Page 14 of The Last Hope

I struggled to my feet, my legs shaking, trying to reach the bathroom. I had to lock myself in. I had to get to safety.

I grabbed the handle, crying so hard that my lack of oxygen made my head spin. I pushed the door open, but before I could step inside, he yanked me back by the hair and threw me to the floor.

I cried out, curling my injured hand against me. The sound of heels clicking against the cold marble floor made me lift my head.

I met the icy gaze of Alia, standing over me in her designer heels. She sighed and turned to her cousin, who was pacing a few steps away like a caged animal.

“Seriously, Antonio, how are we supposed to cover this up now ?” she asked in an exasperated voice.

I closed my eyes, sobbing at the humiliating words. She talked about me as if I were just a broken doll that needed to be patched up and repainted.

How could a woman ignore the suffering of another woman? How was that possible?

“She deserved it ! She deserved it ! She deserved it !” he repeated over and over, pacing like a madman.

“Enough, Antonio ! The guests are looking for you. We need to go,” Alia said in her soft voice as she walked away.

He was going to leave. He was going to leave me alone—at least for a few hours.

But my relief was short-lived when I heard him striding toward me. He wrapped his fingers in my hair, lifting my face from the floor to his level.

“We’ll finish what we started when I return, Cara mia. If you want a second child so badly, then you’ll have one,” he whispered, smiling, his pupils blown wide.

He released me roughly, my cheek slamming against the marble and I whimpered. My fingers throbbed so much I could barely breathe, barely think.

The front door slammed shut behind them, and I heard them talking outside. I already knew there was a guard stationed by the door.

I pushed myself up, gasping from the pain, biting my lip so hard I forgot it was already split. I whimpered again, leaning against the bed, taking slow breaths to steady myself.

I had to get up.

I had to immobilize my fingers.

I had to clean myself up.

I had to see my baby—he must be terrified.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything.

Eight years was a long time. A very long time.

I rested my head against the mattress, closing my eyes, humming the lullaby I sang to Rafael every night.

Tears rolled down my temples, dampening the silk sheets.

I rocked myself gently, clutching my injured hand to my chest, praying.

Praying for help—any help.

Praying for someone to get my son out of here.

Nothing more. Please.

I woke with a start when someone touched my broken fingers. I screamed, my eyes meeting light green ones, paler than my own.

“Sienna ?”

The young woman—my little sister—sniffled, wiping her tears, nodding as she stroked my hair.

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