Chapter 97 I Want to Call the Police
"Then let her die."
The words dropped from Rufus's mouth like shards of ice. His voice was low, almost calm, but every syllable cut deep.
"And whatever experimental drugs you used on Cecilia before… every last vial that's still left… inject them into her."
The moment those words reached her ears, Cecilia felt herself plunged back into a frozen abyss. The memories came in a rush—those endless nights strapped down, the sting of needles piercing her skin, the burning flood of chemicals that hollowed her out until she was nothing but a shell. The slow, merciless march toward death. It was all here again, in vivid, suffocating detail.
Of course. This was who he was.
Rufus knew exactly what Blair had done to her, and now he was willing to mirror that cruelty, to deliver the same punishment in return. When he loved, he could lift someone high enough to touch the clouds. When he hated, he could drag them into hell without hesitation. His love and his hate were the same thing—obsession, madness, possession that smothered and destroyed.
He had never changed.
Rufus ended the call. The room sank back into a silence so heavy it seemed to press against the walls, but the violence in the air didn't fade. It clung to him, to her, to every breath between them.
He turned slowly to face her. The rage that had twisted his features moments ago was gone, replaced by something else—a mixture of exhaustion and pain, as if the weight of his own choices was finally pressing down.
"Go to bed," he said, his voice rough, scraped raw.
A pause, as if he had to force the next words through clenched teeth.
"I'll sleep in the study tonight."
He didn't look at her again. He walked out, the door closing softly behind him. No lock.
Cecilia stood there, the fruit knife trembling in her grip from the strain. She waited—seconds, minutes—until she was sure there was no sound beyond the door. Only then did her knees give way, and she slid down to the floor.
Escape.
The thought hit her like a flare in the dark, wild and consuming. She had to get out. Now.
But how?
Her eyes swept the familiar bedroom, landing on the tall glass doors that opened to the balcony. In her last life, she had jumped from the second floor, shattering her leg, only to be dragged back into his cage. Rufus was too controlling, too calculating to make the same mistake twice. This villa would be locked down tight, every possible exit sealed.
Breaking out by force was suicide.
She needed opportunity—a reason to be taken out, somewhere public, somewhere with witnesses. Somewhere she could call for help.
The hospital.
It was the only place with enough people, enough chaos, enough chance to slip away. But getting there would require something convincing… something that would make them take her out without suspecting her plan.
The answer came fast, sharp, and absolute.
She dropped the knife, rose to her feet, and walked toward the bathroom.
No hesitation. She twisted the shower knob to the coldest setting. Water burst from the nozzle in a freezing torrent. She stripped off her clothes and stepped in.
The shock was instant. The cold slammed into her like a wall, cutting through skin, muscle, bone. Her teeth began to chatter violently. Goosebumps prickled across her arms and legs, followed by a deep, aching sting.
She wrapped her arms around herself, forcing her body to stay under the relentless downpour. The cold was merciless, biting into her lungs with every breath.
She could feel her blood slowing, her limbs heavy, her thoughts sharpening into a single point.
Don't stop. This is the only way. Hurt yourself enough to be taken out, but not enough to die.
Freedom was worth the pain. Compared to what he had done to her before… this was nothing.
By morning, when the maid Flora opened the door to bring in breakfast, she froze in the doorway. Cecilia was curled on the bed, her face flushed with fever, lips cracked, drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Ms. Martinez! Ms. Martinez, what happened to you?"
Flora's voice pitched high with alarm. The tray in her hands almost slipped to the floor. She rushed to the bed, pressing a palm to Cecilia's forehead—only to yank it back instantly, startled by the scorching heat.
"Mr. Chapman! Something's wrong! Mr. Chapman!"
Her shout echoed down the hall.
Heavy footsteps thundered toward the room. Rufus appeared, his tall frame cutting through the doorway like a shadow. In three long strides, he was at her side. His hand pressed against her fevered skin.
Cecilia stirred, feeling the coolness of his touch through the haze. Her eyes cracked open, vision swimming, but she could sense him—his tension, his fear.
Perfect. Take me to the hospital. Take me now.
She screamed it silently in her mind.
But Rufus didn't scoop her up. Instead, his jaw tightened, and he turned sharply, pulling out his phone.
"Get Dr. Jordan here. Now. Bring every piece of equipment he needs."
His voice was a whip crack in the air.
The hope in her chest faltered, sinking like a stone.
A private doctor. He wasn't going to let her leave. Not even for this.
How long did he plan to keep her locked in this gilded prison?
Time blurred. Then the door opened again, and a middle-aged man carrying a medical kit hurried in.
"Mr. Chapman."
"Check her. Now," Rufus ordered, the words clipped and urgent.
Dr. Alvin Jordan moved quickly, but when his eyes landed on her face, his hands faltered. Shock flickered across his features—Amelia's face, and yet… Cecilia's.
He looked away almost immediately, under the weight of Rufus's stare, and began his examination. The stethoscope was cold against her skin; the thermometer beeped too quickly.
"High fever, rapid heart rate, congestion in the lungs," Alvin reported. "Likely acute pneumonia. She needs IV fluids and temperature control immediately."
At Rufus's nod, he began setting up the IV.
A knock rattled the doorframe. Owen's voice came from the hall, tense.
"Mr. Chapman, there are urgent documents from the company that require your signature."
Rufus shot him a look of irritation, but after a beat, he left, his gaze cutting back to Alvin in warning before he stepped out.
Opportunity.
The word burned through the fog in her mind.
Alvin found her vein, sliding the needle in with practiced precision. A faint sting bloomed in her arm. He taped it down, adjusting the drip.
Cecilia's lips cracked as she forced out a whisper.
"Dr. Jordan…"
He turned, meeting her fever-bright eyes.
"Ms. Martinez, are you in pain?"
"Please." Her voice broke, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. "Please… let me use your phone."
His hands froze over the medical kit.
"I've been kidnapped," she rasped, each word trembling. "I need to call the police."
"Please… help me."
Alvin's gaze darted to the door, then back to her. Fear and pity warred in his eyes, each fighting for control.