Chiara’s face, pale as the sheet from years without sunlight, had lips as red as blood. She looked as terrifying as she always had.
I remembered the first time I’d asked her if she wanted to leave. She had innocently asked back just like this.
An odd term popped into my mind–Stockholm Syndrome.
After spending seven years in the basement, she had likely grown to love the twisted affection that came from it.
My teeth chattered. These two people were both insane.
I had once hoped that if she managed to escape, she might come back to rescue me. Now my last hope was dashed.
My heart felt as cold as ashes, and my hand dropped slowly at my side.
Suddenly, a cold glint caught my eyes. I instinctively raised my hand to shield them, but an intense pain spread from my chest.
A dagger was driven deep into my chest. Chiara twisted it cruelly, and I could feel my heart being torn apart.
The pain surged like an overwhelming tide, making it hard to breathe.
“Die, you bitch. Don’t even think about stealing Ethan from me,” she said with cruel softness. “By the time he comes back, you’ve already ended up at the bottom of the sea. I’ll tell him that you ran away, and he’ll just dismiss it. Your death won’t matter to
anyone.”
Her laughter was shrill, her lips twisted into a grotesque grin.
I collapsed to the ground, feeling my life drain away.
Blood oozed from my chest, staining the marble floor with a dark, spreading bloom of red.
The door to the villa opened.
Ethan came back, holding candy and a bunch of strawberries.
