Page 61 of Cruel Deception
CHARLOTTE
Five days blur past, each one a quiet torment. And today was my birthday.
A date I once used to love. Until they ruined it.
This year, it only lingered in my mind because of Cassian. Because of the gift he said he had for me. Something I couldn’t stop thinking about, not because I was excited... but because I was terrified.
He hadn’t locked me up again, thank God. Though I never felt free.
I’m in the penthouse’s living room, the blush-pink walls a cruel echo of my childhood dreams, the TV off, a video game controller idle in my hands.
I’m not playing, just clutching it to anchor myself, to drown out the chaos of my life—spiders, the scars carved into my chest, and the screams of a woman I heard in that locked wing.
I’ve been sneaking there, whispering through the cell door, desperate for her voice, but silence answers.
Has Cassian moved her? Killed her? The thought chills me, but yesterday’s discovery froze me colder—a camera, tucked high in the hallway, its red eye blinking.
He’s been watching me, every step, every whisper, and said nothing.
He barely speaks to me. We just eat dinner together—silent, tense. His presence is steady, cold... but somehow, it’s startingto feel like comfort. The kind that sneaks in through the cracks, when you’ve stopped expecting warmth.
We still shared the same bed, though most nights he arrived late, sometimes not at all. On those nights, I missed the warmth. Not him. The warmth. At least, that’s what I told myself.
This morning, he returned.
He strides in, radiant in a tailored white Armani suit, his dark hair swept back, his scar stark against his tanned skin. No gift in his hands, just a black silk band dangling from his fingers. “Morning, Charlotte,” he says, his voice low, a rare warmth flickering in his blue eyes.
“Good morning,” I reply, my voice cautious, searching his empty hands. No box, no ribbon. My heart sinks, but I mask it, setting the controller down.
He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “Your birthday gift is a surprise,” he says, stepping closer, the band swaying like a pendulum. “You’ll need this.” He holds it out, his gaze unreadable but not cruel.
I hesitate, my fingers brushing the silk. He could kill me without a blindfold—could’ve done it in my sleep, or now, with those lethal hands.
But I take it, tying it over my eyes, the world going dark.
“Take it off,” he says, his tone both commanding and calm, a paradox that steadies me.
He tied it himself, slow and precise, as if savoring every second of stripping away my vision. Then his hand curled around mine—gentle, surprisingly—and he led me.
Down stairs.
Around turns.
Into somewhere warm. Not the penthouse. This was somewhere else.
“Now... look,” he said, voice low and quiet. Controlled.
I did.
And immediately recoiled.
Three men kneel before me, bound in thick ropes, their wrists and ankles bloodied from the strain, their faces swollen, bruised, lips split, eyes wild with fear.
Duct tape gags their mouths, muffling their groans, and their clothes—ripped, stained with blood and sweat—hang off them like rags.
Tattoos snake across their arms, one design searing into my brain: a coiled viper, the same ink I saw three years ago, in that club, when my world shattered.
My chest hammers, recognition crashing over me—these are the bastards who raped me, the man in the middle who forced himself on me, the other two who pinned my arms, laughing as I screamed.
