Penthouse – 3:47 AM
The elevator doors closed behind them with a sound that felt final. Chloe's chest tightened as she stepped into Alexander's world.
It wasn't just a penthouse. It was a fortress.
Every wall gleamed white and cold, polished stone broken only by floor-to-ceiling glass. The city glittered beyond, a diamond graveyard of skyscrapers and smoke. Everything screamed money. Power. Isolation.
Her fingers twitched against her sleeve. She wanted to scratch her skin open, just to feel real again.
Alexander tossed his coat on a leather chair, movements sharp and precise. His eyes never left her.
"You're shaking," he said.
Chloe stiffened.
"No, I'm not."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"I don't like lies."
Her throat tightened. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if that could shield her.
"You brought me here against my will," she snapped.
"No," he corrected softly. "I gave you a choice. And you stepped inside the car."
His words sliced through her. He was right. She had chosen. Maybe not with her mind, but with something darker—something she couldn't name.
The Guest Room
He pushed open a door and gestured. "Here."
Chloe stepped inside. Her breath caught.
The room wasn't beautiful. It was sterile—like a hospital ward dressed in silk. White sheets, untouched. A dresser that had never held clothes. No paintings, no warmth.
It felt like a room prepared for someone who might not stay.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why me?"
Alexander leaned against the doorway. His silhouette filled it like a threat.
"Because you're already mine. Even before tonight."
Her pulse spiked.
"You don't even know me."
His lips curved, almost cruel.
"I know enough."
And then he left, shutting the door with a soft click.
Chloe sank onto the bed, trembling. The sheets smelled faintly of him. Dark, expensive, intoxicating.
She hated it.
She hated herself for liking it.
Flashback — Madrid, Two Years Ago
The music had been slower then. Softer. She'd danced in silk, not rags.
Diego Santiago had clapped from his chair, a glass of red wine in hand, his eyes fixed on her like she was his possession, not his lover.
"Baila para mí, mi reina," he'd whispered. Dance for me, my queen.
When she faltered, his smile disappeared. Later, in the silence of their room, his fingers bruised her chin as he hissed:
"Si dejas de bailar, dejas de respirar."
If you stop dancing, you stop breathing.
That night, she carved lines into her wrist with a shard of glass. Quietly. Carefully. Just enough to remember she was still alive.
Present – Penthouse
Chloe woke with a start, her pulse racing. Her sleeve had slipped up her arm, exposing faint scars.
And Alexander was standing by the window. Watching her.
"你为什么要伤害自己?" he murmured.
(Why do you hurt yourself?)
Her breath hitched.
"You… you speak Mandarin?"
He turned slowly. His eyes pinned her.
"Enough to understand your nightmares."
Heat rushed to her face. Shame. Fury. Desire.
"Stay out of my head," she snapped.
He crossed the room in two strides. His hand caught her wrist—not rough, not gentle, but final. His thumb brushed over the scar.
"Stay alive," he whispered. "That's not a request."
Their eyes locked. The air thickened. His face was inches from hers. His breath brushed her lips.
Her heart screamed kiss him. Her mind screamed run.
And then—
BANG!
A gunshot shattered the silence outside the penthouse.
Alexander's body moved instantly, pushing her down, shielding her with his weight.
Glass trembled. Sirens wailed far below.
His voice was low, lethal, in her ear:
"He's here."
🔥 End of Chapter Three 🔥