I spoke to the guards once. Asked for help. The way they stared straight ahead, unmoving, uncaring—I might as well have been speaking to statues.
Reagan didn’t need whips or fists. He knew how to destroy someone by erasing them.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse—Dulcie appeared.
Her heels clicked smugly against the concrete. She stood on the other side of the bars, perfectly dressed... in my clothes. My silk robe. My diamond necklace. My ruby ring on her thumb which was my mother's gift.
“You always dressed too modest, darling,” she purred, her lips curved in a venomous smile. “But don’t worry. Your wardrobe finally found someone worthy.”
I clenched my fists until my nails bit skin.
“And that big bed upstairs?” she added with a giggle, “Let’s just say, it’s not so cold anymore.”
She laughed. Laughed until it echoed off the walls.
Her heels stopped inches from the cell bars, and her smile widened—sweet as cyanide.