Samantha’s POV
Three days had passed.
Three long, suffocating days since Bella had stepped into the punishment that should have belonged to Ashford—punishment I had delivered with my own hands. Somehow, impossibly, she had taken his place. And since then, nothing felt right.
The injury to my shoulder—the one left by that attacker at the club—had healed far too quickly. Not normally. Not naturally. The bruising faded in hours. The torn flesh sealed itself overnight. Doctors called it “remarkable recovery.” I called it wrong.
I told no one.
Not my father. Not the doctors. Not the people who pretended to care. Something inside me felt displaced, like I was wearing a body that no longer belonged entirely to me. I felt detached from my own reflection, disconnected from pain, from fear—yet constantly on edge.
So I drove.
Not to the hospital. Not home.
I drove to the Moon Monastery.
The road was quiet, the sky heavy with gray clouds that pressed low against the horizon. Cold seeped through the air as I parked just outside the towering stone walls surrounding the old compound. Its spires pierced the sky like silent sentinels, ancient and foreboding.
As I stepped out, gravel crunching beneath my boots, a strange smell lingered—herbs, pine resin, and something darker. Rot. Old decay.
“Girl.”
The voice rasped behind me.
I spun.
An elderly woman stood near the gate, wrapped in a long ash‑colored cloak. Her face was partially hidden, but her eyes were sharp—too sharp. Her presence unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Be careful,” she whispered, gripping my wrist. Her fingers were freezing. “You were noticed. Once something tastes you, it doesn’t let go.”
“What are you talking about?” I snapped, yanking free.
“You shine,” she murmured, gaze unfocused. “And shadows hunger for light. They know you now.”
Before I could demand answers, she turned and vanished into the trees.
Uneasy, irritated, I shook it off and climbed the monastery steps.
I never reached the door.
Something struck the back of my head.
Darkness swallowed everything.
---
Pain dragged me back to consciousness.
Rough rope bit into my wrists. My arms were numb, my skin raw. A blindfold pressed against my eyes, amplifying every sound, every smell—blood, sweat, metal, and something feral.
Blows landed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike burned, stripping away more than skin. It was humiliation. Control. Punishment meant to break me.
“You shouldn’t have touched her,” a man’s voice said coldly. “She’s protected.”
I spat blood. “Who sent you?”
No answer.
He made a call instead.
“She’s finished,” he said into the phone.
A familiar voice responded.
“Leave her.”
Ashford.
I knew it instantly.
The man who was sworn to protect me. The man who had vowed loyalty. He had ordered this.
When they dumped me by the roadside, I barely had strength left. Blood soaked my clothes. My vision blurred. Somehow, I crawled, flagged down a taxi, snarling at the driver until he drove.
At the hospital, antiseptic filled the air.
I overheard whispers.
“The man who brought the other girl—so attentive.”
“He didn’t leave her side.”
“And the one in this room? Looks like she was attacked.”
That was when I ripped the IV from my arm.
I found them in the hallway.
Ashford holding Bella’s hand. Kissing her forehead. Speaking softly.
I turned away before they noticed me.
That night, Ashford came to see me. He stood silently, eyes heavy. I said nothing.
Then my phone rang.
My father.
“You’ll attend tonight’s banquet,” he ordered. “Bella’s exhibition. Everyone important will be there.”
“No.”
“You will.”
Ashford leaned closer. “Just go. For me.”
For her.
I went anyway.
The Luna Gallery shimmered with light. Bella stood at the center, adored. I stayed in the shadows, wearing crimson—the color I used to paint in.
She spoke.
“It’s unfortunate Nathaniel Sterling won’t wake,” she said delicately. “But I need a stronger man.”
Behind her hung paintings.
Mine.
Every brushstroke. Every color.
She’d stolen them.
I staggered outside.
She followed.
Mocked my mother.
Then staged a scene.
Ashford arrived.
Chose her.
I threw wine in her face.
Later, I followed them.
To the butterfly garden.
Through glass, I watched her claim him.
And Ashford let her.
“I’m yours,” he said.
And something inside me finally shattered.
