The mansion had grown eerily quiet in the days following Ali and Yusuf's escape. Sonia moved through its marble corridors like a ghost, her presence unseen, her steps measured. Though the sheikh's guards no longer patrolled the hallways in their usual numbers, Sonia knew better than to assume she was safe. The calm was only a mask stretched over something more sinister.
She wandered past the empty dining hall, its grand chandelier swaying slightly with each gust of desert wind. The scent of roasted meat had long since vanished. Once the center of opulence and control, the space now felt abandoned , a carcass stripped of its power. She paused briefly at the archway, listening for movement. Nothing.
In the silence, her thoughts drifted back to her decision. Staying behind had not been easy. Watching Ali and Yusuf disappear into the shimmering heat of the desert had felt like tearing off a limb. But she hadn't faltered. She couldn't.
Her reasons were layered like sediment. The surface reason was justice to confront the sheikh, to unearth and destroy the empire of trafficking that had swallowed her childhood and so many others'. But beneath that was a hunger that she had long buried: revenge. The man who had taken her life, who had murdered her father and sold her to this prison, still walked these halls. And she would not rest until she looked him in the eyes one last time.
Sonia moved down a narrow stairwell that led to the mansion's lower quarters—once bustling with servants, now sparsely occupied by those who either hadn't escaped or were too afraid to try. In the dimly lit hallway, she found Fatima, one of the older maids, sweeping half-heartedly.
"Any word?" Sonia asked, her voice low.
Fatima didn't look up. Her face was drawn with worry. "Nothing new. But I hear whispers at night. I think the sheikh brought in new men. Not guards, something worse."
Sonia nodded. She had heard the same. Mercenaries, perhaps. Hired silence. If the sheikh was rebuilding, it meant he hadn't accepted defeat. That made him dangerous.
"I need access to the cellar," Sonia said. "There are documents down there. Records. Names. Proof."
Fatima stopped sweeping and looked up sharply. "You shouldn't be involved in this."
"I've been involved since the day they dragged me from my village," Sonia said flatly. "It's too late for turning back."
The old woman hesitated, then gave a slight nod. "The old iron key , check the storage room near the kitchens. Be careful."
The corridor leading to the kitchen had always been Sonia's refuge. It was where she had first found her voice again, whispering recipes to herself when no one listened. Now, it felt like a final stage in a long, bloody play.
She rummaged through old drawers until her fingers brushed cold iron. The key was heavier than expected. She turned it in her hand before slipping it into her pocket.
The cellar door groaned as it opened. A damp, musty scent rushed up the stairs. She took a deep breath and descended into the darkness, lighting an old lantern as she reached the bottom. The flickering flame cast long shadows along rows of dusty crates and boxes.
At the back of the cellar, behind crates of preserved wine and expired imports, was a locked cabinet. Sonia forced the rusty door open and began digging.
Ledgers. Invoices. Receipts. Handwritten lists in multiple languages. Names, codes, transport dates. Her hands trembled. It was all here , the trail of human lives reduced to columns and ink. Some were marked with a red X. Gone. Others had notes: "Delivered," "Transferred," "Missing."
Her breath caught when she saw her own name.
Sonia A. Purchased 2012 Condition: intact Transfer complete Destination: Private (Code 7)
She sank onto an overturned crate, the ledger resting on her lap. Her name was just one of many, one of hundreds. But here was the proof she needed. The sheikh had kept everything, too arrogant to imagine he'd ever need to hide it.
Later that night, she sat in her room under the dim yellow glow of a bedside lamp, copying the names onto smaller sheets of paper. She couldn't take the books themselves ,not yet but she could duplicate what mattered. Her hands were steady now. Each name she copied brought her closer to justice.
There was a knock at her door.
She froze.
No one knocked in this place anymore.
She quickly slipped the sheets under her mattress and approached the door, opening it just a crack.
It was Karim , a former driver, tall and wiry, with eyes that always flicked from corner to corner like he expected an ambush.
"He wants to see you," he whispered.
"Who?"
"The sheikh. He knows you stayed."
Sonia felt her pulse race. She had been expecting this. Maybe not this soon, but it was inevitable.
"When?"
"Now."
She nodded and closed the door. Her hands went to the mirror, smoothing her hair. Her reflection looked calm, but beneath the surface, adrenaline surged.
The sheikh sat in his private salon, surrounded by opulence that had once impressed her but now only disgusted. His silk robes, the ivory pipe between his fingers, the wine poured by trembling servants all a facade hiding decay.
"Sonia," he greeted, his voice low, coated in false warmth. "Why are you still here?"
She stepped forward, keeping her eyes on his. "Why do you think?"
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable. "Ali escaped. With the gardener. I assume you had a hand in it."
She didn't answer.
He smiled faintly. "Loyalty is a rare thing, these days. You could have left. You had the chance."
"I didn't want to run," she said. "Not yet."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "So you're waiting. For what? For justice? Revenge?"
"Maybe both."
He laughed, a deep, humorless sound. "You've changed. The girl I bought would never have dared to speak to me like this."
"The girl you bought died years ago," Sonia said, her voice cold.
His smile faded. Silence stretched between them.
"Be careful," he said finally. "You may find that the past you're digging into will bury you."
"We'll see," she replied.
She left the room shaken, but not broken. That meeting had been a test, and she had passed. The sheikh no longer saw her as docile. He saw the threat now. She had to move faster.
By the time dawn bled across the sky, Sonia was already out near the back of the estate, where the old vehicles were kept. Karim had agreed to help for a price. Everyone had a reason in this place. Survival, guilt, profit. She didn't care. She only needed his silence.
They stashed the documents in a hidden compartment under a rusted transport truck. Karim had promised to take it to a contact in the city once the roads were safe. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
When she returned to the kitchen to collect the rest of her copies, she found the room had been ransacked.
Her heart dropped.
Papers torn, drawers pulled open, cupboards broken. Someone had been looking for something.
She rushed to her room. The mattress had been cut open. Her notes were gone.
A quiet panic bloomed in her chest.
Someone knew.
She sat on the bed, trying to steady her breathing. The ledgers were still safe in the cellar, but whoever had done this knew she had information. It wouldn't be long before they came for her again.
She would have to move faster. Smarter.
But she wasn't alone. There were still a few allies left in the shadows.
And the desert, vast and merciless, had not forgotten her.
She stood once more and opened the window. In the distance, where the sun kissed the dunes, she imagined Ali and Yusuf pressing forward toward uncertain freedom.
She wasn't ready to join them.
Not yet.
The fight wasn't over.
And she was just getting started.