Not A Small-Town Girl

In the dimly lit basement, two wealthy women sat bound to chairs, their designer gowns rumpled and smeared, and their mouths sealed with strips of tape.

Surrounded by walls that shut out the light, the room was cast in a feeble glow that hardly dispelled the darkness. A glaring spotlight illuminated a wall lined with chilling instruments of torture, their sharp, cold edges sending shivers down one’s spine.

The ground beneath them was marked with traces of blood, barely dried, and the air was thick with a metallic stench.

Fiona and Janice, dragged into this chamber of horrors, slowly regained consciousness. As their bleary eyes adjusted, they took in the scene, and dread clawed at their throats. The rumors were true—David was a demon who would kill without a second thought.

’We’re such fools to have crossed such a monster! Are we going to die here?’ Fiona thought in despair. She shuddered at the wall of instruments—each capable of torment beyond imagination.

The two women squirmed against their restraints, their whimpers muffled by the tape on their mouths.

Just then, the basement door creaked open. Nathan entered, flanked by a group of mercenaries.

Fiona and Janice’s muffled protests grew louder as they glared at Nathan.

"Remove the duct tape," Nathan ordered, pulling out a chair and sitting across from the captives.

A mercenary approached them and ripped the tape from their mouths with a single, brutal motion.

"W-What do you want with us?" Janice stammered.

Fiona remained silent as she glared at Nathan. Her lips were in pain from where she had been slashed.

"You’ll find out soon enough," Nathan replied coolly. ’Here you are, locked away, still asking pointless questions. You should be praying for a little more time before you meet your end,’ he thought with a subtle smirk.

Janice’s scalp prickled at Nathan’s words. She recognized him—Nathan, the right-hand man of David, a key figure in the Charrington Group.

Her eyes darted to the wall of torture instruments, and a sense of foreboding grew within her. ’Are they planning to use those on me?’ Janice wondered.

She had lived a life of luxury and comfort, shielded from violence. In the face of such raw brutality, she crumbled under the weight of paralyzing terror.

"P-please, let me go! I’ll apologize to Danielle. It was a momentary lapse in judgment—I didn’t mean what I said," Janice begged. "I’ll make it up to her. Whatever the amount, I’ll pay. Please... let me go."

Amused by Janice’s plea, Nathan thought with disdain, ’She wants to pay Mrs. Charrington with the measly wealth of the Marker family? How ignorant.’

Nathan scoffed. "This is the first time I’ve heard someone try to bribe Mr. Charrington. Your family’s wealth can’t even cover the staff wages at Nathor Palace. Do you think climbing into the Locke family’s good graces makes you untouchable?"

Janice could tell that Nathan was insulting her. She clenched her fists, trembling with suppressed rage, but she could only endure the humiliation.

"Mrs. Marker, it seems like you’re still clueless about your predicament," Nathan drawled while lighting a cigarette.

The mercenary stepped forward and untied the ropes binding the two. Just as they breathed a sigh of relief, the man grabbed Janice’s right hand and snapped it with a single twist.

Janice’s scream echoed throughout the basement.

"Continue," Nathan instructed.

Without hesitation, the mercenary seized her left hand and broke it with the same ruthless efficiency. Janice fainted from the pain, slumping in her chair.

Fiona staggered back in horror, her body trembling as she witnessed the mercenaries’ savage display.

"Wake her up," Nathan ordered coldly. ’Pathetic. She passes out after just two broken wrists? The real fun hasn’t even started yet. Mrs. Marker needs to stay conscious when we carry out the punishment so she understands the consequences of crossing Mrs. Charrington,’ he thought.