Chapter 2

Ava lay on the cold, unforgiving floor of the abandoned soundstage.

The throbbing in her right hand was a sickening drumbeat. Her ankle was a mess of fire and ice.

This wasn't the first time Ethan's "protection" of Chloe had led to her pain, but this was a new, terrifying level.

She remembered a smaller torment, a prelude to this horror.

It was weeks ago.

Chloe had coveted a small, antique silver locket of Ava's mother. It wasn't valuable, but it was sentimentally priceless.

Chloe had "admired" it, then "accidentally" broken the clasp while trying it on.

When Ava, with quiet anger, had tried to take it back, Chloe had cried, claiming Ava had snatched it and hurt her fingers.

Ethan had been there.

He hadn't laid a hand on Ava then. His punishment was colder.

He'd locked Ava in her small, dark spare bedroom for hours. "To reflect on her aggression towards Chloe."

No food, no water. Just the suffocating darkness and Chloe's feigned, concerned calls through the door. "Ava, are you alright? Ethan is just worried about you. Please say you're sorry."

Ava had refused.

Eventually, Ethan had unlocked the door, his face unreadable.

"Chloe is fragile," he'd said. "You need to be more careful with her."

That incident had planted a seed of claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces, of the dark.

Now, this vast, empty soundstage felt like that small room, magnified a thousand times.

The darkness here was absolute, the silence broken only by her own ragged breaths and the distant drip of water.

Her family. The word was a hollow echo.

Her father, Arthur. He'd always been wrapped up in his books, his academic world.

After her mother died, he'd drifted further away, a ship receding from shore.

Linda, her stepmother, had been a viper to Ava's mother during her illness, whispering cruelties, sowing discord.

Now, Linda and Chloe were a united front.

They had systematically poisoned Arthur against Ava.

"Ava is so difficult, Arthur."

"She's jealous of Chloe, dear."

"Her artistic temperament, it makes her unstable."

Her brother, Ben. He worked in investment banking, ambitious, driven.

They used to be close. Shared secrets, late-night talks.

But Linda had dangled career connections, whispered promises of introductions to influential people.

Chloe had cried to Ben about Ava's "moods," her "resentment."

Slowly, Ben had pulled away.

The calls became less frequent. His tone, cooler.

The last time she'd truly reached out to him, desperate after a particularly cutting remark from Ethan about her "lack of gratitude" towards Chloe, Ben had been dismissive.

"Ava, you need to try harder with Chloe and Linda. Dad's happy. Don't rock the boat."

"But Ben, they're twisting things! Ethan is..."

"Ethan is just trying to keep the peace, Ava. Chloe looks up to him. Maybe you're misinterpreting things."

Misinterpreting. The word was a slap.

The isolation was complete. There was no one to call, no one who would believe her.

Not against the combined forces of Chloe's practiced victimhood and Ethan's chilling authority.

She had a burner phone. Her captors, Ethan's men, had left it beside her.

"Call Mr. Caldwell," one of them had said, his voice devoid of emotion. "He'll come for you."

The irony was a bitter pill. The man who orchestrated this, her savior.

She stared at the phone. Its screen was a dark, mocking eye.

She could call. She could beg. She could play the part he wanted.

But something inside her had snapped.

The fight had gone out of her, replaced by a vast, empty weariness.

What was the point? To be "rescued" by her destroyer? To be taken back to the cage, to endure more of Chloe's manipulations, more of Ethan's cold corrections?

Her hand, her painting hand, was broken. Her ability to stand for hours at an easel, gone.

They had taken her art. They had taken her future.

She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of her pleas.

Slowly, with her good left hand, she reached for the phone.

Her fingers closed around it.

Then, with a sudden surge of desperate energy, she smashed it against the concrete floor.

Once. Twice. Three times. Until the plastic casing cracked and the screen shattered into a spiderweb of black glass.

There. Done.

She lay back, the cold seeping into her bones.

It was quiet again.

She closed her eyes.

If death came, she would welcome it. It would be a release.

Two days. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Thirst gnawed at her. Pain was a constant companion.

She didn't move. She didn't cry out.

She waited.