Chapter 1

I'll survive. Somehow i always do.

Yerenica's pov

I learned early how to disappear. How to melt into the walls, into the shadows. The orphanage taught me that. Being invisible kept you safe. Kept you breathing.

But right now, in the back of this car, there's no hiding. No melting away.

The dress clings to my skin, too tight, too revealing, too wrong. Every inch of me feels exposed, like my body doesn't belong to me anymore. The welts on my back pulse with every beat of my heart, a cruel reminder of Madam Vera's lesson.

"You break something, you pay for it," she had whispered, her voice a blade against my ear.

She hadn't just meant the glass I shattered.

The cane had cracked against my spine before I could even stammer out an apology. Once, twice, three times and with each strike burning deep, branding her punishment into my skin all i wished was to be swallowed by the black fog that always lurked at the edges of my senses. "Clumsy girls don't make money," she had spat before walking away, leaving me curled up on the cold tile floor.

Now, I press my spine against the backseat, willing the sting away, but the pain lingers. Just like her words. Just like everything. The seat's worn leather reeking of sweat, smoke, and something rotten that made my stomach churn.

Zoya sits beside me, stiff as stone. She's shaking, but not crying. Her eyes flick around, searching, calculating, like there's a way out of this. Like she can still figure out how to fight.

Mia is the opposite. She's curled into herself, quiet sobs muffled behind trembling fingers. She's trying to disappear, trying to be small enough that maybe just maybe they'll forget she's here.

And then there's Aria.

She doesn't shake. Doesn't cry. She just stares straight ahead, hollow-eyed, like she's already left her body behind. Like she's decided it's easier that way. Bile crawls up my throat at the sight of the look in her eyes.

please don't give up just yet.

The car hums beneath us, the air thick with cigarette smoke and fear.

In the front seat, Ivan's phone buzzes. He answers, his voice sharp, clipped.

"Da, Pakhan." (Yes, Boss.)

Oleg exhales a slow stream of smoke, chuckling. I hope he fucking dies

"We'll be there in an hour," Ivan continues. "The girls are quiet. No problems."

His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, locking onto mine.

I look away first.

Oleg grins, tapping his cigarette against the dashboard. "Think they'll last long?"

Ivan smirks. "Not our concern."

Mia makes a strangled sound, pressing her hands harder against her mouth.

I stare down at my lap, my fingers curled into fists. My nails bite into my palm, grounding me, keeping me tethered. But I don't feel here. I feel like I'm floating above my body, watching from a distance, watching this happen to someone else.

Is this it?

The thought slams into me, raw and jagged. Is this who I am now?

A thing.

A product.

Something to be bought and used and thrown away.

I swallow hard, but my throat stays dry. My lungs feel too tight. My ribs feel like a cage, closing in, trapping me inside my own skin.

The car turns sharply, and my body lurches sideways, slamming against the door. Pain flares up my spine. Zoya gasps and clings to me, her grip desperate. I force my body to stay still, to not flinch, to give her the little comfort she can still hold onto.

Oleg laughs. "Maybe they'll beg."

Ivan smirks. "They always do."

Oleg sneers. " Блять, I wanted to get a go before we handed these bitches over," he says, his voice raspy and disgusting, scraping against my ears like sandpaper. ( fuck)

My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.

I'm just a thing now.

The thought repeats itself like a sick mantra, like something being carved into my bones. I hate it. I hate it. But no matter how hard I fight it, it's there, suffocating me.

But then—

A whisper in the back of my mind, so small it almost isn't there.

No.

The word is weak, fragile, barely a breath. But it's mine.

My fingers tighten, nails digging in deeper. I barely feel the sting. I barely feel anything at all. But the fact that I can still feel something means I'm still here.

And as long as I'm here—

I'm not gone yet.

The car keeps moving, deeper into the night, and I hold onto the only thing they haven't taken from me.

Not yet.

Thank you for reading!

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