Olivia POV

Numbness wasn’t just a lack of feeling. It was a physical weight, a heavy, suffocating blanket that smelled of dust and stale, recycled air.

I was holed up in a small, forgotten cabin—a temporary safe house my father had arranged before the final move. It was quiet here. Too quiet. The silence didn't soothe me; it only amplified the screaming inside my head.

Day after day, I didn't live. I merely existed.

I woke up. I drank black coffee that tasted like ash against my tongue. I stared at the unpainted walls until my vision blurred. I hadn't eaten a real meal in days, my body running on adrenaline and grief. The physical pain of the Ice Cellar had faded from my skin, but the cold had burrowed deeper, settling into my marrow.

My father, David, sent terse updates through a burner phone.

*They stopped searching the perimeter. Keep your head down. You leave for the ranch in two days.*

Two days.

Two days until this life—the life of Olivia Hayes, the mafia princess—would be dead and buried.

But the calendar on the wall mocked me. It was today. The date of the Family Gala. The anniversary of the first time Marcus had ever smiled at me.

My stomach twisted violently—a phantom ache of longing I despised.

I needed to move. I needed to purge.

I scrambled up and started cleaning, moving with a frantic, manic energy. I grabbed a cardboard box and began hurling things inside. The silk scarf I’d bought in Milan. The perfume Marcus once said smelled “tolerable.”

I was scrubbing my soul clean with bleach and resentment.

Then, I found it.

It had rolled under the baseboard near the fireplace, glinting in the shadows. A silver pendant. *O.H.*

My initials.

Marcus had given it to me for my sixteenth birthday. There had been no velvet box, no ribbon, no ceremony. He hadn't even looked up from his desk.

He had just tossed it onto my lap while reading a dossier, as if he were flicking away a fly.

*Here. Don't lose it.*

I sank to the floor, the cold wood biting into my bare legs. I clutched the silver against my palm. It grew warm against my skin. Too warm.

It didn't feel like a gift. It felt like a shackle.

“I have to burn it,” I whispered, the words scratching my throat.

I forced myself to walk to the fireplace. The flames licked at the iron grate, hungry and orange, offering the only warmth in this godforsaken purgatory.

I held the pendant over the fire. My hand trembled, betraying me. This was it. The last link to him.

“You are free,” I told the fire, my voice breaking. “And I am free.”

I dropped it.

The silver clinked against the metal grate, a tiny death knell, before vanishing into the red heart of the coals. I watched it darken, imagining the metal melting, losing its shape, just like my foolish love for him.

But as the silver disappeared, the room tilted.

Dizziness hit me like a physical blow, the days of starvation finally claiming their toll. The edges of my vision went black, swarming with spots.

I swayed, reaching blindly for the mantle to steady myself, but my hand grasped only air.

CRASH.

The door to the cabin burst open, slamming against the wall with the force of a gunshot.

The wind howled into the room, instantly extinguishing the candles. A silhouette filled the frame, blocking out the dying light. Broad shoulders. A suit that cost more than this entire structure.

Marcus.

His eyes were shards of glacial ice, sharp enough to cut glass. He didn't look at the room. He looked only at me.

“You thought you could hide?”

The voice was low, dangerous—a rumble of thunder.

I tried to speak, to scream, to run, but my legs turned to water. I crumpled toward the floor.

I never hit the wood.

Strong arms caught me. Cold, hard arms that felt like iron bands.

The scent of rich tobacco and expensive scotch filled my nose, overwhelming my senses. It was the intoxicating smell of my destruction.

His breath brushed my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Got you,” he whispered.

Then darkness swallowed me whole.

Olivia POV

I was floating in a void of ink, suspended in silence, but I wasn't wet.

Then, reality crashed down. I was pinned.

A heavy weight pressed me into the mattress. I tried to move my arms, but they felt like cast iron, useless and heavy. My mind was a fog of panic and static.

"Be still."

The voice was a low vibration against the sensitive skin of my neck.

I opened my eyes. The room was swallowed by darkness, shadows stretching like skeletal claws across the ceiling.

Marcus was looming over me. His face was buried in the crook of my neck. His lips were cold, moving against my skin with a possessiveness that made my bile rise.

This wasn't love. This was consumption.

I tried to shove him away, my hands pushing weakly against his chest. It was like pushing against a marble statue.

"Stop," I gasped, air struggling to reach my lungs. "Marcus, please."

He froze. He lifted his head, his eyes glassy and unfocused in the dark.

"Isabella," he murmured.

The name was a slap.

He didn't see me. He didn't know who he was holding. He was touching me, claiming me, but in his twisted mind, I was *her*.

"No," I rasped, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. "I'm not her. I'm Olivia! Look at me!"

He paused. His brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. But then the mask slammed back down. The cruelty returned.

"Quiet," he ordered.

He didn't care. I was just a body. A vessel for his lust and his rage.

He didn't stop. He held me down, his grip bruising, his touch erasing every remaining shred of the girl who used to paint him.

I stopped fighting. I went limp. I became a doll.

*This isn't happening,* I chanted internally. *I am smoke. I am air.*

Eventually, the weight lifted. He rolled over, pulling me against him like a pillow. I lay there in the suffocating dark, listening to his steady breathing, tears sliding silently into my ears.

I fell into a jagged, terrified sleep.

*SCREAM.*

My eyes flew open.

Morning light stabbed through the window like a blade.

Izzy stood in the doorway. Her face was a mask of twisted fury.

"You filthy whore!" she shrieked.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. Marcus was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. He looked at me, then at Izzy, his expression unreadable.

"Get out!" Izzy screamed, pointing a manicured finger at me. "You think you can steal him? You think sleeping in his bed makes you a woman?"

She stormed into the room, looming over me.

"He doesn't love you," she hissed, her spit landing on my cheek. "He pities you. You are nothing. A charity case. A little girl playing dress-up."

I looked at Marcus, desperation clawing at my throat.

"Tell her," I whispered.

He stood up, buttoning his shirt. He didn't look at me.

"Get dressed, Olivia," he said coldly. "You're a mess."

Izzy laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound, like glass breaking.

"You hear that?" she taunted. "He's disgusted by you. I'm his wife. I'm the future. You are just... a mistake."

She leaned in close, her perfume cloying and sweet, suffocating me.

"Disappear, Olivia. Or I will make sure they find your body in a ditch."

I looked at them. The King and his Queen.

They were monsters. And I was done bleeding for them.

The room began to dissolve. The walls melted. Their faces blurred into gray smoke.

My eyes snapped open.

I was on the floor of the safe house. Alone.

The fire had burned down to dying embers.

It was a nightmare. A hallucination brought on by stress and hunger.

But the tears on my face were real. And the hole in my heart was permanent.