The walls were still yellow.
Rose stared at them like they were taunting her. The color was too damn bright—cheerful in a way that felt unnatural, almost cruel. It didn't warm the room, it smothered it. Made it feel like the inside of a clown's coffin. She lay on the bed, arms folded behind her head, legs stretched out across the soft blanket. Her gaze traced the uneven swirls in the ceiling, but even those couldn't hold her attention.
With a sigh, she rolled to her side and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She tapped the screen—no missed calls, no messages. Not from Alejandro. Not from anyone.
Figures.
She had already accepted that she wasn't someone people kept in touch with. She existed on the fringes—barely remembered, never missed. Salvatore only used to call her when she disappeared somewhere in the house too long. Now he was gone. Out of her life, but not out of her head.
Her stomach growled—long, low, and petulant. It snapped her out of her daze. She pushed herself up and dragged her feet off the bed, toes curling against the cold wood floor.
It was already noon. And she hadn't eaten since morning.
With a stretch and a yawn, she pulled open the drawer, grabbed her sneakers, stepped out into the hallway.
The penthouse swallowed her in silence. It wasn't the kind of calm silence she liked—this was the kind that roared in her ears, a vacuum too perfect, too sterile. She padded barefoot toward the kitchen, footsteps muffled against the polished wooden floors.
The kitchen looked like something out of a luxury design magazine. Sleek marble countertops gleamed under the soft, recessed lights. Everything was arranged with a precision that made her stomach twist—cabinets flush with each other, the fridge humming quietly in the corner, a row of spices alphabetically arranged on a floating shelf like little soldiers. No clutter. No crumbs. No dishes in the sink.
She opened the fridge and stared.
It was full, but in the most unsettling way possible. Rows upon rows of perfectly aligned containers, color-coded labels facing outward. Each vegetable in its own compartment. Fruits grouped by color and ripeness. Packaged meats sealed tight and stacked symmetrically.
She stared longer than she should have, unsure if she was impressed or creeped out.
No pastries. No cakes. No shakes. Not even a chocolate bar. She slammed the door shut and turned to the cupboards. More of the same. Everything organized with obsessive precision—no sugary cereals, no junk food, no fun. She slammed the last cabinet with a groan.
"Is this man allergic to joy?"
She pulled out her phone, fingers tapping across the screen with practiced speed. A bakery popped up. Just around the corner from the building. Perfect.
She turned on her heel and stalked back to her room. In under a minute, she had her sneakers in hand, purse slung back across her shoulder, and Salvatore's old black card tucked in her back pocket.
She walked with purpose toward the elevator, hair bouncing against her back with each step. But as she reached the metal doors and jabbed the call button, a screen blinked to life.
Access Denied. Facial recognition or security code required.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she hissed.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored surface. She scowled.
"So this is a prison after all."
She turned and marched down the hallway. She didn't care where Nikolai was—he was going to give her a way out. Now.
The first door she passed looked promising. She pushed it open without knocking.
Inside was a grand piano, polished to a mirror shine. The room smelled faintly of lemon oil and lacquer. A single stool sat before the keys. No Nikolai.
She left.
The next door revealed a completely empty room. White walls, bare floors, no furniture, no light. It was as if someone had started designing it and then abandoned the idea halfway through. It sent a shiver down her spine.
The third door didn't budge. Locked.
She jiggled the handle with growing irritation, then banged her fist on the frame. "Of course"
She stormed to the last door at the end of the hall. This one opened with a quiet click.
Inside was a study.
A massive mahogany desk sat at the center, and behind it—like a villain in a damn Bond film—was Nikolai Ivanov. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, his hair slightly tousled as if he'd run his fingers through it while reading. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, and his blue eyes were locked on the documents spread across his desk.
"Did Salvatore not teach you basic manners?" he asked without looking up.
"I want to go out," she announced.
"Hmm?"
She stepped farther in, crossing her arms. "The elevator needs your face. I want pastries. Preferably something with frosting and sugar."
His eyes lifted to hers, cool and unreadable. "And?"
She stared. "And get your ass up and open it."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. A nightclub. A strip joint. A kitten rescue shelter. Take your pick."
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Be back before sunset," he said simply.
Her brow shot up. "Wait—you're actually letting me go?"
He looked back down at the papers. "This is my territory. There is nowhere you can go that I won't know of. Everyone works for me."
She narrowed her eyes. "Creepy. You know that's creepy, right?"
"I'm not here to be liked."
"Obviously." She held out her hand. "Come on, then. Let's go unlock your high-tech elevator."
He didn't move. Instead, he reached for a small pad of paper, scribbled something, and tore the top sheet free. He handed it to her without ceremony.
"Use the code."
She stared at the paper like it might self-destruct. Then she snatched it from his hand and spun on her heel.
"No thank you?" he called after her.
"Suck my nonexistent dick," she shot back.
As she walked back down the hallway, she couldn't help but smile.
Her fingers punched the numbers into the panel. The elevator blinked green and opened with a quiet whoosh.
Freedom, even if it was temporary.
And she was going to make the most of every sugar-filled, frosting-dripping, calorie-stuffed moment of it.
Nikolai leaned back in the leather chair, its creaking the only sound in the room besides the faint hum of the city beyond the glass walls. The afternoon light spilled across the mahogany desk, glinting off the sleek metal of his laptop. His eyes, cold and unreadable, were fixed on the door Rose had just slammed behind her. The echo of her sharp attitude still hung in the air like the sting of a slap. But his face was calm—expressionless. Too calm.
Then his phone buzzed. A soft vibration that cut through the stillness. He picked it up without urgency, thumb swiping across the screen. A message from his assistant.
[Incoming File: ROSE LILIAN WOODS – Full Dossier]
He opened the file on his laptop, the machine coming alive with a soft glow. The screen loaded her picture first. A girl in her mid-teens. Haunted eyes. Dark circles like bruises carved into her skin. Hair matted and dull, strands sticking out like she hadn't seen a brush—or a gentle hand—in months. Her skin was the color of wax paper, pale and undernourished. She looked like a ghost.
Seattle. Born to a prosecutor and a pre-school teacher. The kind of suburban dream that rarely ever lasted. And in her case, it didn't. Not past the age of five.
A house fire.
Parents gone. Baby brother gone.
The file noted the fire had been triggered by a gas leak—though rumors swirled, blaming a curious child who'd fiddled with a stove she didn't understand. That child had lived. And the world never forgave her for surviving.
She was dumped in an orphanage within weeks. No surviving relatives who wanted her. Aunts who called her a murderer, unworthy of love. Her life from then on? Brutal. Vicious.
"Bullied. Beaten. Starved. Forced to crawl on broken glass," the report read in cold, clinical terms.
Nikolai's jaw flexed.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't type anything. He just scrolled.
Adopted at sixteen.
Salvatore Russo.
A man known for masking filth in suits and false benevolence. On paper, he had rescued her from squalor. In truth, he'd simply traded her prison for his own personal hell.
She became his daughter in the eyes of the world.
But behind closed doors, she was groomed.
Controlled.
Used.
"She has been on oral contraceptives since the first night in his home. Daily doses monitored and administered by household staff."
Nikolai's nostrils flared slightly. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in anger—a quiet, restrained, glacial kind of anger. The kind he was known for. The kind that froze you in place before it ever erupted.
The next section of the file shifted focus.
Alejandro.
Salvatore's only son. Twenty years old when Rose entered the house. A man with his mother's eyes and a reputation for rebellion.
At first, he hadn't spoken to her. But when he learned how much she hated Salvatore, that changed. They formed an alliance of sorts. Not lovers—never that. Friends, if such a word applied to two people bound by trauma and mutual rage.
It was Alejandro who opened her eyes to what normal looked like. He showed her films. Videos. Clips of love and intimacy that didn't involve force, pain, or power games. He sat beside her as she watched, explaining, never touching.
When Salvatore's anger left marks on her—emotional or otherwise—she ran to Alejandro. And though Salvatore hated their connection, he never broke it. Couldn't.
Nikolai ran a hand slowly through his hair. The details in the file weren't news to him—but seeing it written out, fact by fact, lined in grayscale and bureaucracy, made it worse. Made it undeniable.
Then there was the incident. The one time Salvatore struck her.
The file didn't say exactly what Rose had said to provoke it, only that it was something Alejandro had laughed at. Something that burned Salvatore's pride more than his patience.
It was a turning point. She changed after that. Hardened. Wore sarcasm like a shield. Dared Salvatore to hit her again—but he never did.
The last part of the file listed her daily privileges:
Unlimited food access
Freedom to roam within the estate
Designer clothing and spa treatments when needed
But in exchange, she was expected to smile.
To perform.
To be grateful.
Nikolai leaned back farther in the chair, the leather groaning softly under the shift of his weight. He took off his glasses and set them on the desk, pressing his thumbs into his temples.
She had lived seven years in one kind of hell.
Now she was here.
With him.
And what was the difference, really?
More money?
More rules?
Cleaner spaces and fewer bruises?
Maybe. But he wasn't blind to the truth. He hadn't rescued her. He had acquired her. Not with chains, but with contracts. Not with fists, but with control.
In many ways, this penthouse was no different from the orphanage she had been locked in or the mansion she had wandered like a captive. It was cleaner. Quieter. But it was still a cage.
And he—
He was still a warden.
He sighed. Deeply. Slowly.
This wasn't supposed to be complicated. It was a transaction. Salvatore needed an alliance. Nikolai needed leverage. That's all Rose was meant to be—leverage.
But now…
Now, he wasn't sure.
Because when he looked at her, he didn't see a pawn anymore.
He saw haunted eyes.
And rage barely hidden behind a smile.
And pain tucked into sarcasm and bubblegum.
He saw a survivor.
And a mirror.
Because Nikolai knew what it meant to be owned.
He exhaled and shut the laptop.
"Dobro pozhalovat' v ad, Rose Woods," he murmured under his breath, the Russian slipping like silk from his tongue.
Welcome to hell.