Twisted Addiction: Chapter 20

The sudden absence of his touch was almost worse than the violence.

He turned, shoulders heaving, fury radiating off him in waves. In a single sweeping motion, he sent everything on the counter crashing to the floor.

Glass exploded, scattering across the tile like shards of frozen light.

He punched the wall—once. Twice. Three times. The plaster splintered under his fist, the sound echoing through the house like gunfire. Blood smeared the white paint.

He turned back to me, his face raw, unmasked, eyes fever-bright with a kind of love that wasn’t love at all—it was hunger, obsession, grief twisted beyond repair.

“Do you know what terrifies me most?” he said, his voice shaking despite the steel in it, “It’s the thought of you dying and leaving me behind.”

He took a step closer, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

His lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so broken. “I can’t breathe in a world where you don’t exist. So I’ll keep you alive in the only way I know—by tearing you apart piece by piece, until every part of you remembers me.”

Something inside me broke—not from fear, but sorrow.

Because I saw it then. Beneath the monster he’d become was still the boy who used to whisper my name under summer rain.

The boy who’d been beaten, betrayed, and rebuilt into this creature of vengeance.

He didn’t hate me; he hated himself. And every wound he inflicted on me was another attempt to silence the screaming inside him.

My heart cracked.

And then his next words turned that sorrow into cold horror.

“And that child will never be born,” he murmured, deliberate and slow. “So you may live, Penelope… to grow old at my side, drowning in our shared ruin, our endless suffering.

My breath caught, the meaning sinking in, terror spiking through my veins. But I forced myself to meet his gaze.

To lie.

“I already ended it,” I said, clinging to Giovanni’s lie like a shield.

My voice came out steady, even as fear clawed its way up my throat. “Giovanni gave me misoprostol. I took it on the drive here. He knew I was terrified of injections.”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion sharpening his blue gaze.

He studied me as if he could read the truth beneath my words, as if my body would betray me sooner or later.

Then, almost imperceptibly, relief crossed his face—brief, fleeting, but there.

His shoulders eased slightly, the tight line of his jaw softening ever so little, though the storm in his eyes didn’t fade entirely.

“Good,” he said finally, the word clipped, decisive.

He believed me.

He’d bought the lie.

But his relief chilled me more than his rage ever had.

I exhaled silently, forcing myself to keep my composure.

I needed to warn Giovanni, to make sure our stories aligned. My escape depended on this lie, on disappearing before my pregnancy became undeniable.

Dmitri bent down slowly, his movements precise, almost ritualistic, and picked the gun off the floor. He turned it in his hand once, checking the chamber, then leveled it at me.

The metallic click of the safety disengaging made my pulse spike.

My heart stuttered.

He had no reason to keep me alive now.

“Before you shoot me,” I said, forcing my voice to steady though it trembled around the edges, “tell me who Seraphina is.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp and dangerous.

“I know she’s not a lie,” I pressed on, my voice rising despite myself. “Antonio told me, Dmitri. She’s real.”

His jaw tightened, his finger twitching near the trigger.

For a long, unbearable second, he said nothing.

Only the sound of rain against the windows filled the silence, soft but relentless, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable.

Then, finally—

“Move,” he said.

His voice was flat, controlled, but I caught the slight tremor beneath it.

He gestured with the gun toward the hallway.

I slid off the island carefully, my legs unsteady, my body trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion.

The floor was cold beneath my bare feet, glass crunching under my heel as I obeyed.

As I passed him, I felt the heat of his nearness.

Why won’t he tell me?

My chest ached with frustration and fear. He had done this before—when we were newly married, the same questions, the same silence, like some cruel pattern meant to break me.

Was she real? Or had Giovanni been lying, keeping me blind?

My stomach twisted with the thought that maybe Seraphina was more than real—maybe she was here, in his life, in ways I wasn’t meant to know. Maybe he kept her close, maybe as a mistress, maybe something far worse.

In the dim corridor, shadows stretched long and uneven.

I could feel his gaze on my back, burning, dissecting.

As we moved through the mansion, silence thick between us, I could feel the weight of everything pressing in—the ghosts of our past, the storm outside, the gun still in his hand.

My mind raced, mapping every exit, every possible chance to escape.

“Keep moving,” Dmitri ordered, his voice a cold blade slicing through the tense corridor.

Each word vibrated with fury, edged with grief, leaving no room for hesitation.

My legs shook as I stepped forward.

The weight of his revelations pressed down on me—the knowledge of his mother’s death, my family’s betrayal, the blood that seemed to stain us both.

I stopped, planting my feet like a defiant sentinel, even as the tremor of panic coursed through me.

“My secretary’s sister is Seraphina,” I said, my voice sharper than I expected, trembling under the strain. “She came to the office for Elena—slim, elegant, graceful. Is that her? The flawless phantom you’ve been comparing me to? The woman you think I should’ve been?”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his fingers moved with precise, deliberate motion over his phone. Seconds stretched like hours.

“Keep moving, Penelope,” he repeated, voice harder this time.

“No!” I snapped, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I’d held back—rage, fear, heartbreak. “Answer me, damn it! Tell me why you always shut down when I ask about her! Why you never say her name, never tell me who she is. I’ve asked you over and over, Dmitri, and you just—pretend she doesn’t exist!”

My breath hitched, tears burning my throat. “You’ve already broken me… so what truth could possibly destroy me now?”

The hallway seemed to shrink, shadows crawling along the marble walls as his silence pressed against me.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

Movement flickered at the edge of my vision.

Giovanni emerged from the shadows, the limp in his stride barely noticeable, his scarred face a mask I couldn’t read.

“Lock her up,” Dmitri said flatly, almost casually, yet the cold precision in his tone made it final.

“No!” I staggered back, breath hitching.

My hands scrambled for anything—vase, lamp, candlestick—anything that could give me leverage.

Panic coiled in my throat.

The gun in Dmitri’s hand gleamed like a promise of pain, and Giovanni was closing the distance, inexorable.

“Don’t make me force you, Penelope,” Giovanni said, voice low, almost pleading, but with an edge that told me he would do it if I resisted. “Come with me.”

The walls of the mansion seemed to pulse around me.

My back hit the cold marble, the chandelier light catching on Dmitri’s gun, his eyes burning into mine.

Every part of me screamed defiance. Every nerve in my body screamed terror.

“You can’t lock me up for asking about Seraphina!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Why can’t you just say it? Tell me who she is! Locking me up won’t erase her!”

The thought of being locked away ate at me. How long would he keep me—one night, a week… forever? No. I refused to be his captive.

Dmitri’s face hardened, eyes like steel, the barrel of the gun unwavering. “You shot me,” he growled, the words like acid. “Consider this the beginning of your punishment.”

He paused—just a second—but it was enough. “Had nothing to do with…” His throat worked, his jaw tightened, and he looked away.

He couldn’t even say her name.

Giovanni’s hand reached for me, and my fight-or-flight flared.

I couldn’t stay, couldn’t submit.

Yet the gun, Dmitri’s presence, the sheer inevitability of it all pressed in like a vice.

My world had narrowed to a single corridor, a single choice—and I felt the walls closing in, the shadows thickening, my heart hammering as I realized the nightmare was only beginning.

There was no escaping the devils circling me.

They’d lock me up no matter what I said. Fine. But I wouldn’t go quietly.

“You’ve been sleeping with her,” I spat, my voice shaking, caught between heartbreak and fury. “You used her like a weapon to hurt me. Fine — lock me up, humiliate me, tell yourself it’s justice. But don’t pretend you’re brave. You’re just a man who hides behind cruelty.”

For a flicker, something almost human crossed his face—but it vanished just as quickly, smothered beneath ice.

“Giovanni,” he said, lethal. A command, not a word.

He didn’t even look at me. Didn’t dare to.

Giovanni stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his movements slow and deliberate.

His hand reached for my arm, firm but hesitant, as if he hated what he was ordered to do.

I thrashed, twisting out of his grasp, nails clawing at air.

“You said you hate me?” I screamed, the words shredding my throat. “Then hate me—but know I fucking hate you too, Dmitri! You hear me? I hate you—for every lie, every bruise, every night I still loved you!”

The sound of my voice cracked through the hall like thunder—raw, ugly, alive.

Every word was a knife, and I didn’t care if it cut me too.

The pain of his betrayal—of knowing Seraphina was real—devoured me from the inside out.

Not a phantom. Not a lie.

A woman. A comparison.

A ghost I could never kill.

I’d believed Giovanni’s lie like a desperate fool. Of course he’d said what Dmitri wanted him to. Of course they’d both played me—master and servant, puppeteer and string. The realization twisted deep in my gut, hot and cold all at once.

I hated them.

But most of all, I hated myself—for ever trusting him. For ever loving him.

Giovanni dragged me down the corridor, his grip tightening as I fought him with everything I had left.

My feet scraped marble, my hair whipping into my face.

“You’re a monster, Dmitri!” I screamed, my voice echoing down the hall. “You killed the only part of me that ever loved you.” I sobbed. “I’ll never forgive you for it.”

My words chased him as he disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the mansion’s silence.

And then it hit me—the unbearable quiet, the weight of my own sobs echoing against the walls.

I turned on Giovanni, fury snapping through tears. “And you,” I hissed, my voice cracking. “You lied to me. You said Seraphina didn’t exist—you let me believe she was fiction!”

He said nothing, his jaw clenching as he tried to guide me forward again.

“You knew she was real—an Orlov heir, Elena’s sister,” I choked out, my voice cracking between sobs. “And you let me drown in his lies, Giovanni!

Giovanni’s eyes darkened, guilt flickering there, but he didn’t defend himself.

So I did the only thing I could—lash out. My teeth sank into his hand, hard, until I tasted the salt of his skin and the copper of blood.

He flinched, hissing, pulling away, but didn’t retaliate.

“Ma’am,” he said, softer, almost broken. “Please… don’t make this harder.”

He looked torn apart, but his hand still reached for me—steady, deliberate, determined.

“Let me go!” I cried, twisting hard, my body jerking in panic. His fingers clamped around my wrist like steel.

“You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded, my voice shaking violently. “If you had an ounce of conscience left, Giovanni, you’d let me go! You know this isn’t right—you know what he’s become!”

He shut his eyes, jaw tightening as if my words were blades, but his grip didn’t loosen.

He pulled me toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall.

The hinges groaned as he forced it open, the smell of dust and cold air bleeding out like a warning.

Inside, the darkness was almost tangible—thick, suffocating, like it wanted to swallow me whole.

“Giovanni—wait!”

He said nothing, just guided me over the threshold.

The door slammed behind me with a brutal thud, the echo shattering the silence.

A second later came the metallic click of the lock—final, merciless, like a coffin sealing shut.

“Giovanni!” I screamed, slamming my palms against the door until they burned. “Please—don’t leave me here!” My voice cracked, echoing back at me from the cold walls.

“You know I’m planning to escape!” I gasped, pounding harder, my nails scraping against the wood.

“I told him you gave me misoprostol—that I aborted the baby! You know it’s not true! If he finds out, he’ll make sure you and I never see daylight again!”

No response. Just the echo of my own voice, ragged and breaking.

I pressed my forehead to the door, tears streaking my cheeks. “You’re not like him, Giovanni. I know you’re not. You’ve seen what he’s capable of—what he becomes when he’s angry. You can’t let him do this to me!”

My voice dropped to a whisper, shaking. “Please. I’m scared. It’s too dark—I can’t stay here alone!” My words dissolved into sobs. “Giovanni, please… Don’t leave me here. I can’t… I can’t breathe in the dark…”

A pause.

Then, muffled through the wood: “I’m sorry, Penelope.”

His voice trembled—barely holding itself together. “I can’t help.”

“No—no, you can,” I begged, my palms slamming against the door until my skin burned. “You can help me. You always have. Please, Giovanni, don’t leave me here!”

His silence felt like betrayal—heavy and deliberate.

“Don’t you dare walk away!” I screamed, my voice breaking, raw from panic. “Giovanni—a pregnant woman in the dark, alone? You know how dangerous that is! You know what this could do to me!”

Silence.

Then the slow, heavy drag of his footsteps retreating down the corridor—hesitant at first, then faster, desperate to escape the sound of me falling apart.

“Giovanni!” I slammed both palms against the door, my skin stinging. “Please! Don’t leave me here—please!”

My voice cracked into sobs.” You can’t do this! It’s too dark! I can’t see a thing. It’s too scary here… Giovaniiiiii! Don’t go. Please. I’m begging you… don’t go…”

The echo of my voice came back twisted, warped by the emptiness.

I turned, chest heaving, but the dark was everywhere—total, consuming.

My eyes strained, searching for anything, a crack of light, a window, but there was nothing. Not even the faint shimmer of my own reflection in the air.

It pressed against me, heavy and alive.

The walls seemed to breathe.

The air thickened, every exhale bouncing back into my lungs like someone else was sharing it.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, too loud, too fast.

And then—voices. Laughter. Whispered and wrong.

No. No, it wasn’t real.

But the dark didn’t care about what was real.

The shadows shifted, crawling closer, and suddenly I was a child again—cornered, small, helpless.

My uncles’ rough hands gripped my arms, dragging me into their corners of the house where no one looked, no one cared.

Their breath, sour and hot, burned my skin.

They were dead. They were dead.

But here, in this dark room, they weren’t. They lived inside the dark.

“Get away!” I screamed, backing into the wall, my palms scraping against cold stone. “Don’t touch me! Don’t—”

Hands weren’t there—but I felt them.

On my arms, my throat, my thighs.

I clawed at my skin, my nails leaving burning welts.

The copper tang of blood hit my tongue before I even realized I was biting my lip raw.

I punched at the air, at ghosts that wouldn’t fade, at memories that refused to stay buried.

Their laughter echoed, low and distorted. The sound of my own sobs joined it until I couldn’t tell which belonged to me anymore.

And for a terrible, shattering moment, I thought maybe Dmitri had been right—maybe I was cursed.

Maybe I’d always been.

Then my legs gave out. I hit the floor hard, the cold concrete knocking the breath from my lungs.

My hand brushed my thigh—wet, sticky—and I realized it wasn’t just from the scratches. The bleeding had started again. The subchorionic hematoma.

A shudder tore through me.

“This… this is too much,” I breathed, shaking my head in disbelief. I shot him, I know I did—but I was scared, desperate. I didn’t deserve this. To be locked away, alone, like something to be discarded.” My hand pressed over my belly, trembling.

I’m only trying to protect my child… and he wants me buried alive for it. Alone with ghosts that won’t stop haunting me.

I pressed my back to the wall, trembling, my breath shallow. Exhaustion wrapped around me like chains.

I didn’t know when I slipped under—whether it was sleep or the mercy of unconsciousness—but when I woke, the air was colder.

Footsteps echoed. Slow. Deliberate.

A man’s voice followed, low and sharp, cutting through the dark like a knife.

“Penelope.”

No. No. It couldn’t be—

My father.

The sound of him dragged every nerve raw.

I clamped my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, but his voice pushed through, closer, louder, like it lived inside my skull.

“You failed us,” he whispered, venom threading every syllable.

My body convulsed with a sob.

“You’re not real!” I screamed, my voice hoarse, breaking on the word. “You’re not real!”

But he stood there, or something like him—his outline flickering in the dark, his eyes twin shards of judgment.

The world fractured, and the memories came, violent and unstoppable.

My father’s hand striking my face.

My uncles’ laughter.

Dmitri’s voice—his fury. Blood on his arm. Seraphina’s shadow behind him.

I couldn’t breathe. The images came too fast, too loud. I clawed at my scalp, my nails tearing skin, desperate to silence it, to end it. My screams tangled with sobs, the sound bouncing off the walls until it didn’t even sound like me anymore.

Then my chest constricted. A sudden, vicious clamp, like someone had wrapped their hands around my lungs and refused to let go.

The asthma attack hit without warning.

I gasped, each breath thinner than the last.

Panic clawed up my throat, my body jerking in reflex as I fell to my knees.

The floor was freezing, the air thick and heavy, impossible to pull in.

I clawed at my neck, at the air, wheezing, my mind screaming breathe, breathe, but my lungs refused.

The room spun. My vision fractured into specks of light and black. My fingers fumbled against the floor, searching for the inhaler that wasn’t there.

“Help…” I rasped, barely a sound. “Please…”

No answer. Only silence.

My chest burned.

My heart slammed against my ribs, each beat slower than the last. The world tilted—then folded.

And the darkness devoured me whole.