Page 79 of Cinderella and the Daddy
The smell hits me—sharp, chemical, wrong. It coats the back of my throat with each breath, thick enough to taste. My eyes immediately start streaming, the vapors so concentrated they burn.
Gasoline.
Not just a splash. Not just a puddle. The fumes are so thick I can see them shimmering in the air like heat waves. My skin prickles with awareness—one spark, one static discharge from these ropes, one careless cigarette, and I become a human torch.
I force myself to breathe shallowly through my mouth, but that just makes me taste it more. The nausea rises fast. Morning sickness combined with gasoline vapors. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit. If I throw up now, aspirating while tied to a chair...
My chest tightens. The baby. What are these fumes doing to the baby? I hold my breath, but that's not sustainable. I have to breathe. Have to risk poisoning us both with every inhale.
I open my eyes and try to focus. Once again, I try to wipe my eyes. My muscles ache.
Why?
Think, Cindy.
The taser. I remember the taser now, the way it turned my muscles to liquid fire and dropped me like a stone.
I try to move and immediately discover why I can’t move. I'm sitting on a hard chair. My wrists are bound behind me, the rope biting into my skin with each small movement. I shift, trying to find a more comfortable position.
It’s dark, but I can still see around me.
“What the hell is that smell?”
I know it’s gasoline, but it doesn’t make any sense.
And then it does.
I look down and see that the floor around me is wet.
They've soaked the floor with gasoline.
The realization hits me in the gut… For a moment, I can't breathe. My chest constricts with panic, making each inhalation a struggle. They mean to burn me alive. That's their endgame. That's how this story ends.
My hand instinctively moves toward my stomach or tries to. The ropes prevent the motion, but the intention is enough to send another wave of terror through me. The baby. Oh God, the baby.
I force myself to stay still, to breathe through the panic that's clawing at my throat like a living thing. I need to think. I need to assess. I need to find a way out of this nightmare that doesn't end with both of us dying in flames.
The room around me comes into focus gradually, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. It's some kind of warehouse or garage, with high ceilings and industrial fixtures casting harsh shadows. There are windows high up on the walls, but they're too far away to provide any hope of escape. Assuming I could free myself.
I can see shapes in the darkness—machinery of some kind, maybe cars or equipment draped with tarps. The smell isn't just gasoline now; I can detect motor oil and something else. Cleaning solution. The kind we use in the garage to clean engine parts.
I’m in a garage. Not the Tremaine garage, somewhere much bigger.
I pull at the rope around my wrists, but it’s no use. It’s too thick. I look around and see I’m close to a wall. There’s a bench to my left. There has to be something there I can use to free myself.
I try to scoot the chair, but my legs aren’t working.
My ankles are tied to the legs.
Once again, panic threatens to take over.
I need to center myself. I close my eyes and let my mind drift, searching for something to anchor me in this moment of absolute terror.
And I find Luka.
Not the Luka from the motel room, desperate and bleeding and fierce with protective rage. Not the Luka who kidnapped me.
I find the Luka from yesterday, when the world was simpler and the only danger was the risk of falling deeper in love than I already had.
