Nikki couldn't believe it.
She sat on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at the bathroom tiles.
The hot, steamy shower she'd turned on hours ago had long gone cold, the sound of water still echoing in the tiled room. She hadn't moved an inch.
Two hours. Maybe more.
Her mind raced, replaying every detail. Antonio had played her. Used her. And for what? What had they even gained in return?
And Damien, who the hell was this man?
"Bride." The word hung in her head, taunting her. She wasn't a bride. She was a hostage, trapped in his house, forced to work on a bloody farm like a criminal serving penance.
She clenched her fists. She wanted to scream but knew better. The bodyguards outside her door would hear, and that wasn't a confrontation she was ready for—yet.
A sharp knock on the door jolted her.
"Get out of the bathroom if you're not showering, Nikki," Damien's voice barked through the door, calm but menacing.
Her stomach dropped. How did he know?
"Go away! I want to be alone," she snapped back.
"Nikki, you're wasting water, water the farm needs. Stop it, or I'm coming in."
Her blood boiled at his nerve. She grabbed the cigarette and lighter she'd hidden in her panties, lit it, and took a deep drag. The anger gave her courage.
"Let the animals fucking die, Damien! I'm not coming out!"
A beat of silence, then his voice, colder this time: "I won't tell you again, Nikita."
She smirked, exhaling smoke defiantly. "Fuck off, you pussy!"
The door crashed open with a splintering crack.
Her cigarette fell from her lips in shock as Damien strode into the room, his presence towering, his dark eyes burning with rage.
"Oh no," she muttered, trying to mask her fear with sarcasm. "Daddy looks mad."
His glare could have cut through steel. He yanked the cigarette from the floor, crushing it beneath his shoe. "Fine," he said, his voice low and seething.
"You want to play games, Nikita?" His voice was low, lethal. "Fine. I'll make you fucking shower."