Broken Doll No More: Her Ruthless Revenge

Erica POV

I carried my grandmother's ashes in a simple brass urn. Though it was small, it felt heavier than the weight of the entire world.

I took the elevator up to the penthouse. This place had been my home for three years.

Or so I thought.

Now I knew it was just a cage gilded in gold.

I keyed in the code, and the door slid open.

Immediately, I heard laughter.

Bianca was there. She was wearing one of my silk robes, lounging on the sofa while drinking wine.

Anthony was sitting at the desk, counting money. He didn't even look up as I walked in.

"You are back," he said, his voice flat. "Did the old hag die?"

I gripped the urn tighter, my knuckles turning white.

"Don't talk about her," I said.

Bianca sat up, her movements languid.

"Is that her?" She pointed at the urn with her wine glass, sloshing the red liquid dangerously close to the rim. "She fits in a very small jar."

She giggled.

"Get out of my robe," I said.

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake. I had no power here.

Bianca's eyes narrowed.

"Your robe?" She stood up. "Everything here is Anthony's. And Anthony belongs to me. So this is my robe."

She walked over to me with a predator's grace.

She reached out and flicked the urn.

It made a hollow, disrespectful sound.

"Dust," she said. "Just like you."

I shoved her.

It wasn't a conscious decision; it was pure instinct.

The wine splashed onto the white carpet, staining it like fresh blood.

Bianca shrieked.

"Anthony!" she screamed. "She hit me!"

Anthony was across the room in a second.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't even look at the wine.

He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall.

My head cracked against the plaster, and stars exploded in my vision.

"Do not touch her," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "She is a Made daughter. You are nothing."

"She disrespected my grandmother," I choked out.

"I do not care," Anthony said.

He dragged me down the hall.

He knew my fears. I had told him once, in a moment of weakness.

I told him about the hazing in college. How Bianca's goons had locked me in a janitor's closet for two days. How the darkness made me feel like I was suffocating.

He dragged me to the panic room.

It was a steel box reinforced with concrete. Soundproof. Pitch black.

"You need a timeout," Anthony said, coldly. "You need to learn your place before the wedding."

"No," I begged, digging my heels into the floor. "Anthony, please. Not the dark."

He didn't hesitate.

He shoved me inside and I fell onto the cold metal floor.

I scrambled for the door, but it was too late.

The heavy steel slammed shut, and the lock clicked.

The darkness was absolute.

It pressed against my eyes. It filled my lungs.

I screamed.

I banged on the door until my fists bled, but no one came.

Eventually, I curled into a ball in the corner, hugging the urn. It was the only thing I had.

I sat there for hours. Maybe days. I lost track of time.

Panic came in waves. It felt like drowning.

But then, as exhaustion set in, the panic receded.

And something else took its place.

Clarity.

I sat in the dark and I thought about every lie. I thought about every touch.

I realized he wasn't just cruel. He was weak.

He needed to break me to feel strong. A truly powerful man wouldn't need to torture his wife to prove his dominance.

I stopped crying. I stopped banging on the door.

I sat in silence, letting the darkness become a shield rather than a weapon.

I waited.

When I finally heard the lock turn, I didn't scramble to get out.

I stayed seated.

The door opened, and light flooded in. It hurt my eyes.

Emmanuel stood there.

He looked down at me.

Based on his hesitant posture, I knew he expected to see a broken girl. He expected tears.

I looked up at him.

My face was dry. My expression was blank.

"Are we done?" I asked.

He blinked, clearly unsettled.

"Get up," he muttered. "We have things to do."

I stood up and walked past him.

I didn't look back at the dark.

I carried the darkness with me now.