Chapter 2

Stella POV

“What’s wrong? Scared?” Ethan watched my pale face, the curve of his lips growing more mocking. “You weren’t scared when you crawled out over her corpse, were you? Stella, your life is Chloe’s. Am I asking too much by having you draw a few blueprints?”

“I’m not asking too much,” I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. I stared directly into Ethan’s eyes, speaking each word slowly. “I’ll draw them.”

Ethan violently shoved me away, then took out a handkerchief with a look of disgust, wiping his hands as if he’d touched something filthy.

“Move to the basement tomorrow. You’ll work there until the memorial hall is built.” He stood up, looking down at me. “Don’t even think about playing tricks. Your father’s medical bills are still in my hands.”

I slumped onto the carpet, the sharp pain in my stomach returning. I clutched my abdomen, a cold sweat instantly soaking my back.

“I understand,” I whispered, my voice so soft it could be carried away by a breeze.

Ethan watched my quiet suffering, an unidentifiable rage seeming to surge within him. He scoffed and strode out of the mansion.

The heavy door slammed shut. I finally couldn't hold myself together, collapsing onto the carpet, shaking all over with pain.

I hadn't told Ethan that my father had passed away in the hospital half a month ago.

Now, I was truly alone.

The next morning, bodyguards forcibly took me to the mansion's basement.

The moment the door opened, my breath hitched.

This was no office.

Ethan had ordered the entire basement to be transformed into a replica of that abandoned theater. Charred walls, scattered rebar, and even the air was thick with a pungent smell of burning.

In the center of the room, there was a crude drafting table.

“Mr. Smith instructed that to inspire your creativity, the environmental simulation system will be activated during work hours every day,” the bodyguard said expressionlessly before stepping out. The heavy iron door clanged shut, locking me in.

The next second, red lights flickered on around the basement, like leaping flames.

Hidden heaters in the corners began to churn furiously, the room temperature visibly rising. Then, gray-white smoke started pouring in from the vents.

I froze, the memories of three years ago washing over me like a tsunami.

“Stella, go! Don’t worry about me!”

“Live! Live for me, see the world outside!”

Chloe’s desperate, tragic cries echoed in my ears.

“Chloe…” I covered my ears, shaking uncontrollably.

The temperature climbed higher, the smoke grew thicker. My breathing became labored. I stumbled to the drafting table, forcing myself to pick up a pencil.

I had to draw. Only then would Ethan let me go.

But the tumor in my stomach chose that moment to act up.

The excruciating pain, as if my insides were being twisted to shreds, made it impossible to hold the pencil. With a clatter, it dropped to the floor. My legs gave out, and I fell hard onto the concrete.

“Cough, cough, cough…” I coughed violently, the inhaled smoke burning my lungs.

I wondered if Ethan was currently sitting in front of a monitor, staring intently at my huddled form. Perhaps he was smoking, gritting his teeth, wishing I would beg for mercy. He surely thought that if I just bowed my head to the camera, begged for his forgiveness, admitted I had killed Chloe, he would let me out.

But I didn't.

I writhed on the floor in pain, cold sweat and dust smearing my face, but I bit down hard, not making a single sound of distress.

I even struggled to my feet, fumbled for the pencil again, and hunched over the table, beginning to draw lines, one stroke at a time.

“Bang!”

The iron door to the basement was suddenly kicked open.

A wave of heat and thick smoke rushed in. Ethan stormed inside, grabbed my collar, and lifted me from the chair.

“Are you mute?! Don’t you know how to scream when you’re in pain?!” His eyes were bloodshot as he roared at me.