Chapter 2

"Let her out, Victoria! This is insane!"

I hammered on the thick wood of the cellar door. I could hear Chloe' s frantic, muffled cries from inside.

Victoria turned to me, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her lips. "You always take her side, don't you? The two of you, against me. The gentle, powerless father and his precious, sensitive daughter."

She gestured to the door next to the wine cellar. The steam room. A small, personal spa she'd had installed years ago, walled with thick, reinforced glass.

"You want to be with her so badly?" Victoria said. "Fine."

Before I could react, her security guards, always lurking silently in the corners of the estate, moved. They were large men, impassive and efficient. One grabbed my left arm, the other my right. They were too strong. I struggled, but it was useless.

They dragged me to the steam room.

"No, Victoria, please!" I begged, my eyes locked on the cellar door. Chloe' s cries were getting weaker, turning into ragged gasps.

"You can watch," Victoria sneered, her face close to mine. "You can sit in here and watch your precious daughter until you both learn your lesson about who is in charge of this family."

The guards shoved me inside. The heavy glass door slammed shut, the lock engaging with a loud, final click.

Victoria stood on the other side, her phone in her hand again. She tapped the screen.

Instantly, a blast of hot steam shot from the vents. The room began to heat up at an alarming rate. The air grew thick, wet, and suffocating.

"I've set it to maximum," she said, her voice distorted by the glass. "Enjoy the show."

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the stone floor, leaving me trapped.

I pressed my face against the hot glass, my hands flat against the pane that separated me from the cellar. Through the swirling steam, I could just make out the small, barred window of the cellar door. I could see Chloe.

She was curled in a tight ball on the floor, her body shaking violently. It wasn't just the cold. It was a full-blown panic attack. Her chest was heaving, her hands clawing at her own throat as if she couldn't breathe. The sound of her terror was a faint, desperate scratching I could feel more than hear.

The heat in my room was becoming unbearable. Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes. Every breath was like inhaling fire. My skin felt like it was cooking.

But the pain was nothing compared to the agony of watching my daughter suffer. I was right there, separated by only a few feet of glass and stone, and I was completely, utterly helpless. I banged on the glass, screaming her name, but the room was soundproofed. She couldn't hear me.

I watched as the shudders wracking her body began to slow. Her movements became sluggish. The frantic energy of her panic was being drained away by the relentless, penetrating cold.

She was succumbing. And all I could do was watch her die.