Chapter 8
The estate hadn't changed.
Same iron gates. Same quarter-mile driveway lined with oaks. Same stone facade that looked like it belonged in another century.
I'd grown up here. Rode my bike down that driveway. Climbed those oaks. Played hide and seek in rooms that cost more than most people's houses.
And I'd left it all behind for a man who'd just tried to kill me on a basement floor.
The medical team moved me into my old room—exactly as I'd left it eight years ago. Same white curtains, same view of the garden. Someone had kept fresh flowers on the nightstand. Every week, for eight years.
Dad.
They gave me blood transfusions, stitched me up properly this time, pumped me full of antibiotics. The pain was still there—deep, throbbing—but manageable now.
Sophia slept in a bassinet beside my bed. A proper one, appeared from nowhere, probably bought within the hour.
I dozed in and out. Every time I opened my eyes, someone was there. A nurse. A guard. Roman, checking in.
It was close to midnight when Roman came in one final time. His face was stone.
"They're here."
I knew what he meant.
"Where?"
"Downstairs. Your father's waiting for you. But only if you're strong enough."
I sat up. It hurt. Everything hurt. But I needed to see this.
"Help me up."
He gave me a look that said he knew better than to argue.
They brought me down in a wheelchair. Through the west wing, past the kitchen, down the service stairs. Into the room that didn't exist on any blueprint.
Soundproofed. Temperature controlled. Concrete floor with a drain in the center.
I'd never been allowed in here as a child. Now I understood why.
Derek was on his knees in the center of the room. Hands zip-tied behind his back. One eye was swollen shut, blood dripping from a cut above his brow.
Beside him—Vivian. Same position. Her silk robe was torn, makeup smeared into an ugly mask of fear. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
My father stood over them both, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He turned when he heard the wheelchair.
"You don't have to be here for this."
"Yes I do."
He studied me. Then nodded.
Derek's one good eye found me. Something in it—not remorse. Calculation. Even now. Even on his knees.
"Elena. Baby. Listen—this isn't what it looks like. I can explain everything. Vivian forced me into this, she threatened—"
Vivian's head snapped toward him. "WHAT? You lying piece of—you planned every second of this! You came to ME!"
"Shut up!" Derek's mask cracked. The charming husband, the smooth operator—all gone. Just a cornered animal underneath. "Just shut the fuck up, you stupid—"
My father moved.
One step forward. One hand around Derek's jaw. Grip so tight Derek's words died mid-sentence.
"You were talking," Dad said mildly. "I don't recall giving you permission."
Derek's eye went wide. Real fear now. The kind that makes grown men piss themselves.
"My daughter." Dad's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "You married my daughter under a fake identity. Got her pregnant. Cut her open conscious. Stole her child. Left her bleeding to death in a basement."
Each sentence landed like a hammer blow. Derek flinched at every one.
"Did I miss anything?"
Derek tried to shake his head. Couldn't. Dad's grip was iron.
"Good. Because I want to make sure the punishment fits."
He released Derek's jaw and straightened up.
"Roman."
"Yes, boss."
"The stream. Vivian's stream. Is it still archived?"
"Already downloaded. Every frame."
"Good. Make sure every single viewer gets identified. Every one who sent a gift, every one who cheered. I want names, addresses, employers."
He looked down at Derek.
"And this one. I want him awake for all of it."
Same iron gates. Same quarter-mile driveway lined with oaks. Same stone facade that looked like it belonged in another century.
I'd grown up here. Rode my bike down that driveway. Climbed those oaks. Played hide and seek in rooms that cost more than most people's houses.
And I'd left it all behind for a man who'd just tried to kill me on a basement floor.
The medical team moved me into my old room—exactly as I'd left it eight years ago. Same white curtains, same view of the garden. Someone had kept fresh flowers on the nightstand. Every week, for eight years.
Dad.
They gave me blood transfusions, stitched me up properly this time, pumped me full of antibiotics. The pain was still there—deep, throbbing—but manageable now.
Sophia slept in a bassinet beside my bed. A proper one, appeared from nowhere, probably bought within the hour.
I dozed in and out. Every time I opened my eyes, someone was there. A nurse. A guard. Roman, checking in.
It was close to midnight when Roman came in one final time. His face was stone.
"They're here."
I knew what he meant.
"Where?"
"Downstairs. Your father's waiting for you. But only if you're strong enough."
I sat up. It hurt. Everything hurt. But I needed to see this.
"Help me up."
He gave me a look that said he knew better than to argue.
They brought me down in a wheelchair. Through the west wing, past the kitchen, down the service stairs. Into the room that didn't exist on any blueprint.
Soundproofed. Temperature controlled. Concrete floor with a drain in the center.
I'd never been allowed in here as a child. Now I understood why.
Derek was on his knees in the center of the room. Hands zip-tied behind his back. One eye was swollen shut, blood dripping from a cut above his brow.
Beside him—Vivian. Same position. Her silk robe was torn, makeup smeared into an ugly mask of fear. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
My father stood over them both, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He turned when he heard the wheelchair.
"You don't have to be here for this."
"Yes I do."
He studied me. Then nodded.
Derek's one good eye found me. Something in it—not remorse. Calculation. Even now. Even on his knees.
"Elena. Baby. Listen—this isn't what it looks like. I can explain everything. Vivian forced me into this, she threatened—"
Vivian's head snapped toward him. "WHAT? You lying piece of—you planned every second of this! You came to ME!"
"Shut up!" Derek's mask cracked. The charming husband, the smooth operator—all gone. Just a cornered animal underneath. "Just shut the fuck up, you stupid—"
My father moved.
One step forward. One hand around Derek's jaw. Grip so tight Derek's words died mid-sentence.
"You were talking," Dad said mildly. "I don't recall giving you permission."
Derek's eye went wide. Real fear now. The kind that makes grown men piss themselves.
"My daughter." Dad's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "You married my daughter under a fake identity. Got her pregnant. Cut her open conscious. Stole her child. Left her bleeding to death in a basement."
Each sentence landed like a hammer blow. Derek flinched at every one.
"Did I miss anything?"
Derek tried to shake his head. Couldn't. Dad's grip was iron.
"Good. Because I want to make sure the punishment fits."
He released Derek's jaw and straightened up.
"Roman."
"Yes, boss."
"The stream. Vivian's stream. Is it still archived?"
"Already downloaded. Every frame."
"Good. Make sure every single viewer gets identified. Every one who sent a gift, every one who cheered. I want names, addresses, employers."
He looked down at Derek.
"And this one. I want him awake for all of it."