TW: This chapter contains some severe mental abuse, and mentions of suicide.

My heart dropped in my chest, but I didn't know if I felt desperate or relieved.

I didn't even look at him, but I knew immediately who he was. His voice was a little different, hoarse as if he'd been chain smoking for a few hours straight, but he was the only person who ever called me Gordita.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette into my now cold cup of coffee and held out his hand to help me stand up. I held on tighter to his fingers than I would have to anyone else's, but the only affection I got in return was a single stroke of his thumb across the back of my hand.

He walked me to the car, and I climbed into the back seat, where I found myself squeezed between two other men, who were dressed as police officers. Bodyguards, I guessed.

He lit another cigarette before he sat down in the front passenger seat. I was searching for his gaze now, but he turned his head away from me. He stared silently out of the window for a while after we drove off.

I felt nothing. No guilt, no fear, no exhaustion. Just emptiness, and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke.

"Pablo," I murmured.

"Don't speak," he answered curtly. "You've done enough already."

I tried to lean in closer to him, but one of his guards pushed me back into my seat. I tilted my head back and looked up to the car's ceiling, hoping it would be enough to stop the tears spilling from my eyes. A shaky breath escaped my lips like a sigh.

Not once, for the entirety of the car ride, did Pablo dare look me in the eye. The drive back home was more silent than a funeral. There was no music, no weeping, no gentle words of sorrow. It was eerie. Ominous. Suffocating.

The long driveway that led to the house felt like a death row, where night birds cackled like hundreds of heckling jail mates. The front courtyard was unusually dark and quiet, although the lights inside the house seemed brighter, the music played louder, and the party went on as it always did, as if nothing ever happened.

I got out of the car, without so much as a helping hand or a shoulder to rely on. As I walked up the few marble steps that led to the front door, Pablo snapped his fingers to get my attention. He pointed to the side of the house, a corner far away from the golden light that spilled out of the large windows.

I followed him into the darkness, walking slowly and with a heavy limp, up to a small iron gate I'd never been through before.

"Where are we going?" I whispered.

"To your room," he said. "There's a shortcut up the service stairs."

He unlocked a small wooden door, and I couldn't bring myself to move forward. The stairwell was too dark, the steps far too steep. My legs hurt too much, I felt too tired, and I had a heavy gut feeling that told me not to follow him.

There was a somber look on Pablo's face. He clenched his teeth hard enough that you could see the line of his tense muscles, slashing across his jaw. He breathed too fast, too deep, flaring his nostrils and pinching his lips to stop them from trembling.

"Is it a good idea?" I stuttered. "It's just– I mean, my room is kind of far away, and I think I twisted my ankle."

"Hence the shortcut," he muttered, stopping in his steps halfway up the first staircase. "Are you coming?"

"Still, Pablo, I'm not sure I can make it. It really hurts."

"You just spent eight hours frolicking in the jungle," he snarled. "I'm sure you can manage a few flights of stairs."

"I wasn't–"

"I don't give a shit, Gordita," he spat. "Move."

He stood at the top of the steps, crossed his arms and shot a deadly glare in my direction. He watched as I winced, whimpered and gasped in pain, as I hobbled and slipped and fell, and injured myself a little more, over and over again. He rolled his eyes as if I was being dramatic, and hadn't recently fallen down a thirty-foot cliff.

I finally got to the top of the stairs, and I looked over my shoulder despite the strain in my neck.

"Where's Gustavo?" I asked as I pulled myself up the last step.

"At the hospital, getting his ankle stitched up," Pablo mumbled, staring down his nose at me. "Why? Did you want to apologize?"

I paused for a second, too breathless to laugh and too swollen to frown.

"No."

Pablo raised his eyebrows, and pursed his lips.

"You really don't regret anything, do you?" he scoffed. "Aside from being caught."

He couldn't be any further from the truth. I couldn't count how many times in the past few hours that I'd shut my eyes and pinched my arm, and prayed I'd jolt up in my bed and wake up from this nightmare. How much I cursed myself for ever leaving Pablo's side. How many times I'd wished I had let Gustavo touch me, let his dirty hand crawl up my leg, if only it could have avoided this mess I made.

There were so many things I wanted to tell Pablo, but not enough air in my lungs to string out enough words. Instead, I just shook my head, and in return, so did he.

He opened the door to my room. The lavender walls had never seemed so peaceful, the faint smell of apples had never been so comforting. Hell, even the bathroom with its ugly green tiles and harsh neon lights felt like a blessing.

I walked to the sink and drank large gulps of cold water, straight from the tap. The mud on my chin stained it a strange shade of reddish brown, and I didn't dare look in the mirror to face the extent of the damage, the cuts and the road rash.

Pablo leaned against the vanity, pinching the bridge of his nose to soothe his headache. With his shirt half-open, his head tilted back, and the look of lament on his face, he looked like a renaissance painting. The kind of painting that made you stop in the middle of the museum and stare up in awe.

There was a time when this man loved me.

That time seemed long gone.

"Pablo, I just want you to know," I whispered. "I didn't run away because of you."

He looked down at me, with his arms crossed and his lips tight.

"You have no excuse," he mumbled.

"Do you at least want to know why I did it?" I asked him.

"No," he answered, and his deep voice echoed like a tolling bell. "It wouldn't change anything."

He sighed, and as he started to walk to the door.

"Sarah fucking Kennedy," he mumbled to himself.

I felt like I was falling, like my heart was dropping at my feet. If I had the courage and the strength, I would have ran after him, grabbed him and held onto him like you'd desperately grapple a precious thing that slipped from your fingers. If I didn't have Pablo's trust, I had nothing.

"What if I told you Gustavo was going to rape me?" I blurted out.

He stopped in his tracks, and raised his eyebrows as he stared me dead in the eye.

"Rape you?" he scoffed. "Like you said I did to you?"

My jaw dropped, and I shook my head in disbelief.

"I– Pablo, I never..." I stuttered. "I never said–"

The most frightening part of it all, was that he didn't even seem to have spiraled out in another of his irrational fits of rage. He was misguided, but clear-minded. He just looked tired, fed up, disappointed. He was fully convinced that I'd betrayed him.

"You seem to forget that in this house the walls have ears, and the mirrors have eyes, and I'm the brain that sits in the middle," he answered calmly.

"But that wasn't what I said," I blubbered.

"I heard what I heard, Gordita."

He waited for a while more, expecting either an explanation or an apology. I had nothing.

Just a day ago, I was on top of the world, I was winning everything. Now I felt like I was standing at the gates of Hell, and Pablo was about to push me in.

He walked out of the room, and closed the door.

Once the door was shut, I heard a click.

"No," I whispered.

I knew that sound. It had been a while since I last heard it. I dreaded it. I walked to the door and placed my fingers on the handle. I didn't dare turn it. I didn't want to believe it. I shut my eyes and fought back the tears.

"Pablo?" I called out with a trembling voice.

The sounds of his steps were already fading down the corridor. I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and turned the handle.

The door didn't open.

I pushed it. I pulled it. I shook it. I balled up my fists and hit it. I punched it. Rammed into it. Slammed it with my shoulder, with my knees, with my forehead. Nothing helped.

It was locked.

I screamed his name, yelled out every curse I knew, shouted for help until I could taste blood in my mouth. The loud music drowned my cries out. I scratched the door until I chipped my nails, I fought it until I collapsed.

~

I woke up still curled up in a ball at the foot of a locked door. The first rays of sunlight did little to brighten me up. I was horrified. Petrified. Putrefied, even. I was going to rot here, and I already felt consumed by the decay.

It had just been hours since Pablo had locked me up again, and my mind was already slipping away. I started to wonder if I'd ever left the room. If Emilia had ever existed. If any of this had ever happened, or if I'd just dreamed it.

I still had Ana's necklace around my neck, and road rash on my face and arms. I could feel my skin sloughing off, my body swelling and bloating from the bruises, my soul shattering into a million pieces.

It was like a cruel déja-vu. I was a helpless girl again, trapped between these lavender walls. It felt like November 9th again, the tragic day of Sarah Kennedy's death, except this time, it was worse. The girl looking back at me in the bathroom mirror was uglier. The cuts were deeper. My chances of ever making it out of here were even slimmer.

I stepped into the shower to wash off the grime, and the leaves, and the blood that had crusted all over my body. The runoff water was a shade darker than it was on that first day.

Yet I didn't cry louder. In fact, I didn't cry at all. I couldn't pity myself, because this time, it was my fault. Instead, I stood still under the stream, unable to feel the pain, the stinging wounds, the scalding water, or the dreadful realization that I was Pablo's prisoner again.

It's okay, I lied to myself. I'd always been Pablo's prisoner. My cage was just a little smaller. I'll survive this.

I walked out of the shower, and threw on the pink satin bathrobe that hung on the bathroom door. I sat at the vanity, silent, still, and staring blankly at a wall, and I waited for something to happen. Whether it was a move, a sound, a thought, a feeling. Anything.

Nothing happened for a while. It felt like a couple hours had passed, and yet my hair still wasn't dry, so I figured it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Then, the door unlocked, and as I turned my head to look, Pablo walked into the room.

He carefully shut the door, shoved the key deep into his pocket, and stared at me quietly, with a lopsided smile.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"You're already in," I mumbled.

He smirked, and I didn't return the favor. Instead, the frown in my brow dug a little deeper.

"What was it I said next? I forgot," he chortled, running his fingers through his tousled hair. "Something about a room tour, I think."

"Is this a game to you?" I spat.

"No, I just think it's ironic," he answered, and chuckled nervously. "Doesn't this remind you of the day we first met? You'd just walked out of the shower, your face was all bashed up, you were even wearing that robe."

"And now I'm locked up again," I seethed. "Sorry, Pablo, I don't see the humor in it."

"Well, what did you expect?" he shrugged as he came closer to me. "I warned you what would happen if you left, and you did it anyway."

He leaned on the vanity, towering over me, and all I could focus on were the veins bulging from his strong arms. He glared down at me, like a teacher telling off a student. A teacher whose breath smelled of weed and rum, rather than stale coffee. A teacher with a gold ring on every finger, carrying a gun in a holster, who'd taught me nothing more than to distrust everyone, and who could put me through much worse things than detention.

"So, we're back at square one, then," I muttered.

He sighed, glanced out the window and then back at me. He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down. He tapped the wooden surface of the vanity with his fingertips, and chewed his own tongue as he thought of an answer.

"No. Square one is where things start, Gordita. This isn't a new start. This is how it ends."

"What do you mean, how it ends?" I breathed.

"It's not just my trust you broke, it's everyone else's," he said with an eerie calm. "I had to work so hard to get you out of here the first time. I can't do it again. Even if I wanted to."

"So, it ends with me being stuck here forever?"

He shrugged and nodded slightly, and I fought back the tears. I told myself he'd said the same thing the first time, that he'd be the only person I'd see for the rest of my life, and yet I'd made it out. I could do it again.

Yet, at this point in time, I couldn't bring myself to suck up to him, bat my eyelashes, give him some doe eyes and a peck on the cheek. My whole body shook with anger, all the way down to my stomach, that gargled in agony.

"Did you bring something to eat?" I huffed. "I'm starving."

"It's funny, you haven't changed at all," he scoffed. "You're still more interested in food than in my thoughts and feelings."

"I don't want to argue, Pablo. I just want breakfast."

He looked up to the sky and winced, sucking air through his teeth as if he was in pain. He dug his hand in the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out something he held snug in his fist.

He dropped a small, white pill on the table, and slowly slid it over to me under the tip of his index finger.

"Drugs?" I deadpanned. "Really?"

"Not drugs," he sighed. "Cyanide."

His words hit me in the gut, so hard I almost vomited over the small table. I burped, and clasped my hand on my mouth, and took a second to process the fate that laid before me.

"Cyanide?" I repeated, with a tremble in my voice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Pablo," I pleaded in a shaky breath.

I lifted my head to look him in the eye, but all I could see was his blurry silhouette, hidden behind my tears.

"It'll be quick and painless, I promise," he said softly.

I shook my head, and exhaled a heavy breath into the palm of my hand. I slipped in and out of consciousness, slowly collapsing in my chair.

I felt as if my whole body had been torn to shreds, as if someone had pulled my guts through my throat, as if my head had been smashed into a million pieces. All that, just from the sight of a small pill.

"So you're just going to kill me?" I cried.

"You're going to kill yourself, actually," he answered, disdainfully looking over his shoulder. "I don't want anything to do with it."

I scrunched my nose, perhaps even my whole face, in disgust and disbelief.

"Pablo, I'm not going to do that."

"Then it will be excruciatingly long. Suit yourself," he shrugged. "I can't do anything more for you."

I would have thrown myself at him, wrapped my hands around his neck, gouged his eyes out of that smug face. Lucky for him, the vanity was in my way, and there was a pit in my stomach that pinned me to my chair.

The best I could do was bang my fists on the table and lean towards him, like a child throwing a tantrum, on the verge of tears.

"Yes you fucking can, you asshole," I hissed. "Aren't you the boss of a super powerful cartel? Now you're telling me to kill myself just because Gustavo said I should die?"

"It's not just Gustavo, Gordita. It's everyone. Everyone except me, of course," he ranted, as he raised his eyebrows in a haughty arch. "But I'm a leader, not a dictator, I can't go against every single person in the cartel. If I did, I would be a shit leader."

"You are fucked in the head, Pablo," I spat. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Do you think this is easy for me?"

"Yes, you fucking coward!" I screamed. "Why don't you kill me yourself, if you're a man?"

"I'm just not strong enough," he mumbled. "You know that."

"Oh, boo-fucking-hoo!" I yelled. "You poor, weak-ass bitch, you wouldn't last a minute if you were standing in my place. Look at yourself, you can't even deal with the consequences of your own actions and now–"

"My actions?" he scoffed. "You did this to yourself, Gordita. And trust me, I have tried everything."

"You haven't tried anything, you dumb cunt," I screeched, too enraged to care about the spit spilling from my lips. "If you had done a single thing for me, ever, in your entire life, I wouldn't be here to begin with. You're the only reason I'm here, this is all your fault, and you should be the one who takes that fucking pill."

"Stop shouting."

"Or what? You'll kill me? That's all I'm asking for, you stupid-ass, ugly-ass, goofy cowboy, geriatric Willy Wonka-looking motherfucker," I shrieked, clawing at my own face in a fit of rage. "But you can't do that, because you're just a pussy, a manchild, a poor little Circus clown with Mommy issues."

"Now you're just saying random words," he tutted. "Gordita, please just take the pill."

"Get out of here," I seethed, and jumped out of my chair to punch him.

My attempt at hurting Pablo was desperate, and frankly quite pathetic. In a swift move, he caught my wrists, blocked the hit, and pinned me to the wall. The violence of the shock knocked over the vanity, breaking the vase with his rotten roses, and sent shards of wood and glass flying through the air.

For an instant we stood face to face, jaws clenched, mouths foaming, chests heaving and hearts racing. As soon as he let go of me, I shoved him towards the door, kicking and swinging in a blind rage.

"I'm not touching that pill," I spat. "You can come shoot me in the head when you grow a pair of balls."

"Goodbye, Gordita," he murmured as he stood in the doorway. "It was fun while it lasted."

"Go fuck yourself, you narcissitic piece of shit."

I slammed the door in his face. He locked it anyway.