Chapter 2 COTTON, FIRE, AND SALTED WOUNDS

A few hours before Angelica found herself in a hospital gown

The velvet night still clung to the sky when Angelica left the chaos of the party behind. The last of the champagne hadn't even settled in the guests' stomachs before she'd detonated the bomb - a clean-cut announcement: she was divorcing Marsell.

Her voice was cool.

Calculated.

The kind of announcement made by a woman who'd lived too long in silence and finally remembered how sharp her tongue could be.

But beneath it, there was something else - grief. Like she'd just buried something sacred.

And now, she was driving fast. Her pulse beat against the wheel, her mind racing faster than the tires could carry her. She was rushing, heading to Anjel; she was running toward the future she was building stitch by stitch.

Her fashion line was more than what seemed to be like fabric and runways - it was armor. It was her voice in a world that preferred her pretty and quiet.

The city blurred past her windows. Towering buildings turned to shadows. Anjel was nestled in a converted warehouse on the edge of the district - industrial, raw, hers. But as she approached, something was wrong.

Smoke curled into the night like a twisted ribbon. The scent hit her before her eyes could confirm it. Not smoke from an electrical spark or an overworked generator - no.

This smoke was chemical, dirty. Accelerants. Gasoline. Kerosene. A fire set with purpose, with malice. Not a mistake.

She slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel, parking several blocks away, heart hammering.

Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone, barely processing what she was seeing. Her life's work - every stitch, every sleepless night - lit up like a funeral pyre.

She didn't even get the chance to dial 911.

CRASH.

The world flipped sideways. A violent jolt ripped through the car. Glass shattered. Metal twisted. Her scream caught in her throat, snatched by the impact.

She felt her head whip back. The airbag never deployed. Time slowed. Blood in her mouth. Lights danced behind her eyes. The car was spinning.

Something hit her chest - hard. Then... nothing.

Darkness surged.

But in that darkness... her mind didn't let her sleep. Not yet. Fragments returned. A gurney. Cold restraints. Someone whispering, "Hurry, before she wakes again."

A needle - long, glinting in fluorescent light. The sharp pinch of something invasive pressing into her veins.

Then the cold flush of something far worse. Not meant to heal. Meant to erase.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, unbidden, as the final spark of awareness blinked out. She wasn't crying from pain. She was crying from grief.

Pure, gut-wrenching grief - for herself, for the woman she'd fought so hard to become... for the life being stolen as she slipped into chemically forced oblivion.

Somewhere far off, boots clanged against steel. Barked orders. Laughter - cruel, careless.

Then, more movement.

Her body was dumped like forgotten luggage. No ceremony, no care. Her limp form thudded against a rusted crate wall as the cargo vessel creaked and moaned beneath her.

Saltwater sprayed the air like spit. The stench of oil, blood, and seawater mingled around her. She was loaded with steel scrap and old textiles bound for God-knows-where.

A guard chuckled. "You think she's dead?"

"Does it matter?" Another one replied. "She isn't waking up."

Back where Marsell left his boys to do the dumping work...

"Hello, Mr. Solomon," Marsell said with a smirk, lounging back in a leather seat, phone to his ear. "Just wanted to inform you... your little loose end? Handled. Since you didn't have the stomach to do it yourself."

On the other end, Solomon's voice cracked like dry parchment. "She's my daughter, Marsell. You were only supposed to make her... compliant. What the hell did you do?"

Marsell laughed. "Oh, calm down, old man. She's stubborn, I'll give her that. Never saw that divorce coming, huh? But listen, the setback's handled. You're welcome. Also... that apology of yours won't clean up this mess,"

"But since she's... out of the picture, I'll let it slide. I expect you to deliver what you promised. Nothing less." Marsell twirled a pen in his fingers.

WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER? Solomon's voice shook with fury and regret as he raised his voice.

"Relax.

She got a nice going-away gift courtesy of your little 'serum.' Right into her veins, just like you asked."

"You did inject her?" Solomon asked again, suspicion inching into his voice.

"Of course," Marsell answered too quickly, too smugly. "I made sure she's barely hanging on but let's just say... if she does die, it's because the ocean's got a temper. Since you know... the ship keeps rocking.

Can't help it if that junk in her bloodstream ends up somewhere... unfortunate."

There was a pause. Solomon's voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "I'll ask you again, WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?"

Click.

The call ended with laughter, the kind that leaves a scar.

Back at Solomon's estate... He stared at the deadline on his phone for a long time, jaw clenched, veins popping in his neck.

His reflection in the darkened glass looked like a man who'd made a deal with the devil and realized too late he'd bet his soul.

Then; A knock.

Urgent.

The door burst open. "Sir," his butler said, slightly breathless. "You have an unexpected visitor. A young woman. She calls herself Zaria."

Zaria stormed in before he could answer. Her eyes were wild, glassy with panic.

"Have you heard from her?" She cried, her voice cracking.

"Where is Angelica? I went to the hospital - they say she was never admitted! Her office is gone! Burned down! And- and no one is answering her phone-"

"Zaria-" Solomon started, but his words caught on guilt.

"She's missing!" Zaria shrieked.

"Tell me the truth- what did you do?! What did you do to her?!"

Solomon stood motionless, shadows deepening the lines in his face.

Then, without a word, he nodded at his butler.

ZAP.

The taser hit Zaria's back like lightning. Her body jolted and twisted mid-scream before crumpling to the ground.

Her last breath before unconsciousness was one name:

"Angelica..." Solomon turned his back. Stared out the window."

Take her to the cellar. Make sure no one hears whispers about what just transpired here."

The butler nodded. But as he bent to pick up Zaria, her phone slid from her pocket.

The screen lit up. A video... still playing.

In the footage: A woman. Blood on her gown. In a wrecked car. Weak... but alive. Angelica.

She was barely alive.

She was recording herself, whispering through cracked lips:> "If someone finds this... I'm not dead. Yet. They tried. I don't know where I am, but I'm not giving up. Tell Zaria... tell my father-this isn't over..."

Before the video cut to static, a shadow crossed behind Solomon - the sound of a door slamming, and the recording ended.

Solomon stood frozen.

His chest heaving.

From behind, a quiet voice whispered into his study: "You lied to me too, Solomon..."

He turned slowly.

He wasn't alone. Behind him - a figure stepped out of the darkness.

Angelica's mother. Dead for twelve years.

Or so everyone believed.