Our Forced Love

𝒯𝓌ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓎-𝒮𝒾𝓍

Aurora

I wiped the crumbs from my lips, forcing a smile as I looked up at Santiago. "Thank you," I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. He returned my smile, his eyes glinting with an unsettling warmth. It's been two weeks since I woke up in this hell, and I've been sticking to my plan. The ropes binding me have finally come off, and I can stand and walk freely. It feels both liberating and suffocating.

"You're welcome, my sweetheart," he replied, his tone almost mocking. "I heard you like pasta. Would you like that for dinner today?"

A heavy sigh slipped from my lips, a sound layered with the weight of longing. It was hard to maintain the facade of calm and gratitude while my heart ached for Antonio. I could only imagine what he was doing right now, how desperately he might be searching for me. I just hope he's hurrying, because I don't know how much longer I can endure this nightmare.

"Yes, that would be nice," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He grabbed the plate and left the cell, the door clanging shut behind him.

As soon as he was gone, I glanced around the dimly lit space before pulling out my knife from beneath the rusty bed I refuse to lay on. Santiago had insisted on placing a decent mattress in here, claiming, "A sweetheart like you doesn't deserve that." But I knew it was a trap; comfort was just another form of control.

I had kept one of the butter knives from lunch, sharpening it against the edge of the bed until it glistened with potential. Day by day, it grew sharper, and Santiago remained blissfully unaware of my growing resolve.

When my arms grew tired, I stood up to stretch my legs, sliding down into a wall sit to strengthen my core. I had never been one for exercise, but now, I felt an urgent need to prepare myself for the unimaginable—if the moment came when I had to fight for my life, or for someone else's.

I had begun to understand why Antonio killed. It wasn't out of cruelty, but out of a fierce protectiveness for his family. I had always tried to distance myself from his world, but now it loomed over me, demanding my engagement. I had to put myself in Antonio's shoes and accept that I might have to take a life to reclaim my own.

The thought of potentially stabbing someone no longer haunted me as it once did. It was a grim necessity, one I had to embrace if I ever wanted to escape and return to Antonio.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and I quickly slipped my improvised shiv back under the bed, returning to a more subdued position on the floor. Santiago reappeared, this time with a stack of books in hand. "I know you love reading. Figured I'd bring you some books to enjoy," he said, his smile disarming.

"Thank you," I replied, taking the books from him, feeling the weight of their stories offer a brief respite from my reality.

As he turned to leave, I called out, "Santiago, wait." He paused and looked back at me, curiosity etched across his face. "Why do you hate Antonio?"

The question hung in the air, a gamble I hoped would pay off. If he opened up, I could use it to my advantage.

"Because he humiliated me," he replied, his voice low and brooding. He sank down beside me, staring at the wall as if it held the answers to his pain. "We used to be friends, you know? Grew up together, trained together. Until middle school. He became distant, and one day he told me we couldn't be friends anymore because we were meant to be rivals. I didn't care then—friendships fade. But then he started bullying me, throwing my backpack in the dumpster, forcing me to fish it out myself."

His anger was palpable, and I could see how the memories twisted his features. "He thought I was jealous, that I was trying to undermine him. Then, in high school, I fell in love for the first time. You want to know what your precious husband did? He manipulated her, made her think he was better, and she broke up with me, running straight to him. He's taken everything from me. Doesn't he deserve the same?"