The party raged upstairs.
Kamara stood in the hallway—barefoot, in a black silk slip, no cuffs on her wrists anymore. Just shadows around her eyes and a storm behind her silence.
He thought she was gone.
He thought she’d crawl back into the dark after he used her up.
But Kamara was never going to be his victim again.
She leaned quietly against the wall, listening to the bass thump through the ceiling.
Mario was celebrating.
Celebrating her disappearance.
Celebrating the “trash” being taken out.
His words. Not hers.
Upstairs, Mario raised a glass, surrounded by fake smiles and thirsty influencers.
“To freedom,” he laughed, “and good riddance to the b***h who thought she could trap me.”
The crowd howled with laughter.
And then it happened.
The giant screen behind him flickered.
