Chapter 73
Chapter 73:
She knew the cellar layout. It was in the sub-basement, a climate-controlled vault.
She walked out of the dining room past Cory, who leered at her, then opened the heavy oak door to the cellar stairs and descended. The air grew cooler with every step. The smell of damp stone and old cork filled her nose.
She reached the bottom. The cellar was a maze of floor-to-ceiling racks. She walked to the back, scanning the labels.
1982… 1982…
She found it. She pulled the dusty bottle from the rack.
Nе𝗐 𝗰𝗵𝖺p𝗍e𝗿s evе𝗋y 𝘸е𝗲𝗄 oո g𝘢𝗹ո𝗈𝘃𝘦𝘭ѕ.𝗰оm
Then she heard it.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate.
She turned. Cory was standing at the bottom of the stairs, smiling, swinging a set of heavy iron keys on his finger.
“Dad didn’t want wine,” Cory said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He wanted you to learn a lesson. About respect p>
Jocelyn’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Get out of my way, Cory p>
“Make me p>
She tried to push past him. He didn’t budge. Instead, he shoved her back. Hard.
Jocelyn stumbled, dropping the bottle. It didn’t break on the rug, but rolled away into the shadows.
“Enjoy the quiet, Joss,” Cory said.
He stepped back, pulled the heavy oak door shut, and turned the key.
The sound of the lock clicking into place was louder than a gunshot.
Darkness fell — absolute, suffocating darkness.
The darkness wasn’t just an absence of light — it was a physical weight. It pressed against Jocelyn’s eyes, her ears, her chest. The only illumination came from a thin, mocking line under the door where the hallway light seeped through.
Jocelyn rushed to the door. She pounded on the thick wood with her fists.
“Open up! This isn’t funny! Robert! Elouise p>
Muffled laughter drifted from the other side. Then the sound of footsteps fading away.
She grabbed the handle and twisted. Locked tight.
She leaned her forehead against the cold wood, gasping for air. The smell of dust and mold filled her nostrils, and suddenly she wasn’t twenty-four anymore. She was ten.
The attic. The heat. The spiders crawling on her legs. Aspen’s voice through the keyhole: “Nobody wants you, Jocelyn. You’re just a spare part p>
“No,” Jocelyn whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “Not again. Not again p>
She fumbled for her phone in her purse. Her hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. She tapped the screen.
Searching…
“Come on,” she pleaded. She held the phone up high, walking in tight circles around the wine racks. “Just one bar. Please p>
No Service.
The walls were thick stone, reinforced with steel. The heavy, metal-lined door sealed the room like a vault.
She slumped against a crate. The cellar was kept at a strict fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit to preserve the wine — ideally suited for vintage Bordeaux, but dangerous for a woman in a thin silk blouse and business skirt.
The cold began to bite immediately. It started on her bare arms, prickling the skin, then seeped inward.
She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. “Think. Think p>