She is the Queen

Chapter 28

Slowly, I began to regain consciousness. Yet, coming back was coupled with a severe, engulfing pain seeping from every inch of my body. My legs ached, and one felt inexplicably numb. Any attempt to move it led to a rush of pain that further debilitated me. My throat was parched, my head heavy. This was a feeling of torment I had not experienced in a long time, a chilling reminder of the ruthless kidnapping I had endured at the tender age of 8. Back then, my captor delighted in daily beatings, leaving my body aching and bruised. Since those horrific days until now, I had not felt such bitter pain overriding my senses.

My memory refused to cooperate, the jumbled pieces not fitting together. I pouted, trying to concentrate and piece together the events leading up to my current state. Why was Andrea's comforting warmth missing from my side? Why could I no longer feel his reassuring weight? And the unfamiliar scent that filled the air was certainly not Andrea's.

In an attempt to touch the surface beneath me, my fingers grazed the silky bed mattress. However, my right hand was encased in something stiff, rendering it immobile. Was this just some bizarre dream where I was paralyzed? Confusion wrapped its tight hold around me, clouding my mind further.

And then, like a tidal wave, it all came crashing back.

The relentless torture. The excruciating agony. But how did I end up on a bed?

It was time to open my eyes.

My eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the invasively bright daylight that flooded the enormous room, the king-sized bed beneath me an unfamiliar surrounding. The warm brush of sunlight against my skin, however, provided a comforting embrace amid my confusion. I blinked several times to adjust to the light and tried to sit up. My attempt was fruitless but was soon aided gently by an unknown force. Another pillow was slid behind me, propping me up, and a blanket was pulled slightly higher up to my chest.

My mind continued to toy with me. Could it be Andrea? No, of course not. It was Alex. Why the sudden kindness, though? He was my tormentor mere hours ago, the cause of my physical agony. Why would he display such gentleness now?

"How are you feeling?" The question floated from Alex's lips as he settled into the chair next to the bed.

I shrugged in response, distancing my gaze from his scrutinizing eyes. Energy to maintain a conversation was far from present within me, especially not with him. He had played a significant role in facilitating my pain, how was I to engage?

"Laila, if only you spoke, this could have been avoided," he expressed with an unnerving calmness. Summoning the little strength left, I swallowed lightly to moisten my parched throat in preparation for breaking my silence. I diverted my eyes back to him, piercing him with an intense stare.

"You declared me his lover, didn't you?" I countered, my voice barely above a whisper, yet the conviction resonated. "Surely, you should understand I wouldn't compromise someone I hold significant."

A line of tension drew across his face. "He's not worth it," he responded tersely.

My retort came instantaneously, despite the pain lacing each word, "To me, he is."

Alex inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering shut as his grip tightened on his lap. I observed his pulsing veins, a telltale sign of his mounting anger. Unaffected, my eyes drifted towards the window while anguish pulsed through every fiber of my being. 

I held his gaze and declared with icy clarity, "You lied to me.

A seemingly forgotten memory had wrestled its way to the forefront of my mind, the fog induced by their chemicals momentarily lifting. Alex never had a brother. This realization sparked a sense of betrayal within me, one that was strangely potent despite the fact that Alex was nothing to me. He owed me nothing. However, this did not diminish the disappointment coursing through my veins.

My gaze remained dedicated to the window and I remained oblivious to his actions until he took a seat on my bedside. His proximity was uncomfortably close, yet I held my tongue.

"I-" He began, but I didn't have the patience to entertain another lie.

"You lied to me," I reiterated, my eyes narrowing sharply at him.

His only defense was a weak attempt at justification. "I had to get you to talk," he uttered, his index finger nervously tracing the corner of his brow.

"And did it work?" I challenged, not expecting a reply. It didn't matter what Alex or his men had done or would have resorted to; I would never have betrayed Andrea.

The realization struck me then, the bitter sting of betrayal. He had manipulated me to turn against Andrea, and even if it was only for a fleeting moment, I had fallen for his lies. I may not have betrayed Andrea in action, but mentally I had allowed the seeds of doubt and disappointment to root.

I berated myself aloud, my voice laced with self-loathing. "How stupid I was to believe you."

The guilt I had felt over his non-existent brother, the sadness I had allowed to consume me, was based on a lie. A mere fabrication designed to weaken my defenses. I spat out the painful truth, hoping it would serve as a deterrent from future manipulations.

"Your non-existent brother," I reminded him bitterly, finally tearing my gaze away from the window to look at him. His eyes mirrored shock and perhaps a hint of regret, but I didn't care. I had a battle to fight, a puzzle to decode, and most importantly, a survival game to win.

It was a struggle, my voice straining against the weakness gnawing at my core, but I forced the words out. My breathing was heavy, and, out of the corner of my eye, I registered the faintest touch on my left hand. He was holding it. I glanced down and was greeted with an unfamiliar sight in his eyes - something that almost, though absurdly, resembled guilt or regret

Shaking my head lightly, I dismissed the notion. With all the energy I could muster, I withdrew my hand from his grasp

"Laila" he called, a silent plea lacing his voice.

Ignoring him, I stared blankly at the wall, willing myself not to be drawn into his words. He gently tried again, this time his voice dropping to a whisper, but I didn't grace him with a reaction.

Unable to comprehend my feelings toward him, I chastised myself. Why did I allow myself to trust him so quickly, especially when he was undeniably my adversary? Fear, possibly. I needed some solidity in a world that was rapidly spiraling into an abyss of nightmares, a deja-vu of my dreadful past. I craved something - someone - to anchor me. Yet, I knew that dropping my guard around him, allowing myself to become vulnerable, was a lapse in judgment that I couldn't afford to repeat.

"Блядь" he muttered under his breath, the Russian curse word familiar thanks to my multilingual summer school friends.

"я прошу прощения" he continued. (I'm sorry.)

I didn't understand the rest of his murmured string of Russian phrases.

With that, he left, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the unbearable guilt hovering around me. The guilt that had been nurtured and nourished by his fabricated tales. The guilt that had been uncalled for because his brother never truly existed.