Chapter 61 The cage

Chapter 61 The cage
Bianca

Consciousness returned with the violent jolt of a nightmare ending too soon. My eyes snapped open, greeted by a throbbing pain in my neck a dull, pulsing ache where the needle had pierced me. I tried to lift a hand to the spot, but my muscles locked.
Plastic bit sharply into my skin. My hands were bound tight behind my back, heavy-duty zip-ties digging into the wrists. I kicked out instinctively, but my ankles were secured with the same ruthless efficiency. I was trussed up like livestock, lying on cold, rough concrete that smelled of damp earth.

I forced myself to sit up, scraping my shoulder against the gritty floor. The room swam in and out of focus before settling into a grim reality. It was a windowless box, likely a basement . The walls were cinderblock, painted a peeling, institutional green. The space was roughly fifteen feet square. The only furniture was a rusted metal chair in the far corner and a hulking, silent furnace in the other.

I didn't waste time screaming. The silence here was heavy, insulating; the air tasted stale, suggesting poor ventilation and deep isolation. Instead, I took stock of my physical condition. My throat was parched, my tongue thick a side effect of the sedative. I was still in my white dress shirt from the morning, now ruined with grime and Jean's . The cold from the concrete seeped through the thin fabric, making my teeth chatter.

I focused on the zip-ties. If they were cheap, the locking mechanism might be brittle. I scooted backward across the floor, aiming for the furnace. It was an old industrial model, its metal casing jagged with rust.

Reaching the furnace, I maneuvered my back against it, feeling blindly for a sharp edge. The metal was cold and unforgiving. I found a corroded flange near the base and began to saw the plastic tie against it. It was awkward, exhausting work. The rust scraped against my skin, stinging sharply, but I ignored the pain, focusing entirely on the friction.

I worked for what felt like twenty minutes, sweat prickling my forehead despite the chill. I paused to test the restraint. It held fast. The plastic was military-grade; I was doing more damage to my wrists than to the bonds.
I slumped forward, breathing hard. I needed a different plan. I scanned the floor for anything loose—a shard of glass, a nail, a rock. Nothing but dark, ominous stains that had soaked into the porous concrete long ago.

I shifted my attention to the door. It was a heavy steel fire door, solid and imposing, with no handle on the inside. A small gap at the bottom showed no light from the other side. I dragged myself toward it, inch by inch, intending to listen for any sound of life beyond the walls.
My ear pressed against the cold steel. For a long time, there was nothing. Then, a vibration.
Footsteps.
They were distant at first, echoing rhythmically on concrete, then growing louder. Distinct. Heavy boot strikes mixed with the sharp, staccato click of heels.
I scrambled backward, putting distance between myself and the entrance. I pushed myself upright against the back wall, using the cinderblocks for leverage until I was standing. My legs wobbled, still weak from the drugs, but I refused to be found lying on the floor. If I was going to die here, I would do it on my feet. Oh the baby I hope he is safe. Alesso...
The footsteps stopped directly outside. A heavy latch clattered, metal grinding against metal. The sound was deafening in the small space.
I braced myself, my heart hammering against my ribs, not with panic, but with adrenaline. The door swung outward, dragging a draft of fresh, cooler air into the stagnant room. Two figures stepped into the harsh circle of light.
The first was Marco. He wore his standard security uniform, but his posture was different relaxed, arrogant. He didn't look like a guard anymore; he looked like a jailer.
The second figure stepped past him, the clicking of her heels echoing like gunshots.
Jennifer Vitale.
She looked pristine, a jarring contrast to the filth of my prison. She wore dark, tailored trousers and a black silk blouse, her ice-blonde hair pulled back in a sponytail. She stopped three feet from me, her blue eyes scanning me from head to toe. There was no shock in her expression, only a clinical assessment.
"She’s awake," Marco said. His voice was flat, bored. He closed the door behind them, the heavy thud sealing us in.
Jennifer didn't look at him. She took another step toward me, invading my personal space. The scent of expensive, floral perfume washed over me, cloying and sickening in the damp air.
"Bianca Morena," she said, testing the name like a bad taste in her mouth. She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness. "You look terrible."