Page 40 of Twisted Addiction
His hand on my waist stilled. The warmth of his body retreated an inch, then another, as if I’d just thrown cold water over the moment.
He exhaled once, slow and heavy, before sitting up. The mattress dipped, then creaked as his weight shifted away from me.
“Good night, Penelope,” he said—quiet, but edged with ice.
A door clicked softly behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
My chest caved, a hollow ache blooming where his warmth had been.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted him to stay—not to touch me, not even to speak—just to be there. His presence had quieted the noise in my head, if only for a moment.
But the second I mentioned Giovanni, something in him shifted, and now the room felt colder, emptier, like I’d just driven him away for good.
I hated that his absence hurt. Hated that I’d grown used to measuring my peace by his nearness. To him, I was a possession—kept, watched, sometimes wanted. Never loved.
The tiny flicker of hope I’d been guarding—the childish dream that maybe, beneath all the anger, the boy who once loved me still existed—snuffed out completely.
All that was left was the silence, and the truth I kept refusing to face: his hatred wasn’t a phase. It was forever.
I sat up, the darkness pressing in, my thoughts circling like vultures.
The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, alive, breathing down my neck. Minutes bled into hours, the ache in my chest spreading until it felt like my whole body was made of pain.
My back throbbed from sitting too long, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t dare.
Eventually, I lay down, praying exhaustion would take mercy on me. But the moment my eyes closed, the nightmare found me again —only this time, it was different.
The room reeked of antiseptic and despair.
White walls. White sheets. White light so bright it burned my eyes.
Somewhere, metal clattered—cold instruments being arranged on a tray. A woman in a surgical mask leaned over me, her eyes flat, indifferent. “We’ll begin now,” she said, her voice muffled and hollow, as if she were speaking underwater.
I tried to move, but my wrists were strapped down. Panic clawed up my throat. “No—wait—please don’t—”
No one listened.
Through the haze, I saw him standing in the corner. Dmitri. His face was unreadable, shadowed. But when I called his name, he didn’t move. He just watched.
The doctor’s hand pressed against my stomach, cold and clinical. A machine hummed to life. My scream broke from me before the pain even started—a raw, animal sound that tore the air apart.
Blood. There was blood everywhere—hot, red, endless.
And through it all, I heard a heartbeat fade... and then vanish.
“No,” I sobbed, thrashing against the straps. “Please, not my baby—please—”
The doctor’s face shifted suddenly. It wasn’t her anymore—it was my father. His smirk, cruel and knowing. “It’s over.”
Then Dmitri turned his back.
He walked away.
And as the room filled with silence, the heart monitor flatlined—a single, endless tone that shattered something inside me.
My body jolted upright, drenched in sweat, a strangled sound clawing its way out of my throat. I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, trying to calm my heart, but it only beat faster, as if it too wanted to escape.
It felt too real. Too vivid. Was that a dream—or a warning? Is that what tomorrow will be?
