Before the ambulance could arrive, Sophia was suddenly lifted off the ground by two of Herbert’s bodyguards.
“Let go of me!” she screamed, her blood-slicked hand struggling against them. “Can’t you see I’m hurt? I need a hospital!”
The lead bodyguard remained stone-faced. “Young sir’s orders. You’ve crossed the line too many times. You’re to be confined for three days. Reflect on your actions.”
Sophia stared at him in disbelief. “What? I’m bleeding! If I don’t get treated, my face—I'll be disfigured!”
“The order stands,” the guard said coldly. “We’re just following orders.”
No matter how she struggled, they dragged her—injured, helpless—to the third floor, and threw her into the solitary confinement room. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, drowning out her shriek for help.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The blood on her cheek had dried into a dark crust. Her hands, her arms—stained crimson. She looked down at herself and felt a cold chill spread through her bones.
No one was coming.
And the worst part?
Herbert knew she had claustrophobia.
She had told him once, during a rainy night when a power outage trapped her in a closet for hours. He had held her trembling body and whispered gently, “Don’t be afraid, I’m here.”
But now, he had ordered this.
In desperation, Sophia ripped off part of her shirt and pressed it to the reopened wound on her face, trying to slow the bleeding. The confinement room was small, windowless, and airtight. The housekeeper and nannies stayed on the first floor—they wouldn’t hear her even if she screamed her throat raw.
Even her phone had been taken.
If the Herbert from five years ago stood before her now, she would ask him just one thing:
Herbert, did you ever truly love me? Or was I just something you kept—like a pet you were training to obey?
The last sliver of light disappeared through the crack in the door. Darkness devoured the room, and with it came the crushing terror she thought she had long buried.
Three days. No food, no water. No light.
How could you leave me here like this, Herbert? For Kelsey?
At first, she held onto a fragile hope—maybe he would come to check on her at night. Maybe he’d remember how afraid she was of the dark.
But night came. And went.
He never came.
As the silence deepened, Sophia began to shake. Hallucinations bloomed like mold in her mind.
She was five again.
The ground shaking beneath her.
Screams.
Her mother’s arms around her.
Then nothing—only rubble.
Her parents. Her grandparents. All gone.
Only she was left.
Her stomach churned violently. She doubled over and vomited, the acid burning her throat. The stench filled the tiny room. She pounded the door with what little strength she had left, voice cracking with every scream.
No one answered.
That night was longer than a lifetime.
When footsteps echoed outside the next morning, Sophia crawled to the door with trembling limbs, her face streaked with blood and tears, hope flaring painfully in her chest.
“Uncle Lewis…” she whispered, clinging to the thought that her dearest uncle had come to rescue her.
But the door opened.
And it wasn’t Uncle Lewis.
It was Kelsey.
Smiling.
She twirled a camera in her hands—a vintage, worn one Sophia recognized instantly.
It was her father's camera.
His only keepsake.
Sophia froze, breath caught in her throat.
The last piece of her past, now in her hands.
