Chapter 46: The Panic

Professional body snatcher.

The tiny ink letters burned into my retinas. My hands began to shake so violently the card fluttered to the duvet like a dying bird. Elena Rostova didn't just steal money or secrets; she stole entire lives. She had worn Sarah’s identity for years, and now she was fitted for mine.

I felt a cold, prickling sensation climb up my spine. My throat constricted, the air in the room suddenly too thin to support my lungs.

*Deep breaths, Elara. One. Two.*

The walls of the master bedroom seemed to lean inward. The minimalist glass and steel weren't modern architecture anymore; they were the bars of a high-end cage. I was a blank space they were preparing to fill.

I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. The panic was a rising tide, a physical weight pressing against my chest. I looked at the smart hub on the wall, its tiny red eye blinking. Was she watching me right now? Was she laughing at the "incubator" finally realizing she was also the "sacrifice"?

I dove back into the closet, the only place the camera couldn't see. I sank to the floor, pulling a row of heavy winter coats over my head like a shroud. The wool smelled of cedar and Mark’s cologne—a scent that used to mean safety and now only smelled like a trap.

The timeline was moving too fast. Friday wasn't the deadline anymore. Mark had said "tomorrow morning." The plane. The Caymans. The "procedure" I wasn't meant to survive.

"Get up," I hissed to myself, my voice a jagged edge in the dark. "Don't you dare break now."

I needed to be ready. I couldn't be the sedated victim they expected. I had to be a weapon.

I reached into the rolled-up sweater where I’d stashed Sarah’s phone. I pulled it out, the screen still dark. I needed to keep it hidden, but I also needed to know it was charged. I plugged it back into the baby monitor cable, hiding the glowing Apple logo behind a stack of shoe boxes.

Then I began the exercises again. Squats. Lunges. Small, silent movements designed to wake up muscles that had been sleeping for weeks. Every time my c-section scar pulled, I used the pain as an anchor. It was a reminder of why I was fighting. For Lily.

I looked around the closet floor, searching for anything I could use. My jewelry box was gone. My nail scissors were gone. They had stripped the room of every sharp edge.

I crawled back toward the nightstand, staying low, keeping my head below the line of the bed so the camera wouldn't catch me. I reached up and gripped the handle of the heavy glass water pitcher Chloe had left on the tray.

It was crystal, thick and weighted at the bottom. If I broke it, I’d have a dozen jagged shards. But the noise would bring them running.

I needed something whole. Something heavy enough to crack a skull but small enough to hide.

I felt along the underside of the nightstand. There was a metal bracket holding the drawer slide in place. It was secured with two small Phillips-head screws.

I gripped the bracket, testing the metal. It was solid. If I could get it loose...

Downstairs, a door slammed. The lawyer was leaving.

"The papers are signed," Chloe’s voice drifted up the stairs, sharp and victorious. "The flight is confirmed for 6:00 AM."

I looked at the clock. 9:00 PM.

Nine hours left.

I gripped the glass pitcher, the cool surface grounding my racing heart. It was a pathetic defense against a gun and a professional killer, but it was all the house had left to give me.

I looked at the heavy glass water pitcher. It would have to do.