Shiver Through Burn

Chapter 3

My body ached deeply, the pain scorching beneath my skin, yet somehow, I managed to walk out from Sebastian's office. Each step felt like a battle, but I fought through the waves of nausea, the pulse of pain that rippled through my body. I could feel the blood still seeping into my clothes, mixing with the sweat, but I refused to let it break me.

I walked slowly through the hallway, my steps quiet against the marble floors, so soft that they almost sounded like whispers. The pain was burning inside of me, my heavy felt too heavy. At every step that I took, there was corresponding agony in my body.

I entered my room and shoved my things into a bag, hands trembling with urgency. I hadn’t brought much — I never intended to stay long in this godforsaken house. Every breath I took inside these walls felt like swallowing poison.

Without a glance, I yanked open the door and stormed to leave. I was just steps away from the staircase when a voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"Soreia."

I froze. It was low, commanding, unmistakably him — rooted me to the spot. Slowly, stiffly, I turned to face the devil himself.

There, standing at the terrace door, was the devil. His face, lit only by the dim light from the moon, he was emotionless, detached, as though nothing had ever happened. He stood there, holding a glass of whiskey, casually sipping it like everything was fine, like the brutality of earlier had never occurred. His posture was relaxed, as if he had never raised a hand against me, as if the marks on my skin didn’t even exist.

I paused, my blood boiling, but I didn’t show it. Instead, I took a slow step forward, carefully taking in the space between us. The wind swept through the terrace, carrying with it the harsh, biting cold of the night. He didn’t even look at me when I walked in. His attention was fixed on the glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Next time,” he said, his voice a chilling monotone, “consider your actions more carefully before you make a move. Ensure that what you do is worth the consequences... because if you continue down this path, I will make sure the cost is far steeper than you can bear.”

The words hit me like a slap to the face, even though they were calm, controlled. There was no trace of guilt in his voice. He spoke as if I were the one at fault, as if his fists hadn’t just marked my body. His face, still emotionless, seemed to mock me, as though this was just another small inconvenience in his life. He didn’t even flinch when I stood there, boiling with rage, holding the weight of everything he had done.

Think? Make sure my actions are good? As if I hadn’t thought every moment of my life through, weighed every decision, and sacrificed so much just to survive in his world.

I felt my jaw tighten as I glared at him, the rage rising inside me, hot and consuming. His voice—calm, detached, as though nothing mattered—only made my anger grow. He was standing there like the psychopathic monster he was, his presence as suffocating as ever.

I felt my fist curl into a ball at my side. I didn’t say it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing words spill from my mouth. Instead, I stood there for a moment longer, letting the rage bubble inside me, letting it build like a storm. I gave him one last glance, my gaze cold and defiant. He was still watching me, his eyes cold and calculating, like a predator waiting for its next victim.

Without a word, I turned on my heel and walked toward the door. My heart pounded in my chest, my body shaking with the violence of my emotions, but I didn’t look back.

I had to leave. I had to get out of that place.

But before I stepped out, I heard his voice once more, laced with venom. "I'll pay a visit soon, don't make me dissapointed." he called out, his words cutting through the air like a threat of doom. I could feel the weight of it, the promise of something darker, something more sinister—like a storm on the horizon, one that would eventually break and tear everything apart.

I ignored him. He could do whatever he wanted; it didn’t matter anymore. I had walked this path for too long to be afraid of him.

I stepped out of the mansion, the door closing with a finality that almost echoed in my ears. The cold air hit me like a slap, but I didn’t care.

As I walked to my car, I glanced back once more. Sebastian was still there, watching me from the terrace, a glass of whiskey in his hand, like a psychopath savoring his power. His gaze was icy, unyielding, but it didn’t scare me. No, if anything, it fueled the fire inside me.

But as I turned away, something inside me began to shift. The tight knot of anger, the suffocating heat that had consumed me, slowly started to loosen. It wasn’t fear that had been driving me—it was the thrill of finally breaking free. The satisfaction began to creep in, curling through my chest like a slow-burning ember. I had survived another round in his world, and I wasn’t broken.

My body was heavy, each breath feeling like it took twice as much energy to pull in, but I kept my hands steady on the wheel. I hummed a low tune to myself, almost as though I were trying to soothe the broken pieces of my mind. The pain in my body wasn’t enough to overshadow my triumph. The battle wasn’t over, but this victory? It was mine. It was bittersweet, but it was mine. And as I drove away, the smile that tugged at my lips wasn’t one of fear or defeat—it was one of quiet satisfaction.

The cool night air rushed to greet me as I stepped out. The world beyond the mansion’s gates felt like another universe entirely. The sound of the wind, the distant hum of the city, even the buzzing of the neon signs—all of it felt like freedom. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

I took a breath, feeling the weight of the night settle in my chest. I wasn’t looking for solace. I wasn’t searching for comfort. I was just surviving, and that was enough for now.

The city sprawled out in front of me, its neon lights blurring past as I drove through the streets. The sound of the tires against the pavement was like a heartbeat, steady, predictable. Unlike the mansion, this place was filled with life. The noise of the city, the honking of cars, the chatter of strangers—it was all so much easier to bear than the suffocating silence of the mansion.

I entered the subdivision where I was staying. My house was a quiet sanctuary amidst the chaos. I smiled at myself as I parked the car and stepped out into the cool night air. The breeze, while not the best, was still a welcome relief.

"At least this is less suffocating," I muttered under my breath, the words sounding almost foreign in the air. It felt good to be away from all the eyes that had watched me, judged me, scrutinized every step I took.

When I reached my apartment, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to the vanity mirror and sat before it, my reflection staring back at me. The woman I had been pretending to be all day stared back—a carefully constructed image, a façade I wore for the world. But as I sat there, gazing at myself, I realized how much of me was hidden beneath that mask.

I reached for the solvent on the counter, my movements slow, deliberate. The act of removing my wig, peeling away the layers of makeup, the jewelry, the clothes—all of it felt like stripping away parts of my old life. The life that had been suffocating me. I tugged at the wig, loosening it with every pull. The long, glossy hair that everyone admired—it was nothing but a lie. An illusion.

"This is my true identity without the Guilermo name," I thought to myself as I pulled the wig free, letting it fall into a pile on the counter. Beneath it, my real hair was short, layered, and dyed in platinum blonde with black ends. As I ran my fingers through it, I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t realized I needed.

The wig was gone, and with it, the woman the world saw—the daughter of Congressman Sebastian Guilermo, the perfect image, the obedient child. I was no longer her.

I took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of freedom that washed over me, and slowly began wiping away the makeup that had clung to my face. Layer after layer, the illusion vanished. I unclipped the accessories, the earrings, the rings, each piece coming off like a weight being lifted from my shoulders. It was just me now. No roles to play. No expectations to meet.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The bruises were still there, dark and ugly, scattered across my skin like a map of all the pain I had endured. The gown I had worn, torn and stained, was a reminder of how little I mattered to the people who should have cared the most.

The gown? It was beyond saving. I stared at it for a moment, a small pang of regret tugging at me. Such a beautiful gown, but now it was ruined.

With a shrug, I tossed it into the trash without a second thought. It wasn’t worth holding onto.

After that, I took a long, hot shower. The warmth of the water was comforting, soothing against the pain that still throbbed through my body. I didn’t care about the blood, the sweat, the dirt. I just wanted to feel clean, even if only for a short time. I let the water wash away everything, even the lies I had been telling myself.

Afterward, I dried my hair, the rhythmic motion of the towel against my scalp a small, almost comforting routine. The warmth from the water had momentarily soothed my bruised skin, but I knew the relief wouldn’t last long.

I threw on my pajamas and climbed into bed, the weight of the world pressing down on me. The silence wrapped around me, but it didn’t bring peace—it only magnified the noise in my head.

I reached for the bottle of sleeping pills on my nightstand, my fingers brushing against the cool glass. The thought of sleep, of shutting my mind off, was a luxury I couldn’t afford without them. I didn’t want to feel the jagged edges of reality tonight. I needed an escape, even if just for a few hours.

I popped the pills, watching them slip down with ease, and lay back on the bed, closing my eyes. ‘Finally… rest,’ I thought, but even as the drug began to settle in, I knew the peace I craved wouldn’t last.