Page 126 of The Colour of Revenge

Now, I wait. Again.

But the silence—it's different this time. It's heavier like it's waiting for something.

I pace, the room shrinking with every step. My fingers trail along the cot's metal frame, the only thing in here besides a bolted-down chair. I touch it to feel something real. The light overhead flickers, casting shifting shadows that crawl along the walls.

I clench my fists, pressing my nails into my palms until the pain centres me. I can't let this place get inside my head. I won't let him win.

But then Nate’s face drifts into my mind, unbidden. His smile. His warmth. The way his arms wrapped around me that last time, holding me like I was something precious.

The memory hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes it worse. His scent is still there, buried somewhere deep in my mind. The ache in my chest spreads, sharp and relentless. I press a hand to my ribs, as if I could hold myself together, keep the pieces from falling apart.

Focus. Breathe.

I force myself to count my breaths, each one shaky but deliberate. I survived before. I’ll survive this. I have to.

But there’s a voice in the back of my mind, creeping in like the shadows that dance across the walls. Quiet. Insistent.

This is different.

It’s not just about surviving anymore. It’s about what I’ve felt—what I’ve had. True happiness. True love. Nate’s arms around me, his voice cutting through the chaos, grounding me. That feeling of safety, of belonging—it’s a light I can’t unsee. And now, trapped in this cold, sterile cage, it feels impossibly far away, a cruel dream just out of reach.

Footsteps echo outside the door. My body trembles involuntarily, and I curse myself for it.

The heavy metal groans as it swings open, revealing my father. He fills the doorway, his presence suffocating. Behind him, Martha—the housekeeper—hovers awkwardly, eyes downcast.

“It’s time to fix your appearance,” he states, striding toward me.

I don’t flinch, no matter how much I want to. Instead, I lift my chin in defiance and refuse to speak.

His hand shoots out, gripping my hair, dragging me toward the chair in the centre of the room. I fight back, lashing out and raking my nails across his face. He snarls, catching my wrists, yanking them behind me, and binding them to the chair.

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

He merely shakes his head. As he turns away, he tosses Martha a bag, barely sparing me a glance of disgust before disappearing through the door.

Martha shuffles closer, pulling out a box of—

No.

Fuck no.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper, my voice cracking with raw vulnerability.

She says nothing. Instead, she grips my head tightly and begins dyeing my hair.

I thrash, trying to twist free, but she’s stronger than she looks. Each strand coated in dark dye splinters something inside me. They’re erasing me. Stripping Carina Rossetti from existence.

When she’s done, she leaves without a word. Only then do I let the tears fall, silent sobs shaking my body. I feel like I’m mourning a loss.

At some point, exhaustion pulls me under.

Until a sharp, icy shock yanks me back.

Water crashes over me, seeping through my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

“What the fu—” Another bucket douses me before I can finish. I sputter, gasping, blinking against the cold.