Page 125 of The Colour of Revenge
I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms. My body is still too weak to fight, but my mind isn’t.
“So, this is all a business transaction to you?” My voice is dangerously calm now.
He watches me, assessing, his amusement flickering into something sharper.
“You never saw me as your daughter. Just a commodity to be sold. To be used.”
For the first time, something flickers in his gaze. Annoyance? A ghost of regret? But it’s gone before I can grasp it.
His mask slams back into place. Cold. Impenetrable.
“You’re overreacting, Naomi.” The false patience in his voice grates against my skin like barbed wire. “This isn’t personal. It’s just business.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
Not personal.
If it were, maybe he would’ve cared.
But to him, I was never a daughter. Just inventory.
He pushes off the bedpost, turning toward the door. Done with me.
But I’m not done.
I force myself upright, swallowing back the agony that claws at me. He thinks he’s already won.
Let him.
Because the moment I get the chance—I will rip his world apart.
31
I Will Survive This
Hypothetical Question: If you could inject someone with an emotion instead of poison, what would you pick? I’m thinking crippling regret for a fun change
Carina
Thecoldseepsintomy skin as I stare at the ceiling in the room—the same sterile, lifeless box I woke up in. The sharp tang of bleach lingers in the air, clinging to everything, as if it could erase the misery etched into these walls.
It can't.
Nothing can.
My bare feet scrape against the rough concrete floor, the faint sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. It's been a week. Maybe more. Time moves differently here, stretched thin by the monotony of waiting. The days blur, melting into each other, bleeding into an endless cycle of nothing.
I’ve been dragged down here twice since my father hauled me upstairs.
The first time—I almost made it.
I can still feel the night air in my lungs, the sharp burn of adrenaline pumping through my veins as I ran, the gravel biting into my feet. The taste of freedom was there, right there—until iron hands snatched me back, yanking me to the ground like I was nothing. The bruises have faded now—purple to sickly yellow—but the humiliation clings to me like a second skin.
The second time, I didn't even fight.
I couldn't stomach the way he looked at me. The guest at dinner. His eyes lingered too long, and he spoke about me like I wasn't even in the room. Like I was a thing to be acquired. My father's voice had been cold, calculated. "Play nice." And when I didn't?
Back to the cage.
