Matteo, Leonardo, and Alessandro, the powerful owners of De Angeli Enterprises, are in their early thirties and have built a fearsome reputation worldwide. Known for their ruthlessness and ambition, these men have amassed wealth and influence by tak...
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Yulia woke up as she always did—her body screaming in pain, her ribs throbbing with every shallow breath, her skin tender and raw from the latest beating. She barely felt human anymore. She was a vessel for pain, a hollow shell that somehow refused to give up, even when every moment begged her to.
They had sent her to the red room again. She could still hear the doctor's cold, detached words echoing in her mind, the clinical assessment of her failing body. "She won't make it this time." The memory made her smile—an eerie, broken thing. Death. For the first time, the idea didn't scare her. It was almost comforting, a release from the unending torment that had become her life. How many years had it been? She didn't know anymore. The days and nights blurred together, an endless cycle of pain and hopelessness. No one had come. No one was coming.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, wincing as a sharp pain tore through her ribs. Instinctively, she moved her hand to press against the ache, trying to soothe it. But as her hand rose, she felt it—something solid, something close. Her palm brushed against wood, rough and unyielding.
Her chest tightened. Her heart raced. She gulped, her mouth dry, her throat aching from disuse.
"No," she whispered, the word barely audible, her voice hoarse and fragile from years of silence. "Please, God... no."
Her fingers trembled as they traced the surface above her. It was smooth in some places, splintered in others. The realization hit her like a lightning strike, sharp and cruel and undeniable. It wasn't just wood. It was a lid.
She was in a coffin.
"No!" she rasped, her voice breaking as panic surged through her veins. "Please... no!" Her hoarse cries echoed in the tight, suffocating space. She banged her fists against the lid, the dull thuds reverberating in the confined darkness. Her nails clawed at the wood, splintering and bleeding as desperation overtook her.
Her breathing came fast and shallow, each gasp scraping against her bruised ribs, sending waves of pain through her broken body. Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable. She didn't want to die like this—not like this. Not alone. Not buried, forgotten, erased.
Yulia sobbed, her cries muffled by the crushing silence around her. She tried to calm herself, to think, to focus, but her mind was a whirlwind of fear and grief. Her thoughts spun wildly, grasping for anything—any memory, any idea, any shred of hope.
She thought of them. Matteo, Alessandro, Leonardo. Their faces flickered in her mind, a cruel and fleeting comfort. She wondered if they still thought of her, if they had searched for her. If they would ever know what had happened to her.
Her hands fell limp against the lid as despair took hold. She was so tired. So broken. And yet, even as her hope crumbled, something deep inside her refused to give in.
With trembling hands, she pressed against the lid again, searching for any weakness, any gap, any chance. She clawed and scratched and pushed, even as her strength waned, even as her body screamed for rest.
