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Hollow Shell Of The Girl I Once Was

Hypothetical Question: What’s the most satisfying way to make someone feel like they’ve lost everything before you take them out? I’m talking full emotional destruction, then leaving them broken before finally ending it.

Carina

"Naomi!"

Lucian's voice slices through the house like a blade, sharp and demanding. The kind of voice that promises consequences.

My stomach knots, but I force myself to move. Hesitation is weakness, and weakness is punished. The polished wood beneath my heel’s creaks with each step down the grand staircase, my descent slow and deliberate. I am not defiant or submissive; I am just controlled.

His home is much like my fathers, exuberant and obnoxious. A distasteful beige covers the walls, adorned with portraits—likely of previous Moretti men.

Lucian waits at the bottom, encased in his usual black suit, pristine and powerful. The suit isn't clothing—it's armour, a declaration of dominance. His gaze sweeps over me, dissecting every inch, hunting for flaws. When he gives a single curt nod, approval flickers across his features.

Like I should be grateful.

"Follow."

He turns without waiting.

The sleek black car outside makes my pulse stutter. My father sits in the backseat, his face impassive as ever.

A whisper of hope dares to bloom.

Out. They're letting me out.

It makes sense now, why Lucian has kept his abuse to areas that can be easily covered by my clothes. He stopped hitting my face two weeks ago so now it’s no longer covered in bruising and red marks from his hand slapping my cheek.

The idea of escape whispers through me, hope curls in my stomach. My pulse quickens, and I feel the faintest curl of a smile try to take shape.

The ride is silent, thick with unspoken threats. Lucian's presence is oppressive, a storm cloud beside me. My father stares out the window, his indifference grating against my skin.

When the car slows, and I see the crowd—cameras flashing, reporters shouting—the bloom of hope withers.

"What is this?" I ask, my voice sharp, cutting through the chaos outside.

My father's cold smile turns my stomach. "We're announcing your engagement."

The air leaves my lungs.

"What engagement?" I snap, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Lucian's hand clamps onto my thigh. Not hard. Not painful. Just a warning.

"You will not embarrass me today," he murmurs, his voice silk-smooth but edged with steel.

The rage is instant, searing. I could scream. I could claw his hand off my body. Instead, I press my nails into my palms, holding the fury in.

"And if I do?" I whisper, my voice razor thin.

My father doesn't flinch. Instead, he pulls out his phone, tilting the screen toward me. A folder labelled Nate.

My veins turn to ice.

"What's that?" I reach for it, but he pulls it back with smug satisfaction.

"That," he says smoothly, "is my assurance that you won't step out of line. Photos. Videos. Evidence that would put your little boyfriend in prison for a very, very long time."

My body locks up. My pulse roars in my ears.

"You wouldn't," I whisper, but the certainty in his gaze tells me otherwise.

"Try me."

I want to tear his smirk off his face. But Nate's safety is heavier than my rage.

Lucian doesn't give me time to think. His grip tightens on my back—a possessive, suffocating reminder of his control—and then, we're stepping into the blinding lights.

Words like kidnapped, reunited, and whirlwind romance claw at my ears. The crowd believes the lies. I smile when I should, nod when required, but inside, I am screaming.

I could speak. One word and the world would know the truth.

But then I see it—the folder. The ghost of it, burning behind my eyelids. Nate. His life is in their hands.

My lips stay shut.

Then the police are asking me questions.

“Where have you been for the past sixteen years?” they ask.

Sixteen years.

I’m twenty-nine now.

Another thing robbed from me.

My birthday.

I don’t know exactly when it was. But I know I’ve been held long enough to have missed it. I missed Christmas too.

Fury tries to coil around my gut, but I force it down. Now isn’t the time.

I try to explain the best I can, keeping things vague. I don’t tell them the truth. This is a test. My father wanting to see if I’ll crack. This is why he has his insurance policy. He knows I’ll never do anything that could harm Nate.

It’s not as if I could tell the truth, anyway. If they knew who had bought me, all the men that owned my body, then that would lead to more questions. Questions I can’t answer.

So, I make it sound like it was one man. That I never saw his face.

I tell them that I changed my name after I escaped. That I’ve been living in London for the past few months.

I didn’t go to the police because I was scared.

When it's over, the ride back is suffocating. My father leaves first, and his absence brings no relief. The moment Lucian's house swallows me again, I know.

I am not free. I was never free.

"You did well today," Lucian says suddenly, his tone softer than I expect.

The words take me off guard, and I glance at him, searching for the trap.

"Thank you," I mutter, the words foreign on my tongue.

He steps closer, the air shifting as his presence looms. His hand brushes my hip, sliding lower, and I stiffen. The touch is deliberate, possessive.

"You're learning," he murmurs, his voice dark, almost pleased.

I try to step back, but his grip tightens, holding me in place. His other hand moves upward, cupping my breast, his fingers squeezing hard enough to make me flinch.

"Soon, you'll be my wife," he says, his lips ghosting over my ear. "And then, you'll be mine entirely."

His hand trails down, fingers slipping beneath the lace of my lingerie. I freeze, panic clawing at my throat as he explores me with calculated precision.

My body betrays me. I can't stop the involuntary response, the heat building where I don't want it. He notices, of course. His chuckle is low and triumphant, his fingers moving faster, pushing me toward a release I don't want to give him.

I want to die.

When it happens, I bite back the broken sound that escapes my lips, hating myself more than I have ever hated him.

He steps back, triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Good girl," he says, his tone condescending. "Now go to your room."

I don't look at him as I turn and walk away, my legs unsteady beneath me.

My skin crawls, the phantom weight of his touch lingering long after he's gone.

Upstairs, I collapse onto the bed, my body trembling with a cocktail of rage, shame, and helplessness.

I am strong.

I remind myself of that with every breath.

But tonight, I feel like a hollow shell of the girl I once was, each piece of me chipped away by their cruelty.