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Scarlett

I stare at her, wide-eyed, my mind racing to connect the dots that have led to this surreal moment. My mouth opens and closes, but words fail me, treacherously sticking to the roof of my mouth as if they too are afraid of what speaking them could bring.

Marina's lips curve into a smirk, cold and knowing. Her eyes hold mine, a spark of triumph—or is it malice?—flickering in their depths. The silence stretches between us, loaded with unspoken accusations and the heavy weight of betrayal.

The room feels like it's closing in on me as Marina strides closer, the click of her heels against the concrete floor echoing like a metronome counting down my last moments of innocence. Her involvement is a betrayal that stings sharper than any wound, a jagged tear through the fabric of our shared history.

Why? The question pulses through my mind with the ache of a fresh bruise. Marina, my confidante, the one who knew every secret crevice of my life—we survived university together, weathered storms of uncertainty, and clung to each other when life tried to sweep us away. I close my eyes for a heartbeat, remembering how she has helped me land that stripping gig when desperation clawed at my door. I’ve always thought her to be my best friend.

"Marina," I whisper, the name tasting like a betrayal on my tongue. It's a plea, a prayer for this to be some grotesque misunderstanding. My voice trembles as I force my gaze back to hers, searching for a flicker of the girl I thought I knew. "Why?"

She meets my stare with a cool detachment that sends shivers skating across my skin. There's no flinch of remorse, no quiver in her posture to suggest any semblance of the warmth we once shared. Instead, she brushes off my agony with the ease of someone swatting away an insignificant fly.

"Scarlett," she says, her voice holding none of the comfort it used to offer in our late-night heart-to-hearts. She moves toward me with deliberate steps, her hips swaying rhythmically, a serpent charmer ready to strike. Every inch she closes between us tightens the knot of dread in my stomach.

I brace myself for her words, for whatever revelation might spill from those lips that have twisted into something cruel and foreign. Marina holds my gaze, unwavering, and begins to speak.

"Viktor's father," she begins, her voice slicing through the thick tension, "he had my mother for twelve years. Twelve years as nothing more than a kept woman." There's a venom in Marina's words that makes me flinch. The air between us is charged with her resentment, and I can almost see the bitterness emanating from her like heat from the sun-scorched pavement.

I try to reconcile this revelation with the Marina I knew—the one who laughed too loud and hugged too tight. The contrast is stark and chilling. "He never married her," she continues, and there is a furious glint in her eyes, "never gave her, or me, the dignity we deserved."

The room seems to close in around me as she speaks, each word heavy with the weight of shattered dreams. "I was just a child, Scarlett. Twelve when Igor Makarov waltzed into our lives." Marina's hands ball into fists at her sides, and I'm struck by the image of a little girl wrapped up in fantasies of grandeur. "I thought he would make her his wife, make me his princess."

My heart aches for her, for the innocence lost, but I'm frozen in place, my predicament momentarily forgotten. Marina's face twists, the corners of her mouth turning down, her eyes darkening as if clouds are passing over them. "But dreams," she spits out the word as if it tastes foul, "are for the naive."

Watching her now, it's clear that any semblance of that hopeful child has been devoured by the woman standing in front of me—a woman forged by disappointment and anger, a woman who sees me not as a friend, but as an embodiment of everything she's been denied. And I realize, with a sinking feeling, that there's no going back to who we once were.

Marina paces before me, her heels clicking on the concrete floor like a metronome counting down to an inevitable end. Her voice rises and falls with the cadence of one reciting a well-rehearsed story that’s carved deep grooves in her being.

"His daughters' luxurious lifestyles," she sneers, her lips curling. "Every time I entered their mansion, it was like stepping into a fairy tale—one where I was the overlooked Cinderella, and his daughters the queens." Marina pauses, a sarcastic laugh bubbling up. "I used to imagine myself draped in silks instead of cotton, diamonds instead of glass. I believed I deserved that life, Scarlett."

She stops pacing and turns, her gaze piercing through me. The memory seems to hover around her, a ghostly shroud whispering of what could have been. "My mother wore love like a blindfold, thinking it would turn into a crown. And I, foolishly, waited with her."

I watch her swallow hard as if pushing down the bile of her disillusionment. "But when nothing came of it, I asked my mother about it. I dared to question our future, our supposed ascent to royalty."

Her hands clench at her sides. "She just hushed me, as if my words were dangerous secrets. As if my ambition was something to be ashamed of."

The room grows colder with each revelation, and I find myself shivering, not from the temperature but from the chill of betrayal that seeps from Marina's every word.

"Next thing I knew, I was shipped off across the world, to a boarding school in the States." She laughs again, but there's no humor in it—just a sharp edge that cuts through the air. "The holidays became a farce. My mother would take me on trips, distracting me with travels, keeping me away from the Makarovs as if I was lesser than them."

Marina looks away, staring at a point beyond the walls of this dreary place. "Eventually, I stopped going back. What was there to go back to? A shadow of a family? A love that existed only in our heads?"

Her story hangs between us, a tapestry of pain and abandonment, woven with threads of bitterness and loss. I can't help but feel the echoes of that little girl's longing, even as the woman before me stands shrouded in resentment.

"America became my refuge and my prison," Marina whispers, almost to herself. "A land of opportunity where I was free to forget and condemned to remember."

And in her tone, I hear the finality of a door closed long ago, the resignation of dreams turned to dust. Marina has revealed more than just her past; she has borne the roots of her anger, and in them, I see the twisted reflection of my fears.

Marina's voice seethes with venom, a black river of loathing that chokes the air around us. "The Makarovs," she hisses, "they took everything. My mother's love, her life, my childhood dreams—all casualties of Igor's selfish desires. He could've made her his wife, given me the legitimacy and status I deserved as his daughter. Instead, he rejected me, and I watched his daughters live like monarchs."

A cold silence settles over the room after Marina's outburst. Her chest heaves, each breath a testament to the depth of her hatred. The revelation stuns me; it paints every memory of our shared past in a stark, new light.

I find my voice, though it trembles like a leaf in a storm. "But what has all this got to do with me? Why make me suffer for a history that has nothing to do with me?" My question hangs between us, a plea for some semblance of reason within this madness.

Her eyes, once warm with shared secrets, now glint with the sharpness of shattered glass. There’s no empathy there, no shred of our former bond. It’s as if she sees right through me, as though I am just another pawn in a game too complex for me to comprehend.

"Your connection to them," she says slowly, deliberately, "makes you part of this, whether you chose it or not."

Marina's shoulders rise and fall nonchalantly in a shrug that chills me to the bone. Her indifference is a slap, more painful than any physical blow could be. Words once spoken in confidence between us now turn into daggers as she twists them into something vile and accusatory.

"By getting involved with Viktor Makarov," she says, her voice dripping with disdain, "you roped yourself into this mess. Not only are you spreading your legs for him but you are also carrying his bastard."

Her words hit like a punch in the gut, leaving me breathless. The accusation stings, the venom in her tone seeping into my skin, branding me with a shame I don't deserve. My hands instinctively move to my abdomen, protecting the innocent life growing there from her scorn.

With a cruel twist of her lips, Marina turns her back on me. She dismisses me as if I'm nothing—no, less than nothing. "You made the choices that led you here. Not me," she tosses over her shoulder.

My mind races, trying to find a flaw in her logic, a way to deny her accusations. But the truth weighs heavily on me; my choices and actions have entangled me in a web far more dangerous than I'd ever imagined. As Marina walks away, each step echoes in the hollow space she leaves behind. I'm left alone, grappling with the reality that I've stepped into a game of shadows, where even the closest allies can become the most ruthless enemies.

The cold, damp air clings to my skin as I struggle to find my voice, a voice that once laughed and confided in the woman before me. "But I thought we were friends," I manage to whisper, each word laced with pain so acute it feels as if my heart is being shredded from within.

Marina halts mid-step, her silhouette outlined by the dim light filtering through the musty warehouse. The pause is brief, almost imperceptible, yet it holds the weight of a final judgment. She doesn’t turn around; she doesn’t need to. Her next words are delivered with the precision of a knife sliding effortlessly through tender flesh.

"I do not do friendship, Scarlett." The chill in her voice is colder than the air biting at my cheeks. "You were someone I knew for a certain period of my life, and I wouldn't cry because you are no longer in it. No one is going to stand in my way."

Her words hang between us, suspended in the space where warmth and affection once resided. Each syllable is a nail sealing the coffin of our shared past, entombing any illusion of camaraderie I might have cherished. Marina's indifference cuts deeper than betrayal—it erases the bond I thought unbreakable, rendering it as inconsequential as dust scattered by the wind.

With the echo of her dismissal still haunting the air, I watch the figure who embodies my deepest regret move further away from me, leaving only shadows in her wake.

Vovka watches Marina as she sashays away, his eyes glittering with mad admiration. His lips curve into a smirk, and when he speaks, his voice drips with lust—and something far darker.

“Her coldness sets me on fire,” he murmurs, almost to himself. The words hang in the air like smoke from a lit match.

I shudder, my stomach twisting at the thought of these two callous people together. How did they even find each other? Vovka, with his reptilian disdain for anyone weaker than himself, and Marina, who hides her venom behind a mask of calculated charm. There isn’t a drop of empathy between them. Together, they’re a storm of destruction, capable of anything. My hand instinctively drifts to my bump, seeking reassurance for the life growing within me.

Vovka’s gaze snaps to me, and his eyes narrow as they travel down t belly. His expression twists into one of disgust.

“See you on the other side,” he says, turning on his heel without another glance.

The other side of where? Panic prickles at the edges of my mind. Are they taking me to another state? Shipping me off to Russia? I don’t have long to speculate because Vovka calls over a burly man, his voice sharp and cold.

“Bundle her into the cargo ship tonight and toss her out in the middle of the sea.” He speaks as if I’m not even here, as if my life and the life of my unborn child are nothing more than disposable inconveniences.

“No! Please, don’t do this!” The words burst out of me, desperate and raw. My voice cracks as I call after his retreating figure, but Vovka doesn’t even pause. He’s already halfway across the warehouse, his hands shoved casually into his pockets.

The burly man steps forward, grabs my arm roughly, and drags me back to the stinking cubicle they’ve been keeping me in. The smell of mildew and sweat clings to the walls, and the flickering fluorescent light overhead feels like a cruel mockery of hope. I’m shoved inside, and the door slams shut behind me with a metallic clang that echoes like a death knell.

I sink onto the filthy mattress, too numb to cry. Vovka’s words loop in my mind like a nightmare on repeat. Toss her out in the middle of the sea. I press my hands protectively over my belly and begin to pray, whispering fervent words to a God I’m not even sure is listening.

“Please, Viktor,” I whisper. “Please find me before it’s too late.”

Marina's betrayal plays in my head like a broken record, her icy words echoing in the hollows of my skull. How could she? The woman I thought I knew, who I'd laughed with, confided in—she's part of the Russian Mafia, an underworld that's as foreign to me as peace is now. And Marina doesn't just belong to it; she thrives in it, willing to climb over anyone to reach the top. Even me. Even her flesh and blood. Not once did I imagine that my life, and the lives within me, would mean so little to her.

The revelation burns, acid and bile rising in my throat as I force myself to confront the reality of Marina's words. She spoke of my demise with such nonchalance, as if discussing the weather or the price of bread. But the cost of her ambition is written in blood, and she's signed the check with my name. With our names—mine and my unborn babies.

The hours crawl by, each second heavier than the last. My fear feels like a hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing tighter with every passing moment. As evening approaches, my hope begins to fade. Maybe Viktor won’t come. Maybe he can’t.

I try to distract myself with memories of my childhood—my mother’s laugh, the warmth of our home—but the thoughts only make me sadder. I’ll never get to be a mother, and my children will never have memories of their own.

I think of Viktor and the love I’d only just begun to feel for him. I wonder if he would’ve loved me as much as I loved him. Would we have been good parents together? Or would his world—this world—have torn us apart anyway? The questions pile up until my mind is a tangled mess, and I eventually fall into a restless slumber.

The sound of the door creaking open jolts me awake. A burly man stands in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light. He steps in and hauls me to my feet with a bruising grip.

“Put this on,” he growls, throwing a bundle of clothes at me. His tone is sharp as if I’m a waste of his time.

I clutch the clothes to my chest, hesitating. “I need some privacy,” I say, my voice trembling but firm.

He snorts, leaning against the doorframe with a leer. “No, you don’t.” Then his hand snaps out, backhanding me so hard I crash into the thin wall. My cheek throbs as I struggle to stay upright.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his smile full of tobacco-stained teeth. “Until it’s time to go swimming with the fishes.”

Everything in me revolts, but I force myself to stay calm. Fighting him would be futile, especially in my condition. I grit my teeth and strip off the maxi dress I was kidnapped in. His whistle pierces the air as I stand in my underwear, and I hurriedly pull on the black jeans and top he’s given me. The clothes cling to me uncomfortably, and their dark color feels like mourning attire—as if I’m already dead.

“Move,” he barks, shoving me toward the door. He leads me outside to a waiting group of three men. The air is cool, but it does nothing to soothe the burning fear coursing through me.

The three men close ranks around me, sandwiching me between them. Together, they march me toward a massive cargo ship looming in the distance. My heart pounds as the shadows of the night stretch long and foreboding, swallowing us whole.

“Let’s go,” one of them says, his voice flat. They march me forward, their footsteps echoing against the concrete. The towering silhouette of the cargo ship looms ahead, its lights casting an eerie glow over the dock.

My heart sinks as we approach the gangplank. Each step feels like a nail in my coffin. There is no shred of hope left for me to hang unto: Viktor is not coming for us.