Chapter 5 The Trap

Anastasia point of view

I hated him.

I hated everything about him.

The way he walked into a room like he owned the air around him. The way he looked at me like I was something fragile and expensive-something he'd locked away in glass just so no one else could touch it. The way he acted like putting a ring on my finger erased everything he did to get me here.

Vincenzo Winston had destroyed my life.

And now he wanted me to smile. To pretend. To play happy fiancée while I carried a child I never wanted.

I didn't smile.

I didn't even look at him if I could help it.

He called it mood swings.

I called it hatred.

When he sat beside me at dinner, I moved my plate away.

When he tried to speak to me in the hallway, I kept walking.

When he asked if I needed anything, I said, "Yeah. A time machine."

But no matter how hard I pushed, no matter how much I snapped, I was still stuck in his world-his mansion, his rules, his twisted version of love. He owned everything around me, even my body. Especially my body.

And I hated him more each day for it.

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't retaliate.

That made it worse.

His silence was like steel-unbreakable and cold. The scar on his back wasn't just on his skin. It was inside him, carved into the way he looked at me, the way he moved around me. Like he still saw the little girl I didn't remember being.

The girl who'd once made him promise never to leave.

The girl who'd died in that orphanage fire, as far as I was concerned.

Because she wasn't me anymore.

I had no innocence left to protect. No belief in love. No hope.

All I had left was hatred-and a growing desperation to get out.

She showed up on a rainy afternoon.

Felicia announced her like she was a celebrity guest. "A visitor is here to see you," she said, eyes narrowed, tone flat. "Says she's an old friend."

I blinked. "I don't have any friends."

"She insists," Felicia said. "She's waiting in the garden."

That should've been a red flag.

But I was bored. Angry. Running on fumes. So I went.

That's when I saw her.

She didn't just walk-she glided. Long legs, tight leather pants, sharp heels. Dark curls fell over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial, and her lipstick was a perfect red. The kind of red that said she was always in control, even when she was lying.

"Anastasia, right?" she said, stepping forward with a smile like honey. "Wow... you're even prettier in person."

I folded my arms. "Do I know you?"

"No," she said. "But I know him."

That should have been my second red flag.

But I let her sit down anyway.

We drank tea. She talked, and I listened.

She told me she used to be close to the Winstons. That she dated Vincenzo back in high school-before he became the stone-hearted billionaire the world knew today. She said she'd seen what the family did to people. To women. Especially women like me.

Trapped. Isolated. Pregnant.

She leaned closer, her voice softer. "I know what it's like to be forced into something you didn't ask for."

That got my attention.

For the first time in days, I let my guard down.

completely and foolishly.

Her name was Tracy Turner. She said all the right things. Knew the right tone. Said she had friends who could help. Said there were places I could go. Places the Winstons couldn't reach.

And I... believed her.

Enough to take the burner phone she slipped into my robe pocket before leaving.

"Use it when you're ready," she whispered. "No strings. No judgement. Just help."

That night, I lay awake in bed, watching the rain run down the glass windows like tears I didn't want to admit were mine.

I held the burner phone in my hand.

The longer I stared at it, the more her words looped in my head like a broken radio.

You deserve a choice.

Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was just another vulture pretending to be a dove.

But what if she wasn't?

I opened a new message.

HELP, I typed. Please.

She responded within seconds like she's been waiting to get a message from me.

'Meet me at noon. Greenhouse. Back gate. I'll get you out.'

By late morning, I had made up my mind.

I slipped into simple jeans and a hoodie-nothing flashy, nothing noisy. I told the maid I wasn't feeling well. I skipped breakfast. Avoided Vincenzo. He was in a meeting anyway, buried in strategy and empire-building.

Good.

I left through the side corridor near the greenhouse. The one no one used anymore.

The Winston estate had more land than a royal palace, and the north side-the one with ivy-choked gates and empty stone paths-was practically abandoned.

My heart raced with every step. My palms were sweaty. I kept glancing back, half-expecting a guard to lunge out and drag me by the arm.

But no one came and then I saw her- Tracy.

She leaned against a black SUV, twirling keys between her fingers, sunglasses pushed up on her head like this was a damn fashion shoot.

"You came," she said, grinning. "Good girl."

I didn't smile back. "Let's go before anyone sees."

"Right this way."

We walked fast, leaves crunching beneath our feet. The wind had picked up. A storm was coming, both in the sky and in my chest.

But I kept moving.

I needed this.

We reached the car. Tracy opened the back door.

"In here."

I slid in without hesitation.

That's when everything snapped.

The man in the front seat turned around.

Not a driver and certainly not a rescuer.

Just a stranger with cold eyes and a thick scar slashed across his cheek.

Something inside me screamed to get down and run...

I turned sharply towards Tracy.

She was already pulling the door shut.

Her smile was gone.

Her face had gone blank-sharp, cold, deadly.

"Tracy-what the hell is going on?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she pulled something from her pocket.

A syringe.

"I'm sorry," she said smoothly. "Actually... I'm not sorry."

I opened my mouth to scream-

But her hand moved faster.

The needle pricked my neck and everything went dark.

The last thing I saw before my world collapsed was her lipstick.

Red.

The color of lies.

"What is she going to do to me?"