Trapped in His World
Chapter 1: The Red Door
The first time Adaeze stepped into the mansion, it was raining. Not the kind of soft drizzle that whispered against windows, but the kind that made the sky look like it was weeping. Her shoes left wet prints on the polished marble floor as a butler in white gloves took her coat without a word.
Darian stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at her like a king inspecting a new subject. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, held hers for a moment too long.
"You're late," he said.
"I wasn't aware I was on a clock," she replied, clutching her bag tighter.
He smirked. "In my world, everything is timed."
Adaeze had met powerful men before. But none like Darian. There was something predatory in his calm—like a lion lounging just before the pounce.
The mansion smelled of old books, roses, and something unplaceable—like secrets too long buried.
She followed him without being asked, her footsteps echoing behind his.
She had come here willingly.
But even then, she knew: this was a one-way door.
Adaeze awoke with a start.
For a moment, silence wrapped around her like a straitjacket — thick, smothering, and too still to be normal. She blinked rapidly, her eyes struggling to adjust to the soft gold hue of a chandelier above her. The room was too opulent, too quiet. The velvet curtains drawn shut. No sound of birds. No hum of traffic. No voices.
Just her shallow, uneven breaths.
The sheets smelled expensive — lavender and something else... him. The scent sparked a flash in her memory.
The stranger.
That deep, commanding voice. Those eyes that looked through her like glass.
He'd whispered her name like it was his to own.
"Adaeze..."
Her heart slammed against her ribcage.
She swung her legs off the bed, wincing as her bare feet met the cold marble floor. Her skin crawled. She wasn't dreaming. And this wasn't home.
Not even close.
The door creaked as she opened it — slow and careful. The hallway beyond stretched wide, empty, and dark. Portraits lined the walls, all in shadow. Something about them unsettled her — she could swear one of the figures moved when she wasn't looking.
"You're awake."
The voice came from behind.
She spun around.
There he was.
Leaning against the wall, dressed in a tailored black shirt and slacks, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. His presence filled the space like thunderclouds — silent, heavy, threatening.
"Where am I?" she demanded, taking a step back instinctively.
"My home," he said calmly. "Your new reality."
Adaeze's eyes darted toward the stairs behind him. He noticed.
"You could run," he said, almost amused. "But you won't get far."
"I'm not staying here." Her voice trembled. "You drugged me. Kidnapped me."
He stepped closer. She didn't move.
"I saved you, Adaeze," he said, voice low. "You were drowning. You called for me."
"No, I didn't," she snapped.
"You did. Not with words, but your soul did."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace — hers. The one her mother had given her before she died. The one she never took off.
She clutched her neck. It was gone.
"How—how did you get that?" she whispered, throat dry.
"I've always had it."
That didn't make sense. None of this did.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away.
"Follow me. Or stay and let the shadows explain it themselves."
The hallway grew colder the moment he disappeared down the stairs. The air felt heavier, like something unseen was pressing against her. Whispers echoed softly — her name again and again, whispered in different voices.
Adaeze hesitated... then ran after him.
Down the stairs, past hallways that seemed to twist longer with every step, she followed him into a vast library. The walls were lined with books — all bound in black. The windows were sealed shut with ornate locks.
"This is where the truth begins," he said, placing her necklace on the desk in front of her.
She didn't touch it.
"Every book here tells a story," he said. "Including yours."
"I don't understand."
He picked up a leather-bound volume. Handed it to her. Her fingers brushed the cover. Her name was written in gold.
Adaeze Awele.
With trembling hands, she opened the first page — and gasped.
It was her. Her entire life. Memories, secrets, thoughts she had never told a soul — written out like a biography. And then... pages she hadn't lived yet.
She flipped ahead.
One line stood out in bold:
"She will betray him... and pay the price."
Adaeze backed away from the book like it had burned her.
"What is this?!"
He finally looked her in the eye.
"A curse. A prophecy. A second chance," he said. "You choose."
She didn't respond.
From somewhere behind the shelves, a low growl echoed. Then... a soft, childish giggle.
The lights flickered.
"You should rest," he said, voice sharp now. "This house doesn't like confusion. And it definitely doesn't like fear."
"What happens if I leave?" she asked.
He smiled — but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You forget. Everything. Including who you really are."
The chandelier above her rattled.
Adaeze stood frozen in place as he left the room, his footsteps fading.
The book still lay open, the page staring at her like an accusation.
She closed it slowly... but not before reading the last line at the bottom:
"The clock is ticking. And when it stops, so will she."
The grand chandelier twinkled above them like a thousand stars, but Adaeze felt no warmth from the glittering lights. She sat at the long dinner table, dressed in silk, her lips painted red like a rose ready to wilt. Darian sat across from her, sipping red wine with the elegance of a man born into royalty.
"Smile more," he said casually, as if it were a request instead of a command.
Adaeze obeyed, the corners of her lips twitching upward while her heart beat a wild rhythm beneath her skin. She had learned that resistance came in shades—not always loud, not always bruising.
Dinner was a performance. Staff floated around silently, refilling glasses, removing plates. Everything about Darian's world was clean, precise, controlled. And every moment in it made her feel more like a doll, placed and posed for his pleasure.
But behind her eyes, Adaeze was gathering pieces.
Later that night, when the halls were quiet and his eyes were off her, she wandered. She found the west wing—locked. The basement door—guarded. Her only glimpse of freedom was through her bedroom window, four stories high. Wind whispered to her through the cracked glass like a secret lover.
She wasn't a guest.
She was property.
But beneath the silk and submission, rebellion stirred.
And soon, Darian would learn that even dolls have teeth.
The rain tapped relentlessly on the tall windows of the estate like nature's own warning. Adaeze stood still, veiled in shadows as thunder rolled in the distance. She had noticed it the night before—a faint creak behind the far wall in the library. Tonight, she returned.
The bookshelves loomed over her like silent judges. Her fingers traced the edge of a dusty spine, then stopped. There it was again. A whisper. A shuffle. A breath?
She pressed her ear to the wall.
"Adaeze," a voice rasped—hoarse, male, barely a whisper. Her heart nearly leapt from her chest.
She stumbled backward, nearly toppling over a stool. Who knew her name? Darian rarely allowed guests, and the staff barely looked at her. She returned the next night, this time with a flashlight stolen from the butler's closet.
She waited.
At exactly midnight, the panel shifted.
Her breath caught.
A figure emerged—dishevelled, thin, bruised. He couldn't have been more than twenty. His eyes were wild with fear, but filled with desperate hope.
"You have to get out," he gasped, grabbing her wrist. "Before he turns you into one of us."
She froze.
One of us?
But before she could speak, the wall slammed shut again. And she was left in the dark—with a name echoing in her mind and questions burning in her soul.
The morning after the wall slammed shut, Adaeze could hardly breathe. Her skin still tingled where the stranger had gripped her wrist. His eyes haunted her—eyes that looked both human and... hunted.
Darian noticed.
"You look pale, my rose," he said, offering her warm tea. She pretended to smile, but her fingers trembled as she sipped. She couldn't risk revealing what she'd seen. Not yet.
That evening, she followed the exact steps back to the library. But the wall didn't move.
She knocked. Nothing.
Whispers—nothing.
She pushed books, yanked at shelves, whispered the word "help" under her breath.
Still, silence.
She wandered deeper into the east wing—an area Darian told her was under renovation. Dust clouded her vision. Cobwebs clung to her hair. At the very end of the corridor, behind an old velvet curtain, was a door she hadn't noticed before.
Locked.
Adaeze's pulse quickened. She bent low—there were fresh footprints in the dust. Recent. From someone barefoot.
The doorknob rattled suddenly.
She gasped and stumbled back. Her instincts screamed to run, but her curiosity rooted her in place.
From the other side came a muffled sob. Then a whisper:
"Don't trust the masks… He wears a different one with each of us."
The sobbing stopped.
She stood frozen, staring at the locked door, heart pounding, knowing she was being watched.
Adaeze barely slept. The voice behind the locked door replayed in her mind—"He wears a different one with each of us."
What did it mean? Who was he? Darian?
She wandered through the west gallery at dawn, hoping movement would distract her thoughts. The paintings loomed above her—grand portraits of past generations, all from the lineage of Darian's family.
Yet something felt… off.
She paused at one in particular: a woman who looked unsettlingly like her. Same eyes. Same lips. Her name, etched into the frame: Lady Mariah Kaelwyn. Vanished: 1887.
Vanished?
Adaeze stepped closer. The woman's eyes were hauntingly real. And then—it was quick, nearly imperceptible—but the eyes moved.
She froze.
Had she imagined it?
Suddenly, a gust of cold air rushed through the gallery, extinguishing the candles in their sconces. The room plunged into dimness. Whispers slithered through the silence, curling around her like smoke.
She turned.
Behind her, Darian stood in the shadows.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, almost trembling. "These walls… they remember too much."
Adaeze studied him. For the first time, she noticed how unreal he looked. As though a mask of charm was plastered over something broken beneath.
"What aren't you telling me?" she asked.
His jaw clenched. "Sometimes truth is heavier than the lie that saves you."
And then he walked away, leaving her alone—with the portraits watching.
The room Adaeze wasn't allowed to enter stood at the far end of the east wing, sealed with a rusted lock and bound in silence.
Every time she passed it, a pressure built in her chest—curiosity laced with fear.
That night, she dreamt of the door. But in the dream, it was open. A dim light flickered from within, and soft weeping echoed through the halls. She saw herself walking toward it, hand trembling as it reached for the knob.
And then she woke up.
Only… something was different.
The key Darian always kept around his neck now lay on the dresser beside her.
Had he left it? Or was it placed there by someone—or something—else?
Drawn by a force she couldn't name, Adaeze left her room barefoot, clutching the key. The corridor seemed longer than usual, shadows thick and alive.
When she reached the door, her fingers hesitated over the lock. Her breath came in sharp, shallow pulls. But she had to know.
The key slid in perfectly. The lock gave way with a heavy click.
Inside was darkness. Dusty air. And then—movement.
She stepped in.
There, on the wall, were photographs. Dozens of them. Each one is a woman. Each one… her.
But not her.
They looked like her. Identical. Smiling in some. Crying in others.
And all dated. Different years—decades apart.
Then, she heard it.
A whisper behind her.
"You shouldn't have opened it."
She spun around. But the door was no longer there. Just a wall.
And in the silence, a music box began to play… one she had never seen before—but knew by heart.
Trapped.
The door was gone. Only a smooth, impenetrable wall stood where she had entered.
Adaeze's breath hitched, her back pressed to the cold surface. The soft melody of the music box danced eerily around her, slowing… slowing… until it stopped completely.
A mirror stood across the room. Tall. Ornate. Too clean for a place that had collected decades of dust.
She approached it, pulse thundering in her ears.
At first, it reflected her. Tired eyes. Shaking hands.
Then… the reflection smiled.
But she didn't.
Adaeze stumbled back, heart screaming. The mirror-Adaeze stepped forward—smiling wider. Blood dripped from its hands.
"Who are you?" Adaeze gasped.
"I'm who you were meant to be," the reflection whispered. "Before they locked us away."
Flashes hit her—memories not hers. A child in a white gown. Needles. Screams. A fire.
She gripped her head, her mind fracturing under the weight.
The reflection continued: "Darian didn't save you. He recreated you. Just like the others."
"No… no…"
"Yes."
"You've died before, Adaeze."
The lights flickered. The room spun. The mirror shattered.
In its place, a doorway appeared—spiraling down into darkness, lined with torches that lit one by one.
A choice.
Stay in the room of lies.
Or descend into the truth.
And in the dark… someone was already waiting.
Adaeze stepped onto the first stair.
The air grew thick. Heavy. Soundless.
Each step downward stripped the world of a layer—first warmth, then scent, then sound. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream, to breathe—nothing. Not even the echo of her own breath answered.
The staircase spiraled tighter, suffocating. The torches that lit her way gave off no heat. Her thoughts were loud now. Deafening. Memories she couldn't remember—a scalpel, a metal table, a voice chanting numbers in a sterile room.
"Test 14: Failed again. Heart rejection within 12 minutes."
Her knees buckled. She grabbed the wall—slick with condensation. Or was it blood?
Then, a soft hum echoed behind her. Familiar. Almost maternal.
The lullaby.
The one from the music box.
She turned.
Nothing.
Only the dark and the hum that grew louder, closer… inside her ears.
Suddenly, the stairway opened into a massive underground chamber.
At its center—rows of glass pods. Each glowing faintly. Suspended inside: humans… or almost humans.
One turned.
It had her face.
But not her soul.
Darian's voice crackled through unseen speakers.
"Welcome home, Adaeze. You survived longer than I expected."
She trembled, whispering, "What did you do to me?"
His reply chilled her.
"You were never one of them. You were always one of us. Now come. Your sisters are waiting."
The closest pod opened with a hiss.
And her reflection—bloodstained, grinning—stepped out.
Adaeze stumbled backward, heart pounding against the silence.
The clone—her reflection in flesh—moved with unnatural grace. It tilted its head, watching her as if studying prey. Its eyes, though identical, were vacant… soulless.
"Adaeze," it whispered, voice distorted, metallic, almost mocking.
"You've been running from your shadow. But we were born from the same scream."
Adaeze's breath caught. Her hands trembled, fingertips numb.
Then—the other pods began to open.
One by one, versions of her emerged.
One scarred across the jaw.
One missing an eye.
One with burns trailing down her arms.
All bearing her face.
All broken in ways she didn't remember… or didn't want to.
Darian's voice sliced through the thick silence.
"Each version was a study. Each failure brought us closer to you—perfection born of pain."
A nearby monitor flickered to life. Surveillance footage played:
Adaeze, restrained.Screaming.Flatlining.Then breathing again.
She backed into a wall. The clones advanced.
"No…" she muttered, voice cracking. "I'm not one of you."
The burnt one spoke.
"But we are you. Your fear. Your rage. Your vengeance unclaimed."
Suddenly, one lunged.
Adaeze ducked, rolled, grabbed a loose metal pipe from the floor.
The hum in the chamber rose—panic met purpose.
She struck. Once. Twice.
But they didn't bleed.
They cracked.
Like glass.
Like illusions pretending to be real.
As the first clone shattered, the others paused—hesitating.
In that breath, Adaeze whispered to herself:
"If I was made… I can unmake."
And she ran—deeper into the chamber, toward the glowing core, toward the truth they buried under experiments and lies.
Behind her, the clones screamed in unison.
But one stayed behind… and followed her, not to fight—
…but to help.
The corridors changed as she ran—metal gave way to glass, and beneath her feet, glowing conduits pulsed with blue light. Each step brought Adaeze deeper into the core of Facility Echo, the origin site of her trauma… and her design.
The clone who followed her—Silent Adaeze, as she named her—hadn't spoken once. But she didn't attack. She merely shadowed her, limping slightly, eyes darting as though expecting betrayal from either side.
The chamber opened into a vast cylindrical space.
At its heart was a floating archive.
It hovered mid-air, held in place by invisible forces. A massive black obelisk—etched in glowing sigils—rotated slowly. Above it, a holographic interface sparked to life, reading:
ORIGIN PROTOCOL: ECHO ALPHA
Clearance Required: ADA-EZ3
Her name. Encrypted in a lie.
She placed her hand on the biometric panel.
The system scanned her palm… paused… then accepted.
The chamber lit up in concentric rings. Files decrypted, folders unfolding like digital petals. Footage played without warning.
"Project Eden Echo, Day 1."
Dr. Liora's voice. Younger, colder.
"Subject Ada-EZ3 responds well to memory layering. We've replaced core trauma with selective implants. She remembers a life she never lived."
"The real Adaeze—our catalyst—was lost during the Lagos Collapse. But her DNA survived."
Adaeze staggered back.
They cloned her. They built a lie around stolen flesh.
More videos:
Day 43.
"Failure rates remain high. Every version breaks under emotional pressure—except Subject 10."
The screen zoomed in: Her. Crying. Surviving.
She was Subject 10.
But she wasn't the original.
And yet… she remembered love. Loss. Laughter.
All synthetic.
Or was it?
She turned to Silent Adaeze.
"You… were Subject 6, weren't you?"
The clone blinked—then nodded.
A pause.
Then, from the obelisk, came a final message:
"Emergency protocol engaged. ADA-EZ3 has accessed her truth. Initiate Containment Directive."
Sirens flared. Red lights drowned the room.
A robotic voice echoed:
"Self-awareness breach confirmed. Subjects must be terminated."
Weapons deployed from the ceiling. Mechs descended from the shadows.
Adaeze clenched her fists. Her body buzzed. Her heartbeat was no longer fear—but purpose.
She wasn't just created.
She was chosen to end it.
Turning to Silent Adaeze, she whispered:
"Let's show them what it means when the experiment rebels."
They ran. Toward the storm. Toward war.
The garden behind the estate was beautiful, manicured to perfection like everything else in Darian's world. Roses bloomed blood-red, lilies swayed like ballerinas in a silent performance, and white benches lined the path like resting ghosts.
It was also the one place he never ventured.
Adaeze took to walking there every afternoon, always under the careful eye of one of Darian's men. But today, she was alone—or so she thought.
She leaned over a lavender bush, pretending to admire the petals, when a low voice drifted from behind the hedge.
"You're not just another pretty thing. I see it in your eyes."
She froze. Spinning around, her gaze met the shadowed form of the new gardener—Kweku. She had seen him once or twice, always silent, always watching. Now, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse jump.
"You don't belong to him," he said. "And you're not alone in this."
Adaeze blinked. A sliver of hope cracked through her fortress of fear.
"What do you know?" she whispered.
Kweku glanced around. "Not here. Tonight, after lights out. Meet me at the fountain."
The air between them hummed with danger and a flicker of rebellion. For the first time in weeks, Adaeze didn't feel like prey.
She felt like a flame being relit.
The night was unusually still.
Adaeze crept from her room, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in her ears. Every step toward the garden felt like walking a tightrope over fire. She reached the fountain—its gurgling waters masking the crunch of her feet on gravel.
Kweku was already there, waiting in the shadows.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
He didn't answer at first. Instead, he handed her a small, folded map.
"This place is more than what it seems. Darian's estate is a front. There are tunnels beneath it—used for things no one should ever see. Girls like you… you're not the first."
Adaeze's blood ran cold. "What are you saying?"
"I worked for him once. I believed in what he promised—luxury, escape, power. But I saw what was underneath. The cages. The buyers."
She gasped, hand trembling as she held the map.
"You need to get out before it's too late. But if you try to run without a plan, he'll find you. He always does."
Tears burned in her eyes, not just from fear—but from fury. The truth was far worse than anything she imagined.
"He's a trafficker, isn't he?"
Kweku nodded solemnly. "And you're next."
The wind shifted. A branch cracked in the distance.
They weren't alone anymore.
Kweku whispered, "Go. Now."
Adaeze ran—not just for her life, but for the thousands of screams buried in the walls of Darian's empire.
Adaeze didn't sleep that night.
She stayed hidden beneath a stairwell in the servant quarters, clutching the map Kweku had given her. Her mind raced with questions: Who else knew? Was Darian aware that someone had broken the silence? And could she trust Kweku—fully?
By dawn, the house stirred with its usual luxury-induced rhythm. Adaeze wore her quietness like armor, avoiding Darian's gaze at breakfast, nodding at his plans for a surprise trip to Dubai—"just you and I, my love," he had whispered, brushing her cheek.
But she knew now. It wasn't a trip—it was a transfer.
That afternoon, Kweku signaled from the eastern balcony. Tonight. Midnight. Through the wine cellar, then the tunnels.
Adaeze packed light—a thin jacket, cash she'd quietly saved, the necklace her mother gave her in the village, and the map.
Midnight came like a storm in disguise. She tiptoed past the security monitors, past sleeping guards, past the room where Darian snored peacefully.
The wine cellar was colder than expected. Kweku was waiting.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Yes."
They pushed back a shelf, revealing a rusted door. Behind it—stairs into blackness.
As they descended, the door slammed shut.
Lights flickered on.
Darian stood at the top of the stairs, gun in hand.
"Did you really think I didn't know?" he hissed.
Betrayal flooded her lungs like fire. Kweku had lied.
No—someone had lied.
But who?
The silence was different this time. Not empty—heavy.
Adaeze stood in the tunnel, heart pounding, eyes locked on Darian's shadow above. Kweku stepped forward, slowly, hands raised. "She didn't know, Darian. I planned it. Let her go."
"Liar," Darian snarled. "You both disgust me. I gave you a life, Adaeze. A name, comfort, status. You were nothing."
"No," Adaeze said quietly, stepping into the light. "I was yours. And that made me nothing."
He moved the gun toward her.
And then—a sound. A single, echoing shot.
But it didn't come from Darian.
He fell.
Behind him, Mama Ifeoma lowered the pistol in her trembling hand. "I told you once," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "You don't own people. Not even your wife."
Adaeze collapsed to the floor. Kweku rushed to her side.
Outside, dawn was breaking. The city was still asleep, unaware that a storm had passed beneath its skin.
Later, at the police station, Adaeze told everything. About the silence. The beatings. The charm. The fear.
Mama Ifeoma took the blame for the shot. But the authorities knew it was self-defense—her fingerprints were clean, her story backed by bruises too old to fake.
By the time the papers printed the story, Adaeze was already gone. On a plane. Alone. With a new name, a new passport, and finally—a voice.
The silence had broken.
She was no longer the woman behind the perfect curtains, smiling for strangers and dying inside.
She was free.
And freedom, she had learned, is never quiet.