“Don’t worry, diamond. We’re almost to your new home,” Rick croons, the sound grinding against my already frayed nerves. “Francesca is going to love you.”
The ominous tone in his voice tenses my body further. Something about the way he said it makes me feel like I have more to fear from her than any man who comes my way.
“W-who is she?”
He’s quiet for a moment, but it’s not Rick who answers. “The one person you want to impress the most,” Rio says, his voice grave.
“Why?”
“Because she will determine just how miserable your life will be until you’re sold.”
My head drops and I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s only been six days, and I feel defeated already. I’ve been gone for such an insignificant amount of time, and my spirit is already fissuring.
I take a deep breath and blow it out, slow and steady.
I’m not going to give up. I know with every fiber of my being that Zade is going to do everything in his power to find me. But I’m not going to sit around and wait either. I’ll meet him halfway if I can.
So, if winning over Francesca is what I need to do, then I'll do it.
I’ve always been stupidly brave—to the point where I’ve been more stupid than brave. I’m not going to stop now.
Chapter 5
The Diamond
At one point in our lives, we’re all afraid to die. For some, it happens the first moment we fully understand what death means—before depression, anxiety, and other mental health issues arise.
For others, it’s before they’ve found something to believe in—whether it’s God or something else that’s spiritual.
And there are those who flounder through life, terrified of the day they take their last breath. I think for some, they aren’t so much scared of death itself, but rather, how they’re going to die.
So, how am I going to die?
Will it be painful? Will I suffer? Will I be terrified?
Gigi felt all those things when she was murdered by a man she trusted, and likely cared deeply for.
When she started having an affair with her stalker, Ronaldo, it not only destroyed her marriage, but it took her life. Only not by her stalker or husband like one would expect, but by her husband’s best friend, Frank Seinburg.
For so long, I was convinced I’d have a similar demise at the hands of my own stalker. Instead, I gave in to his dark perusals, and found myself loving him instead.
I tried so hard to run from him, and now all I want to do is run to him.
During the rest of the car ride, I stayed silent. At least, verbally—my teeth chattered the entire way and eventually, one of the men got annoyed and turned up the heat.
An imperceptible amount of time passes before we come to a stop, dread settling deeply in my gut. I steel my spine and wait as both men exit the van, the doors slamming in tandem.
Then, the door to my left slides open, inviting an icy breeze in. A rough, calloused hand wraps around my arm and tugs. It feels like the Grim Reaper is holding on to me, escorting me to my death.
“Ow,” I cry out, on the verge of screaming from how bad it hurts to move. He ignores me and barks, “Let’s go.”
That’s Rick’s voice.
His grip on my arm is unnecessarily tight as he drags me out of the vehicle. As if a woman who was just in a bad car accident and riddled with injuries is going to overpower him and get away.
I don’t even know where the fuck we are.
A gust of freezing wind blows, sending another wave of goosebumps across my body. My teeth start chattering again, the cold becoming nearly unbearable.
The black sack is ripped off my head, and I flinch from the harsh light. It’s dreary outside, but since I haven’t seen daylight in quite a while it has made my eyes sensitive.
Squinting, my gaze immediately jumps to the monstrosity towering before me.
Rick splays his arm out towards the two-story colonial home, presenting the house to me as if I’m at a five-star restaurant, and he’s pulling the lid off my tray to reveal the best meal I’ll ever have. I’ve never been anywhere so fancy, but from the videos I’ve seen on the internet, it looks like a bunch of baby portions of foam and sticks wrapped in meat.
So—not appealing.
The house isn’t as run-down as I would have thought, but still not in the best shape. Vines of moss are running up the cracked white paneling, reminding me a little of Parsons Manor. Just not as… pretty. It’s discolored with boarded windows, a sagging porch and—is that duct tape?
“Looks… inviting,” I murmur.