CHAPTER:-8

Elena's stomach was a roaring beast, a constant, painful reminder of her empty days. Hunger had become her jailer, locking her in a prison of weakness. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a physical ache, a gnawing emptiness that made her head spin and her body tremble. For two days, she had only swallowed small sips of water, the liquid doing little to soothe the raging fire inside her. The thought of confessing to a crime she didn't commit was a bitter pill, a heavy weight on her already burdened soul. But the hunger, that relentless, gnawing hunger, was a force she couldn't fight. It was breaking her, piece by piece.

Four hours crawled by, each minute a tiny torture. Then, Dante returned. He walked into the dimly lit room with a smile that was cold and sharp, like a knife. He looked at Elena, his eyes filled with a cruel amusement, like he knew exactly what she was going to say. "Well?" he asked, his voice smooth and low. "Have you made up your mind?"

Elena couldn't look up at him. Her head hung low, her shoulders slumped. She felt like a broken doll, tossed aside and forgotten. The shame of what she was about to do burned her cheeks, hot and painful. She wanted to scream, to fight, but she was too weak.

Dante's smile started to fade, replaced by a hard, impatient look. "I don't have all day," he said, his voice sharp. "It seems you'd rather die of hunger." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Fine, then. That's your choice." He turned away, his hand reaching for the door handle. He was going to leave her there, to starve.

Just as his fingers touched the cold metal of the door, Elena's voice, a small, weak sound, broke the silence. "I'll say it," she whispered.

Dante stopped, turning back slowly. He looked at her, his smile returning, wider now, like a predator who had caught its prey. "Say what?" he asked, pretending he hadn't heard her perfectly. He was playing with her, enjoying her suffering.

Elena clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She fought back the tears that were burning her eyes. "I'll say I did it," she said, her voice stronger this time, though still trembling. "I'll confess."

A look of pure satisfaction spread across Dante's face. He smiled, a wide, triumphant smile. "Good," he said, his voice smooth and silky. "You've made a wise decision." He looked at her, his eyes filled with a cold, cruel pleasure. He knew he had broken her, and he was enjoying every moment of it. He had taken her dignity, her freedom, and now, her truth. Elena was now his puppet.

Dante's phone, a polished black rectangle, slid smoothly from his expensive coat. "Here's the thing," he said, his voice low and smooth, "we need this to sound authentic. Not like a hostage situation. More like a... personal confession. You know, like in those dramatic movie scenes where someone spills their deepest secrets without realizing they're being recorded?" He knelt before Elena, his posture almost gentle, but his eyes held a cold, calculating gleam. "Ready for your starring role?" He pressed the record button, the small red light blinking on. "Three... two... one... and action."

Elena's voice, trembling at first, gained a chilling edge. "Yes, Marco died because of me." She paused, swallowing hard. "He came to me with flowers, like some lovesick puppy, and proposed in front of the entire campus." Her voice dripped with disdain. "Who would want to date a spineless fool like him? So I humiliated him. I said no, loudly, for everyone to hear. And then, I told him to climb. To jump."

As she spoke, the tears she'd been desperately holding back began to flow freely, a torrent of grief and shame. She didn't even realize she was crying until Dante's voice, sharp and decisive, cut through her sobs. "Cut!" The red light on the phone flickered and died.

Dante reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Excellent performance," he said, his voice smooth and detached. "Truly convincing. You deserve a reward." He stood up, his movements fluid and graceful. "A magnificent lunch awaits." He turned and walked away, leaving Elena kneeling on the floor, her tears still fresh, the weight of her false confession pressing down on her like a physical burden. She felt trapped, not just by the recording, but by the chilling realization of how easily she had been manipulated into betraying herself.

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