Zara Powell had been locked in the psych ward for five days already. She was burning up with a fever that hit 104, half-unconscious on the thin hospital bed. Her clothes were soaked clean through with sweat, and she shook so hard her teeth chattered from the bone-deep cold.
In the dim, flickering light, a handful of other patients crowded around her, gawking with wide, curious eyes.
Suddenly—*crash*!
The rotting old door flew right off its hinges. A crew of huge, rough-looking goons barged in, all of them looking ready to break something. The patients shrieked and scattered like spooked mice. The leader stepped straight over to Zara, tangled a fist in her hair, and wrenched her off the bed to the floor before kicking her hard into the corner.
Warm blood trickled down her thigh, her face drained to ghostly pale, and she clutched her abdomen, agony ripping through her.
She fought to pry her eyes open, staring up at the strangers looming over her. Her voice came out so thin it was barely a whisper: "Who are you?"
A man with a jagged scar slicing across his cheek stepped forward, and ground his lit cigarette out right into the meat of Zara's shoulder. The searing, blinding pain almost shoved her straight into unconsciousness.
He growled, low and menacing: "Where's the money? Samir gave you half a million. The Powell Corp owes us tens of thousands—you think you can play games with me?"
Half a million. What a sick joke, she thought bitterly.
When she huffed a bitter laugh, he kicked her again, hard. "Spit it out! Quit messing me around!"
The blow landed square on her jaw. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the cold sweat dripping down her face.
She pulled her cracked lips into a smirk: "I don't have any money. If you want my life, take it."
"No money? Really?" He dropped to his knees, slapping her over and over with his greasy, calloused hand.
Just then, a voice crackled from the hidden phone tucked in her shirt—Samir Powell’s voice, cold as ice: "Don’t call me unless you’re dead."
The goons froze for a beat, then scrambled to yank the phone out of her clothes.
Another guy pulled their boss aside, hissing under his breath: "Boss, let’s bounce. If Samir shows up, we’re all screwed."
Grumbling, the boss pushed to his feet, spat right in Zara’s face, and stormed out.
Zara tried to scream, tried to beg. Her whole spirit was already shattered… but even now, she clung to one thin, fraying thread of hope.
"Samir, they’re here to kill me. Will you save me? Will you save our baby?"
The answer sliced through the air, cold and sharp as a blade: "Stop faking it. Even you dying to atone for Watson’s life, for the Rivera family—this is what you deserve."
The goons paused in the doorway, listening.
Samir went on, short and brutal: "And as for that brat? It deserves to go to hell right with you."
The men swapped knowing, sleazy grins and burst out laughing.
Why would they worry? Why would Samir bother saving the woman who killed his family?
Zara’s hand, clutching the phone to her trembling lips, finally went limp.
Her voice broke into a ragged whisper: "It’s our baby, Samir. No matter how much you hate me, just save the baby. Didn’t you say you always dreamed of having our child?"
"Samir, the doctor said my condition is rare. I can’t get pregnant again. If I lose this one, I’ll never have another chance."
"Samir, I’m begging you. Save me. Save this baby."
Silence.
Zara’s tears fell silent and hot, despair deeper than a frozen heart—no, worse than that. It was despair that wouldn’t let her die, wouldn’t let her fade.
She never should have called.
She hung up, letting the phone slip from her numb fingers and clatter to the floor.
The men came back. This time, the boss didn’t hesitate. He pressed his scuffed, dirty boot hard down on her already broken hand.
"Quit your whining! Hand over the money!"
Zara scraped together the last of her strength to speak: "I don’t have money. Only my life."
Suddenly, the boss’s eyes lit up with greed, locked right on Zara’s hand.
He bent down, yanking at her finger to get at the ring: "This thing looks like it’s worth a pretty penny."
Zara wrenched her hand back as hard as she could, gasping: "It’s fake."
A month ago, Samir had proposed to her with that ring.
The whole room burst out laughing.
The boss wrenched her hand back into view, sneering: "Bullshit. The fancy Powell heiress wearing a fake? Let’s see how much it’s worth."
"No, it’s worthless, it really is!" Zara’s voice was barely a breath as she pulled with everything she had left to get away.
The boss paused, surprised she still had any fight left in her.
He sneered again: "Oh? Which little lover boy gave this to you, huh?"
More cackles erupted.
Zara lifted her head weakly, panting: "Give me time. I’ll pay off every cent Powell Corp owes you."
The scarred man’s face darkened. He dragged Zara’s hand out from under her and snapped an order.
"Ungrateful bitch. You want to play hard to get? Fine, you get the consequences. Paul—cut her finger off."
Another man moved instantly, pulling a sharp switchblade out, holding it right over Zara’s knuckle, ready to slice.
Her heart hammered so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest. She whimpered, broken: "Okay, okay, I’ll give it to you, I’ll take it off for you—"
The scarred man laughed, dark and sinister: "Sorry, Miss Powell. Changed my mind. That finger of yours is worth more than any ring to Samir."
The sharp blade sliced down. White-hot agony tore through her, and everything went black.
A bucket of ice water slammed into her face, jerking her back to the pain. Even death wouldn’t let her have it.
Over the ringing in her ears, the scarred man leaned in close, his voice roaring right against her eardrum: "Samir wanted me to tell you—if you want out of here, stop taking it silent. Kill someone, and you get your escape."
"He’s real curious to see if Miss Powell can still walk free if she kills again."
Blood poured down her thigh, and her whole world narrowed down to a blinding, horrifying crimson.
The scarred man stood up, called the lingering patients lingering hovering outside the door in, and tossed a big bag of candy and chips onto the floor.
The simple-minded patients swarmed it immediately, grabbing for the treats: "Candy! Wow, so much candy!"
The scarred man grinned: "See that bleeding lady over there? Every day you make her cry, you get more of this. More than this."
The patients looked up, hungry for more: "Really, mister? I know what to do—I’ll put bugs in her bed, and worse stuff, lots of ways!"
The scarred man nodded: "Smart. Just don’t let the nurses catch you."
They nodded hard, grinning.
The scarred man stepped over to Zara, half-dead on the floor, and whispered soft and cruel right in her face: "Miss Powell, there’s a knife under your pillow. When it gets too bad, kill whoever you want. Thanks for the finger."
Zara closed her eyes, defeated.
The nightmare was over.
No.
This nightmare would replay, day after day, for the next 365 days. Every minute, every second.
Samir Powell. With every breath I have left, I pray that in the next life, and every life after that, I never have to see your face again.
