WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 16 | LIVE A LITTLE LONGER AND LIE

LOVEY

⚘

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, THE PAIN RUSHED IN.

The cold, concrete ground stung against my blistered feet, and the ropes around my wrists burned against my skin. I didn't know where I was; all I knew was that I was in an empty room, tied up and alone.

A deep sadness was still lingering around me, weighing me down and making it hard to breathe, and I couldn't remember a thing. I tried to recall the times before I'd come to Paris—the times where I was happy, and warm, and wasn't afraid—but those felt so distant I questioned if they were even real.

Giving up still hurts. I may have stopped running, but by my current situation, I knew this was far from over.

Strangers, William had called us. Whatever Hell was coming my way couldn't be as bad as how that word made me feel.

I looked at my surroundings, eyesight blurry. There were no windows, and the only light was coming from a buzzing ceiling lamp, and the walls were bare with peeling, grey paint. A bloody prison, I thought to myself. What I'd give to be back at the hotel.

I went to close my eyes again, but the sound of footsteps echoed from down the hall. I listened to them growing louder, and louder, thumping, and thumping until they came to a stop.

The door swung open, and Percy Kent walked in.

Whatever sadness I'd been hoarding twisted into absolute disgust. He seemed entirely unbothered—his hair was still slicked back as it usually was, his clothes were clean, and the expression on his face was smug, and free of worry. I felt like a fool, tied to a chair in front of him, the exact opposite of who I used to be.

He shut the door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Lovey," he said.

I refused to look at him, eyes narrowed at the damp ground. "Don't call me that."

"Don't call you by your name?"

"You don't deserve to."

It was ridiculous, but I was trying to cling to whatever power I could. I was defenseless, humiliated, and weak. The only thing I could think of was how much I hated him—hated the wasted years I'd spent adoring him, the manipulation, the deceit. I hated everything, and I hated how he dared to say my name.

But a man like him never cared what I thought. He never had. Instead, he chuckled, making me feel worse than I already did.

"I'm not here for petty arguments, [y/n]," he scoffed. "You can whine all you want, but if there's one thing you will do, it's to answer my questions."

"No."

"No?"

"I won't answer anything," I spat out.

My eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, and I saw the disdain in his eyes. He thought of me as lesser. He thought of me as stubborn. He didn't like how I refused to give him what he wanted, when I had never hesitated to in the past.

But I didn't know who he was, then. Now I do.

Uncrossing his arms, he began to cross the room, closing the distance between us with a thundering stride. I flinched back in fear—an instinct I couldn't control. He noticed it immediately.

"So you are scared of me," he sneered. I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Good."

I hate you, I wanted to yell. I wanted to spit in his face, and wrench myself out of this chair. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wanted to tell him I hated him more than the times I said I loved him. I wanted to make him feel guilt, or pain, or anything.