Chapter 4

I was still half-conscious, my body screaming in agony, when they threw me onto the cold, hard floor of another room. The fluorescent lights above flickered, harsh and unforgiving. My eyes struggled to focus, blurry with pain and tears.

And then I saw them. Gregory, sitting beside a pristine hospital bed, gently stroking Kennedy's hair. She looked pale, but otherwise perfectly fine. Not a scratch, not a bruise. My mind flashed back to the fire, the trampling crowd, my own broken body. She hadn't even been in harm's way.

He looked up. His eyes met mine, then immediately darted away, dismissing my crumpled form without a flicker of emotion. He was completely oblivious to my state, or perhaps, simply uncaring. My heart, already shattered, splintered further.

"Christie," he said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Kennedy is feeling a little weak. She wants something to eat. Something comforting."

My mind reeled. Comforting? I had just been dragged from an operating table, bleeding internally, my body broken. And he was ordering me to cook?

"Are you... are you serious?" I choked out, a raw, disbelieving sound.

"Perfectly," he replied, his gaze returning to Kennedy. "She mentioned your chicken noodle soup. The one your mother taught you to make."

The words were like a physical blow. The soup. The one I made for him when he had the flu, the only time he had ever shown a glimmer of vulnerability. Now, he wanted me to make it for her.

A tidal wave of emotion, years of pent-up neglect, betrayal, and humiliation, finally broke through my defenses. My body shook with a silent scream.

"My value?" I whispered, my voice raw, broken. "What is my value to you, Gregory? Am I just a chef? A convenient distraction? Am I not even worth a moment of your concern while I lie here bleeding?"

I looked at my hands, smeared with my own blood. "You dragged me from surgery! From a life-saving surgery! For her chicken soup? Is that all I am to you? A servant?"

Gregory didn't react. His face remained impassive, a cold, unfeeling mask.

Kennedy, however, stirred. She looked up at me, a petulant frown on her face. "Ugh, Gregory," she whined. "She's so loud. My head hurts. Make her stop."

Gregory immediately turned his full attention back to her. He stroked her forehead, his voice soothing. "Hush, my love. Don't worry. She'll be quiet now."

Then, his gaze flickered back to me. His voice was no longer flat. It was cold, sharp, laced with menace. "Christie. Get up. Cook the soup. Now."

My spirit, already in tatters, finally snapped. I stared at him, at the absolute, chilling contempt in his eyes. There was no love, no pity, no humanity left. Just a cold, hard command. My lips trembled.

"No," I whispered, the word a fragile defiance in the face of his absolute power. "I won't."

Gregory's eyes narrowed. A dangerous glint appeared in their depths. "Refuse me?" he said, his voice dangerously soft. He turned to the two hulking bodyguards who stood silently by the door. "Take her to the cold room. Leave her there until she agrees to cooperate."

"No!" I screamed, a desperate, animal sound as the bodyguards moved towards me. "You can't! I'm injured! I'm bleeding!"

They ignored my pleas, their faces blank. Rough hands seized me, hauling my broken body off the floor. The pain was excruciating. My vision swam. Darkness threatened to consume me again, but I fought it. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

They dragged me down a stark, impersonal hallway. The air grew colder with each step. Then, a heavy metal door. It clanged open, revealing a cavernous, freezing space. A walk-in freezer.

They shoved me inside. The cold hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The wounds on my body, already raw, now felt like they were freezing solid. I collapsed onto the icy floor, my body convulsing with shivers.

The door clanged shut, plunging me into darkness. The cold was unbearable, seeping into my bones, a torture more insidious than any physical wound. My internal bleeding, already severe, protested violently. I could feel the warmth of my own blood seeping through my clothes, a stark contrast to the numbing cold. My strength was ebbing away. I was dying. Here. In a freezer. For a bowl of chicken soup.

A primal scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "Gregory! Please! I'll cook! I'll cook anything! Just let me out!" My voice was hoarse, tears streaming down my face, freezing on my cheeks. I pounded on the metal door, my feeble fists making barely a dent. "Please!"

The door finally creaked open. Two pairs of hands, still rough, pulled me out. My body was numb, my lips blue. I shambled towards the kitchen, a ghost of myself, shivering violently.

The kitchen was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the icy darkness I had just endured. My hands, still trembling, fumbled with the ingredients. I moved like a robot, mechanically chopping vegetables, stirring the pot. Each movement was a fresh torment. The aroma of chicken soup, once a symbol of comfort, now reeked of my utter degradation.

When the soup was finally ready, I carried the steaming bowl to Kennedy's room. Gregory was still there, watching her with that same tender gaze. He barely looked at the soup.

"Good," he said, his voice clipped. He nodded at the bodyguards. "Take her back to surgery. Resume the procedure."

My mind barely registered his words. Back to surgery. The thought was a distant echo. They pushed me onto another gurney, the cold metal familiar against my bruised skin. My eyes fluttered shut.

A single tear, hot and defiant, escaped my eye, tracing a path down my cold cheek. It was the last tear I would ever shed for Gregory Henson. My heart, what was left of it, hardened into an impenetrable shield. No more. I was done. This was the end. He had finally succeeded. He had killed the woman I was, the woman who loved him.