timer, I guess—but it might as well be smoke and gunpowder. I can't stop seeing Cobra's face, the fury simmering in his eyes. I can't stop hearing Sabrina's voice in my head, calm and condescending, like she's the director of a play I never auditioned for. And Demi—her softness almost makes it worse. Like she thinks kindness will make this easier to swallow.

A soft knock raps against the door.

My heart skips a beat.

It creaks open, and a woman I haven't seen before steps in. She's petite, tan skin, dark eyes, and she wears a black apron over her clothes. Her hands are full—one arm holds a case with a handle, the other carries what looks like a compact hairstyling kit.

I don't say anything.

She doesn't introduce herself.

She just gives me a polite nod, like this is the most normal thing in the world. As if she's about to get me ready for a red carpet, not send me off like a package to people I don't even remember.

"I won't take long," she says quietly.

Still, I stay seated on the bed.

She sets down her things on the vanity by the window and starts arranging brushes and palettes like she's done this a thousand times. She probably has. I wonder how many terrified girls have sat in this exact spot, feeling like they were being prepped for auction.

She opens a wardrobe near the corner of the room and pulls out something wrapped in a black garment bag. Then, without a word, she lays it across the chair beside the vanity.

"Your outfit," she says.

"I'm not changing," I reply automatically.

She glances at me, expression unreadable. "It's not really a choice."

I stiffen.

She doesn't look threatening. She doesn't have the same energy as Sabrina or the venom of Cobra. But there's a hardness in her tone, something final, that tells me refusing isn't going to get me anywhere.

I glance at the garment bag.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Something simple," she says. "Elegant. Formal."

That word again. Formal. Like this is some kind of ceremony.

"Am I being sacrificed?" I mutter.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she steps toward me slowly. "You can wash up first. There's fresh towels in the bathroom."

"I don't want to do any of this."

"I know."

She doesn't push. She just turns and moves toward the bathroom, her footsteps soft on the rug. She leaves the door open as she sets down the towels and turns on the water.

Steam begins to rise.

I don't know what makes me move. Maybe it's the numbness. Maybe it's survival instinct. Maybe it's just that I don't want to give Vincent the satisfaction of seeing me like this—disheveled and broken. But after a few minutes, I stand. My knees ache. My feet are cold.

I walk into the bathroom without a word.

The warm water feels like fire against my skin at first, but eventually I stop shaking. I don't cry. I don't scream. I just let the water rush over me until I can almost pretend none of this is real.

When I step out, the woman is waiting, holding a black silk robe.

I wrap it around myself and sit at the vanity. She begins working in silence, brushing out my damp hair with a gentleness that surprises me. Her fingers are skilled, movements practiced. She blow-dries my hair, styles it into soft, effortless waves. Then she starts on my face—primer, concealer, foundation. Her touch is light, but precise.

When she finally finishes, she steps back and studies me in the mirror.

I barely u myself.

There's a girl staring back who looks like she belongs in a castle. Or a courtroom. Or a funeral.

Then the woman moves to the chair and unzips the garment bag.

It's a white dress. Long, smooth, with a high slit and sleeves that drape off the shoulder. Not flashy. Not vulgar. Just—elegant. Intimidating. Like something a queen would wear to a war she's already won.

She helps me into it, and when I'm zipped up, she hands me a pair of black heels.

I stare at them for a second before taking them.

She doesn't wait for thanks. She simply gathers her tools and vanishes through the door without another word.

The silence returns.

This time, it feels colder.

⸻

An hour passes. Maybe two.

I don't know.

The sky outside has started to dim, washing everything in a soft golden hue. I sit in the corner chair by the window, heels still on, spine rigid. I'm dressed like I'm going to walk down a runway, but I've never felt more powerless.

Then I hear footsteps.

A different cadence this time—slower. Heavier.

My entire body locks.

The door opens and Demi steps in again, this time without Cobra or Sabrina. Her eyes fall on me, and something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Approval. I can't tell.

"You clean up well," she says softly.

I don't reply.

"We'll be leaving soon. Vincent's just finishing some arrangements."

"Arrangements?" I repeat. "What kind of arrangements?"

Demi hesitates. "Security. Logistics. He doesn't want anything to go wrong tonight."

I scoff. "That makes one of us."

She doesn't smile.

There's a beat of silence before she adds, "You look like her, you know."

I blink. "What?"

"Your mother," she says, voice quiet. "Maria Bellanti. You look like her."

The name hits me like a punch to the stomach. I've heard it only once—, from Vincent's mouth. Your parents are Lorenzo and Maria Bellanti. And tonight, I'm being returned to them like a missing parcel.

"I don't remember them," I whisper.

Demi nods. "That was the point."

I glance away.

There's a pause, and then she says gently, "They've been waiting a long time to see you."

I turn back to her, rage bubbling under my skin. "Then why didn't they come get me themselves?"

Demi meets my gaze without flinching. "Ask them when you see them."

Before I can say more, there's a knock at the door.

Cobra appears in the hallway. He nods at Demi.

"It's time."

Demi looks at me. "Ready?"

No.

Not in a thousand years.

But I nod anyway.

⸻

The hallway outside is dimly lit, lined with sconces and velvet wallpaper. I walk between Demi and Cobra, flanked like a prisoner being escorted to trial. I can feel the eyes of Vincent's men watching us from every corner—silent, unreadable, statues in black.

We reach the end of the hall.

There, in front of a pair of tall, carved doors, Sabrina waits.

"They're ready," she says simply.

Cobra opens the doors.

And there he is.

Vincent.

Dressed in a tailored black suit, cuffs silver, a dark tie pinned with a crest I don't recognise. He stands by the fireplace, calm and in control, like this is just another day in his kingdom. His eyes sweep over me, slow and assessing, and something shifts in his posture.

For just a second, I swear he forgets how to breathe.

Then his expression settles back into unreadable composure.

"Rose," he says, voice smooth as ever.

I don't answer.

I stand perfectly still, feeling the firelight flicker against my skin, the dress hugging me like a net. I want to scream. I want to tear this dress off and run as far away as possible.

But there's nowhere left to run.

Vincent steps forward slowly, eyes on mine.

And I know—

Everything changes tonight.