Chapter 1 (Tori P.O.V)

The machines hummed softly around me, a low mechanical whisper that had become the soundtrack of my existence. My fingers twitched , the first sign that the drug coursing through my veins had finally worn off. I forced my heavy eyelids apart, and the world returned in a slow, aching blur.

Cold. Silent. White.

I was still in the same room Zayn had locked me in.

A tired, bitter smile tugged at my lips. Even the rich cry, I thought. Five years ago, I would’ve laughed at such a thought. Now it clung to me like truth carved into bone.

My name is Victoria Jordan, though the world once knew me as Tori; Chanel’s girl, the face on billboards, the darling of runways. I had been wealthy long before fame touched me. My father owned oil companies across continents; my mother built the largest shopping mall in Ireland. Our money was old, thick, and impossible to ignore, no matter how humble we tried to live.

We didn’t hoard our wealth. We built orphanages. Hospitals. Homes for the forgotten.

And when I was ten, my parents brought home a boy who needed one of those homes.

Zayn.                                       

He was five years older, with a quiet smile and eyes that held stories I didn’t yet understand. My father placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “This is your older brother now, Tori.”

I had always wanted a sibling. I ran into Zayn’s arms without hesitation, and he hugged me back gently. From that day, we were inseparable. He walked me to school, protected me from bullies, taught me how to climb trees and how to lie convincingly to teachers. He was my shadow, my companion, my safe place.

Until everything changed.

When I turned twenty, my parents attended a charity gala. On their way home, their car crashed. There were no survivors.

At the funeral, I broke. Zayn held me through every painful breath. “It’s going to be okay, Tori,” he whispered as I sobbed into his chest. I believed him. I believed everything he ever said.

After the burial, I quit modeling. I left the United States and moved back to Ireland, drowning in grief. Zayn and I inherited vast properties, though I didn’t care for any of them. My father had bought secret shares in my name when I was a child, assets Zayn knew nothing about.

One afternoon, he called me and asked me to come over. I trusted him too much to question it. We talked, reminisced, laughed. Then he handed me a cold bottle of Schweppes, my favorite drink. I drank it without thinking.

That was the last moment of my old life.

I woke up in a white room, strapped to machines, tubes snaking into my body. My eyes fluttered closed again before I could make sense of anything.

Then the real nightmare began.

My mind stayed awake, trapped inside a body that couldn’t move. I could think but not speak. Hear but not react. They fed me through a tube. Days blurred into months. Months into years. Five years.

In those years, I made promises to myself.

In the first year, I swore I would reward anyone who helped me escape.

In the second, I vowed to kill everyone involved.

By the third, I wanted to kill myself.

And after that… even hope abandoned me. The pain swallowed everything.

I had loved Zayn like blood. Like family. I never imagined he could betray us all. But he had planned everything. The kindness. The loyalty. The brotherhood. It was all a mask for his greed. He had wanted the company, the empire, the legacy, all of it.

He used us. Used me.

But he didn’t break me.

Not completely.

Because today… I woke up.

And no matter how long it takes, I will fight. I will drag Zayn to the place he belongs — a place darker than anything he ever trapped me in.

I just need one person to help me. One door left unlocked. One moment of weakness in his perfect system.

Be patient, Tori.

And Zayn?

Watch your back.

I’m coming for you.

And you will pay for everything.