Chapter 69

**Heizel’s POV**

I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been here, the endless darkness swallowing my sense of time until the days blur together in a haze of exhaustion, pain, and desperation. There are no windows, no way to track the passage of time, just the steady, suffocating weight of captivity pressing down on me with every breath I take. Occasionally, they bring food, though calling it that feels generous—it’s nothing more than scraps, stale pieces of bread or something cold and barely edible, tossed onto the filthy floor as if I were an animal. At first, I refused to eat, too proud, too defiant, but hunger is an unforgiving enemy, gnawing at my insides until my pride became meaningless. I force myself to swallow, knowing that every bite, every ounce of strength I can maintain, might be the difference between surviving and fading into nothing.

I should be grateful for the countless meals Matthew and Taylor insisted I eat before I was taken, for every time they made me sit down and have something despite my protests. Maybe, just maybe, that extra bit of nourishment will keep me alive a little longer.

Matthew.

His name lingers in my mind like a whispered prayer, both a comfort and a cruel reminder of everything I might never see again. His face, his voice, the way his hand felt against mine, warm, steady, safe—I cling to those memories like a lifeline, but with every passing moment, the fear creeps in deeper, whispering doubts, suffocating hope. I want to believe he’s looking for me, that he won’t stop until he finds me, but what if this time, I’ve made it impossible? What if this time, I’ve truly lost everything?

This is my fault. I know it is. If I had just been smarter, more careful, if I had listened to Matthew when he tried to protect me instead of stubbornly insisting I could handle things on my own, I wouldn’t be here now, bound, bruised, trapped in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I always had to do things my way, always had to push back, and now, I’m paying the price for that defiance. Maybe if I had just been what my parents wanted me to be, the obedient daughter, the quiet, passive girl they tried to mold me into, none of this would have happened.

Maybe if I had never left.

Maybe if I had never fought back.

Maybe if I had just accepted the life I was given, I wouldn’t be *here.*

A cold, sharp sound slices through the silence, pulling me abruptly from my spiraling thoughts. My body tenses on instinct, every muscle coiling as the heavy metal door groans open, hinges protesting loudly in the stillness. For a moment, I’m blinded by the harsh flood of light spilling into the room, my eyes instinctively squeezing shut against the sudden brightness. My pulse pounds in my ears, hammering an erratic, frantic rhythm against my ribs.

This is it.

Whatever they have planned, whatever sick game they intend to play, it’s happening now.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps echoes against the concrete, each step measured, purposeful, dragging out the moment just to let the fear sink in deeper. I force myself to look up, squinting against the glare, and the shape of a man slowly comes into focus, his presence filling the small room with an oppressive weight. He stands there, watching me, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as he takes another step forward, *his gaze crawling over me like something invasive, something vile.*

“Hey, beauty,” he drawls, his voice thick with amusement, as if this is all just entertainment to him, a twisted joke at my expense. The way he speaks, the way he looks at me, makes my skin crawl, a wave of revulsion rolling through me so violently that I have to fight the urge to recoil.

He moves closer, and before I can react, his hand shoots out, his fingers closing around my bound wrists with a force that sends pain radiating up my arms. I bite back a gasp, but the pressure is unbearable, the rough rope digging deeper into already raw, chafed skin. Without warning, he yanks me forward, the abrupt movement wrenching my sore muscles, and I stumble, my legs barely holding me upright after days of confinement.

The world tilts dangerously, my vision momentarily blurring from the throbbing ache in my skull, a lingering reminder of the blows I’ve already endured. My feet, bare against the freezing cement floor, slip slightly as I try to regain balance, my body weak, unsteady, betraying me.

“Let go of me,” I snap, my voice hoarse, rough from disuse, but still carrying as much defiance as I can summon.

He only chuckles, a dark, amused sound that sends a fresh chill down my spine, and his grip tightens just enough to make me wince. “Still got some fight in you, huh?” he muses, dragging me forward without effort, like I weigh nothing.

I struggle, twisting, pulling against him, but he barely reacts, barely acknowledges my resistance, as if it’s nothing more than an annoyance, a minor inconvenience. The yellow dress I’m wearing—a garment that once *made me feel beautiful, confident, aliv*e—now feels like a cruel joke, a mocking contrast against the filth, the fear, the cold reality of where I am.

Then I see it.

The room.

Bigger, with harsh overhead lights, a stark, empty space save for the single object that dominates it—a camera, positioned on a tripod, waiting, expectant.

I feel the *dread* before the full realization even settles in.

I know what this is.

I know why I’m here.

“No,” I whisper, barely aware I’ve spoken.

But it doesn’t matter.

He drags me closer, unfazed by my growing panic, and the moment my body crosses the threshold into that room, it’s as if something inside me breaks wide open.

“No, please!” I scream, thrashing wildly now, the raw, desperate terror making my movements more erratic, more frenzied, but his grip remains unyielding, his strength overpowering mine with ease.

“Stop squirming,” he growls, annoyed now, yanking me toward the center of the room.

The camera stands before me like an executioner, silent, patient.

I twist again, using everything I have left, kicking, clawing, but my strength is nothing against him, and when he pulls harder, I stumble, my knees nearly giving out beneath me.

I won’t let this happen.

With one final burst of energy, I slam my elbow backward, catching him in the stomach, feeling the satisfying impact of bone against muscle as he lets out a surprised grunt. His grip loosens for a split second, and I lurch forward, twisting, desperate to break free—

But I don’t get far.

He recovers too quickly, grabs me again, shoving me back, my body colliding with the wall so hard my breath whooshes out of my lungs, leaving me momentarily dazed.

A rough hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze upward, and I meet his eyes, his lips curling into something vile, taunting, triumphant.

“Smile for the camera.”

I refuse to cry.

I refuse to give them the satisfaction.

I think of Matthew. I think of his warmth, his strength, the way he’d never stop fighting for me.

And I know, even as the fear claws its way through my chest, that if I don’t make it out of here, if this is how my story ends—

I want him to remember me fighting.

I want him to know *I never stopped trying.*

Even if this is my last stand.