Chapter 0002

OCEANE

“Oceane! Oceane!” I startle at the manner at which my name is being screamed. What startles me more is the speed my door flings open by, and the panicked look of my mother’s maid.

My voice shakes when I ask, “what is happening?”

She doesn’t speak. There’s not a word uttered, but I know too well what this is about. I know why she’s here, and I know why she’s out of it.

I run. To my mother. To the woman who has done everything possible to nurture and treat me like something more than an object.

Tears run down my face when I hear her screaming in pain. Her scream is all I hear. Her cries are all that resonates in my eardrums.

And when I stand in front of her ajar door, my skin pale at the sight of her.

Why has she been left to suffer like this?

“The baby is breeched and she’s bleeding out a lot.” I hear a shaky voice whisper from behind me.

I gulp. “Take her to the hospital.”

“Your father wouldn’t let us.”

I look behind me with thinned lips, tears streaming down my face, veins popping out of my forehead, and lips trembling uncontrollably.

I stare at my mother’s maid for a few seconds before taking to my heels again. My legs move as fast as I’ve never imagined. I run until I’m in my father’s meeting room where he’s having a meeting with a few men.

When his aggravated eyes meet mine, more tears pool out of my eyes. How can this man talk business when his wife is dying?

“We have to take her to a hospital.” I declare with a tone of finality. My father ignores me. “She’s dying!” I scream, still not a word is heard from my father.

But his eyes are trained on me. With judgment, with hate, with disgust, my father just stares at me.

“Father, please.” I plead.

“The midwives will help her.” He grumbles. I shake my head frantically. “She’s dying, father. She’s bleeding out. You need to give us your permission.”

“No.” He sterns.

“Brian Dumont Augustin!” I scream my father’s full name, startling everyone in the room, myself included.

My father has never risen from his seat so fast. The way his eyes darken with every step he takes towards me has me trembling.

And when he stands in front of me, his large palm collides with the side of my face.

“Show some. . .

I jolt awake at the feel of something cold dripping down my body. The realization that I’m bound to a chair dawns on me when I attempt moving my limbs.

I wince, attempting to pull at the well knotted ropes, but I still fail at something so simple.

Heaving out long and calming breaths, I try recollecting the memories of the past week.

A week ago, I was in my home country. A week ago, I was in my province. A week ago, I was living amongst people whose faces were familiar. A week ago, I was having a fight with my father. A week ago, I ran away from home but was captured hours later.

That day when I was captured by my father’s men, was the day my entire life changed.

Now, I’m here, in a new country, with new people, suffering like a slave. Living a baseless and useless life.

Laughter ripples out of me so loud that my voice bounces off each corner of the room.

It’s laughable how I cried about how shitty my life had been just a week ago. It’s laughable how I prayed to the universe to give me a new life. A better life.

And then poof. Here I am. Locked up like a dog. Living the same life I had in the past, except, these people subjecting me to this suffering are strangers.

People I don’t know.

Their beliefs, their lifestyle, their jobs, their families, I know nothing.

But they have continuously toyed with me. They play with me as much as they want. Every minute of the day, they force me into playing one of their sick games, and it’s beginning to take a toll on me.

Mentally.

Physically.

“Did you have a good sleep, munchkin?” My head whips to the right side, following the direction from which the voice came. But I’m met with nothing but utter darkness.

I know he’s here, the man who took me hostage just about a week ago. The man who wouldn’t let me have a moment of peace.

The man who has been toying with my emotions.

“What’s wrong with you?” That deep, rough voice resounds again.

“What do you mean?” I answer, my voice significantly tinier than his.

And then I see him, his silhouette. He’s standing so tall and powerful in the dark. With every step he takes, my breath shakes. He unnerves me in ways that are unexplainable.

He walks out into the light and allows me to see him. Crisp Armani suit, tailored to perfection, hugging every curve of his. Choke-like silver chain around his neck with a name tag—Scar.

I can’t say for sure what his eyes are like, but they look icy and cold. Lifeless. And his lips, plump, juicy, and a natural tint of red.

He’s inexplicably perfect.

It’s insane how beautiful this sick man is.

“There've been a series of complaints about you in the past week, munchkin. Tell me why you refused to work back at the warehouse.”

“They were chopping up pigs.” I answer timidly.

The man quirks a brow. “So?”

“It’s disgusting. The smell, the blood splatter. Everything disgusts me and I’d rather die than take part in it.”

His lips form into an ‘o’ and he leans down, his messy hair falling forward. His cold eyes stare into mine intently as he rips the rope apart with a pocket knife.

“You’re a hostage here, why do you think you have a choice in the matter?” His voice rumbles, causing me to swallow hard on nothing.

I don’t offer him an answer because I have none.

Why did I even think I had a choice here?

I’m nothing but a hostage.

He chuckles amusingly, his cold eyes glistening with excitement. “I’ll forgive you this time, but don’t push me. The next time I sense any form of rebellion from you, I’d do very dirty things to you. Do you understand?”

I nod, managing a low hum.

“You were screaming in your sleep.” Is a whisper of his voice as though he cares. As though wanting me to let him in. But I don’t fall for his little tricks.

All I do is stare at him silently.

Lost in the familiarity of his features, I just stare. Too lost to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, I just stare. And he let me.

I stare until I finally remember.

“You’re the man from a week ago. You were in my house with my father.”

He hums, bobbing his head a few times. “Great memory.”

Fear grips me. What does he want from me? Why has he taken me hostage? My father does business with very dangerous people and it’s nerve wracking to know that I’m under the custody of one of his business partners.

“Why did you take me? Did my father betray your trust? You’ve kidnapped the wrong person. The man doesn’t care about me. You should’ve just taken his son.” I continue rambling. The man doesn’t say a word, he simply stares at me in awe, the corner of his lips upturned into a smirk.

When I quiet down, his voice, soft like a whisper, smooth against my ear, breathes. “I don’t want your brother.”

“Then who do you want? Me? Is that the reason you’ve done nothing but make me suffer over the last seven days?”

His eyes darken by a fraction, a rather humorless chuckle eliciting in his throat. “What’s the difference between here and your father’s house, munchkin?”

“I was more comfortable back home.” I state.

“I would disagree, considering how his men manhandled you the other day.” He mocks.

I fall silent, bobbing my head instead at his insinuation. I was a prisoner in my own home and there’s no use denying the fact.

But I knew them at least. There weren’t a bunch of strangers.

I confess. “I ran away from home.”

His brows quirk up interestingly. “Oh? So you enjoy running?”

I nod. “In most cases, yes.”

“Then if I asked you to run, would you?”

“Ask or command? I retort.

A deep rumble of hum vibrates out of him. “Very smart too.” He murmurs. “Does your father make you cover up yourself the way you do?” He questions.

I don’t offer him a worded answer. Just a simple nod of my head. He reciprocates my nod.

The man leaves me behind and swaggers towards the exit. Pulling the heavy door open, he barks out orders to his men.

“Bring her.” He commands with a tone of finality.

. . .

Minutes after I was pushed into his car, we’ve sat in complete silence. None of us speaking a word or even breathing too loud.

It has just been a series of stolen glances.

“Are you taking me home?” I ask through an unstable voice.

His tongue darts out and swipes across his lips. I follow the sensual movement with parted lips, once again losing myself to the beauty of this man.

I don’t realize how lost I am until his deep voice snaps me back to reality. “What is your name?”

“Huh?”

“Your name, munchkin.” He chuckles.

“It’s Oceane Augustin.”

“Oceane.” He repeats more to himself, as though testing my name on the tip of his tongue.

I clear my throat. “Would you take me home now?”

“Don’t you want to know my name too?” He questions. I shake my head ‘no’. “There’s no need for that since I’ll be leaving soon.”

Laughter bubbles out of him. “You think so?”

“I know so.” I seethe.

“My father wanted you dead.” He deadpans, his eyes darkening with every passing minute. The grim look in his eyes unnerves me to a point where I begin shifting in my seat. Uncomfortably.

With a timid voice, I mutter, “but I’m still here.”

The man hums. “That’s because you’re my little plaything, munchkin, and I decide when I’ve had enough fun.”

My stomach churns at the implication of his statement. “I’m a human being, sir, not anyone’s plaything. I don’t understand why you’d say a thing like that. What do you even want from me?”

He chuckles. “I don’t know what I want exactly, but I just wanna have fun with you. Play around a little bit. You’re mine now.”

“You’ve been playing with me for a whole week! What more do you want?!”

He whips his head towards my direction, kissing his teeth. “Not enough apparently. And please, Oceane, do not ever scream at me. I don’t like it.”

My lips part and I scoff, not believing how my life is about to drastically change. “I hate this.” I murmur, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.

“I know, baby.” He murmurs without sparing me a glance. “My name is Angioletto Luoni by the way. You can call me Angel, or Gio. You choose.”

I retort. “I never asked.”

“Don’t care.”

Uncomfortable silence once again envelopes us for long minutes before I decide to speak up. “Where are we?”

“Italy.” He answers and my eyes almost budge out of its sockets. I’m very far away from home.

How do I escape from here?

What am I supposed to do with my life in a new country?

I’m so deep in worry that I don’t realize tears are beginning to pool out of my eyes. I drag in a sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my palm.

Angioletto mutters incoherent words under his breath. “Why’re you crying?”

“I’m far away from home.” I whimper, thinning my lips.

He doesn’t say a word to me, until he pulls up on an empty road, drags me out of the car and into the middle of the woods.

I screech, scream, and thrash around but he doesn’t let me go until we’ve dived deep into the woods.

“This is your new home now, munchkin, learn to live with it.” He growls.

I stare at him silently, my breathing harsh inhales and exhales.

A ghostly smile appears on the man’s lips, his eyes observing my petite figure. He looks at me from head to toe and then back to my head before shooting me a full lipped smile.

But his smile is far from genuine.

It’s unnerving, psychotic, spiteful. And my suspicions are confirmed when he spits out a simple one worded command.

“Run.”