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I Am Not Your Pawn Anymore
img img I Am Not Your Pawn Anymore img Chapter 7 7
7 Chapters
Chapter 8 8 img
Chapter 9 9 img
Chapter 10 10 img
Chapter 11 11 img
Chapter 12 12 img
Chapter 13 13 img
Chapter 14 14 img
Chapter 15 15 img
Chapter 16 16 img
Chapter 17 17 img
Chapter 18 18 img
Chapter 19 19 img
Chapter 20 20 img
Chapter 21 21 img
Chapter 22 22 img
Chapter 23 23 img
Chapter 24 24 img
Chapter 25 25 img
Chapter 26 26 img
Chapter 27 27 img
Chapter 28 28 img
Chapter 29 29 img
Chapter 30 30 img
Chapter 31 31 img
Chapter 32 32 img
Chapter 33 33 img
Chapter 34 34 img
Chapter 35 35 img
Chapter 36 36 img
Chapter 37 37 img
Chapter 38 38 img
Chapter 39 39 img
Chapter 40 40 img
Chapter 41 41 img
Chapter 42 42 img
Chapter 43 43 img
Chapter 44 44 img
Chapter 45 45 img
Chapter 46 46 img
Chapter 47 47 img
Chapter 48 48 img
Chapter 49 49 img
Chapter 50 50 img
Chapter 51 51 img
Chapter 52 52 img
Chapter 53 53 img
Chapter 54 54 img
Chapter 55 55 img
Chapter 56 56 img
Chapter 57 57 img
Chapter 58 58 img
Chapter 59 59 img
Chapter 60 60 img
Chapter 61 61 img
Chapter 62 62 img
Chapter 63 63 img
Chapter 64 64 img
Chapter 65 65 img
Chapter 66 66 img
Chapter 67 67 img
Chapter 68 68 img
Chapter 69 69 img
Chapter 70 70 img
Chapter 71 71 img
Chapter 72 72 img
Chapter 73 73 img
Chapter 74 74 img
Chapter 75 75 img
Chapter 76 76 img
Chapter 77 77 img
Chapter 78 78 img
Chapter 79 79 img
Chapter 80 80 img
Chapter 81 81 img
Chapter 82 82 img
Chapter 83 83 img
Chapter 84 84 img
Chapter 85 85 img
Chapter 86 86 img
Chapter 87 87 img
Chapter 88 88 img
Chapter 89 89 img
Chapter 90 90 img
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Chapter 7 7

The VIP room at Mount Sinai was quiet, but Barrett couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

Not the Anaya who pushed Adele. But a different Anaya. Thinner. Her hair lackluster. Wearing an orange jumpsuit.

The Dream:

She was standing behind bars. She turned to look at him. Her eyes were empty sockets.

"You promised," she whispered. "You said twenty million dollars."

Then, she coughed. Blood splattered onto his hands. Warm, sticky blood.

Barrett jerked awake, gasping.

The heart monitor beeped rapidly. Beep-beep-beep.

Dr. Evans rushed in. "Mr. Meyers? Are you in pain?"

Barrett looked at his hands. They were clean. But he could feel the phantom warmth of the blood.

"Doctor," Barrett said, his voice shaking. "Is it possible for a concussion to cause... incredibly vivid nightmares? Nightmares that feel like memories?"

Dr. Evans checked his pupils. "You have a mild concussion, Barrett. And you're under immense stress. The brain plays tricks."

The door opened. Adele walked in. She was carrying an Hermès bag and a thermos.

"Barrett, darling," she said, her voice grating on his nerves like sandpaper. "The board is panicking. The stock dropped two points because of the accident. We need to post a selfie. Show them you're strong."

Barrett looked at her. Really looked at her.

In his nightmare, just before Anaya died, he had heard Adele laughing in the background.

"Is that all you care about?" Barrett asked. " The stock price?"

Adele blinked. "It's our future, Barrett. Don't be naive."

"Get out," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get out! Leave me alone!"

Adele huffed, grabbed her bag, and stormed out.

Barrett ripped the IV tape off his hand. He ignored the sting. He grabbed his phone.

He dialed Anaya.

Call failed. Blocked.

He threw the phone across the room. It cracked against the wall.

"Marcus!" he yelled.

His assistant ran in.

"Get me a burner phone. Now. And find out where she is."

Ten minutes later, Marcus handed him a cheap prepaid phone. "She's in New Jersey, sir. At her grandmother's house. But... there was a search history on her work laptop before she wiped it. 'Investment Visas for Portugal'."

"She's leaving the country?" Barrett felt a spike of pure terror.

He dialed her number on the burner phone. His fingers trembled.

Ring... Ring...

"Hello?"

Her voice was cool, calm. Like water.

Barrett let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Anaya."

Silence on the other end.

"Why did you block me?" he asked. It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it instantly. He sounded possessive, controlling. But he couldn't help it.

"Mr. Meyers," she said.

The formality was a slap in the face.

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