Chapter 45

• Belle***
• The silence after Victor's departure was suffocating. The air hung thick and stale, carrying the faint metallic tang of fear and the cold, oppressive weight of the room pressing down on Belle's chest. Belle sat on the cold wooden floor, her breath ragged, the memory of his touch lingering like a burn. Her wrist throbbed where his fingers had bruised her skin, but the pain was secondary to the dread coiling in her chest.
• "Tomorrow," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. Whatever Victor had planned, it wouldn't be mercy.