Beneath her game

Isabel’s POV

My eyes flicker open, slow and heavy, the ceiling above me a dull gray blur. The air smells… musty. Like damp wood and something old rotting beneath it.

A shape moves ahead.

It takes a second for my vision to sharpen, for the memory to hit me—Travis. The struggle. His hand pulling at the wheel. The fight. The crash. And then—darkness.

I try to sit up, but my arms jerk painfully. Rope. Thick. Rough. Digging into my skin.

Panic climbs up my throat as I look down. I’m tied to a wooden chair, ankles and wrists bound. The ropes are too tight. My skin already burns from trying.

The room is dim, shadows hugging the cracked walls. It smells like wet cement and stale tobacco.

“Quit trying, Isabel,” a voice says, smooth and mocking. “Unless you want rope burn and bruises to match.”

I freeze.

That voice.

I lift my eyes and stare into the face of the woman standing by the window, slowly turning to me. Calm. Cold. Amused.