In the early morning, pale light struggled to penetrate the frosted glass, casting the "Silence" suite in a temperature-less, hazy gray-white. Isabella White had barely slept all night, the faint, ominous tingling in the glands at the back of her neck hanging over her nerves like the Sword of Damocles. Every subtle throb sent shivers through her body, which felt heavy and exhausted from lack of sleep. Dark circles tinged with blue-black had formed under her eyes, making her already pale complexion appear even more translucent and fragile. Yet deep within her cerulean eyes, the stubborn flame had not extinguished; instead, under the sustained tension and fear, it had been honed sharper.
She remained curled in the corner of the bed, only draped with the thinnest, cleanest-looking blanket, resisting the quilt imbued with Kane's scent. Hunger struck again, her stomach sending faint pangs, but she stubbornly ignored it. Refusing to eat was the only insignificant act of rebellion she could perform at the moment, the last declaration she could make over her own body that was still under her control.
The door lock clicked softly, as precise as a finely tuned instrument.
Isabella instantly tensed, eyes alert as she looked toward it.
The one who entered was still the stern-faced female doctor, carrying her medical kit. David was absent, only two silent female bodyguards stationed outside the door.
"Miss Isabella, I'm here to change your dressing and examine you." The doctor's voice was calm and even as she approached the bed.
Isabella did not move, merely watching her movements coldly. The doctor carefully removed the bandage from her ankle from yesterday, checking the swelling.
"Recovery is better than expected, but caution is still needed." The doctor assessed, sprayed the medication again, and applied a new elastic bandage. Her movements were professional and swift, without any unnecessary contact.
Then, the doctor's gaze shifted to the back of her neck.
"The suppressant patch needs replacement; its effect diminishes after 24 hours." The doctor said, taking out a brand-new, equally advanced patch and a small bottle of oral medication from her medical kit.
Isabella's heart clenched sharply. Effect diminishing? Did that mean… that damned, foreboding feeling she dreaded the most was because of this?
She suddenly turned her head, avoiding the doctor's hand, her voice dry and tense: "What brand is this? What are the ingredients?"
The doctor paused, seemingly unprepared for the sudden question. She pushed up her glasses, her tone still flat: "This is the latest research product from Kane Group's Biotechnology Department, not yet on the market. Specific ingredients are a trade secret, but it provides protection and safety for Omega bodies far beyond any product available commercially, with extremely low side effects. Please use it with confidence."
"Trade secret?" Isabella snorted, a laugh tinged with clear sarcasm and disbelief. "Do you take me for a lab rat? Or is there something special in this, designed to make me… more obedient?" She recalled the rumors of illicit drugs used to control Omegas.
A barely perceptible flicker of unease passed over the doctor's face, so fast it was almost imperceptible, but she immediately resumed her professional mask: "Please do not misunderstand. Mr. Kane only wishes to provide you with the best. This suppressant can more smoothly control your pheromone levels, avoiding discomfort caused by fluctuations, and is also more conducive to your long-term health."
"Health?" Isabella's cerulean eyes fixed on the doctor, trying to find a crack in her expression. "Locking me up here is the greatest unhealth! What I need is freedom, not your so-called 'best' imprisonment!"
Her emotions flared, her voice involuntarily rising, and the faint aching at the back of her neck seemed to intensify slightly with the emotional surge.
The doctor remained silent for a moment, seemingly unwilling to engage in a pointless argument. She simply held up the new suppressant patch with insistence: "Please cooperate. This is for your own good and to avoid unnecessary trouble. If your pheromones fluctuate, it could trigger corresponding reactions from Mr. Kane's pheromone disorder, which would be… of no benefit to you."
That veiled threat again! Isabella felt a suffocating anger. They always did this—using the pretense of concern to exert control! Using that man's reactions to threaten her!
But what could she do? Refuse openly? Then wait for the suppressant to fail completely, plunging herself into an even more terrifying situation?
Helplessness surged over her like a tidal wave. She bit her lower lip until it almost bled, and finally, extremely slowly, extremely humiliatingly, she turned over, exposing the fragile back of her neck.
The cold, old patch was ripped off, bringing a faint sting. As fresh air touched the glandular skin, the peculiar, panic-inducing hollow ache seemed even clearer. She could even feel that small patch of skin warming slightly, pulsating faintly.
The doctor skillfully cleaned and disinfected the area, then precisely applied the brand-new patch, faintly scented with mint. Instantly, a stronger, icy calm suppressed her restless agitation, forcibly flattening and freezing it.
Isabella closed her eyes, feeling this artificial, false tranquility, her heart chilled. The sensation… was stronger and more… overbearing than the potent suppressants she had used herself, as if a cold hand had forcibly seized her body's instincts.
The doctor handed her the oral medication and water. Isabella opened her eyes, looked at the small white pill, hesitated for a few seconds, but ultimately took it and swallowed it, the pill sliding down with a faint bitterness.
Having completed her task, the doctor did not linger another second, swiftly packed up, and left. The door locked behind her.
Alone, Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers unconsciously brushing the new patch on her neck. It felt colder, seemingly thicker. The sensation of being completely controlled, her body's most basic reactions forcibly intervened, made her feel nauseous.
Breakfast arrived on time, still exquisite and abundant, steaming hot. Isabella looked at it, her stomach aching with hunger, but her dignity and will to resist roared in refusal.
She struggled for a long time. In the end, she picked up the warm milk and drank it in one go, then took the simplest white bread roll, eating it mechanically and quickly, merely to maintain minimal strength—not for enjoyment, and certainly not as compromise. She left the other dishes untouched.
After eating, she felt an exhaustion like collapse. Her ankle still ached faintly, and the mental pressure combined with lack of sleep made her dizzy. She lay back on the bed, pulled the thin blanket over her head, trying to block out this suffocating world.
Time became thick and slow again.
At noon, lunch was delivered. David appeared again. He glanced at the barely touched breakfast and the untouched plates, his gaze lingering for a moment on Isabella's pale figure, hidden under the thin blanket. Behind the golden-rimmed glasses, his eyes flickered ever so slightly, but he said nothing, merely signaling the servants to replace the food.
"Miss Isabella, Mr. Kane hopes you will eat on time." His voice rang evenly, unusually clear in the silent room. "Maintaining your health is your responsibility, and it is also his requirement."
Under the thin blanket, her body stiffened almost imperceptibly. A requirement? Another requirement! Did she no longer even have the freedom to eat or not eat?
Anger gave her a surge of strength. She yanked the thin blanket aside and sat up abruptly, her cyan eyes bloodshot from rage and lack of sleep, staring straight at David: "Then let him watch me eat himself! Otherwise, just let me starve! After all, I'm just his 'thing,' right? Broken, would that make him satisfied?!"
Her voice was sharp from the emotional surge, trembling and cracking—this was the first time she had expressed her anger and despair so bluntly and intensely.
David seemed slightly taken aback by her outburst, but he quickly regained his composure. He silently studied her for a few seconds, his gaze no longer purely icy, but as if… evaluating?
"I will convey your words." In the end, he simply nodded slightly, speaking this ambiguous phrase, then left again, carrying the untouched lunch.
Isabella panted, her chest heaving violently. The earlier outburst had drained her strength, and the skin beneath the suppressant patch on the back of her neck began to warm faintly. She collapsed back helplessly, feeling like a string stretched to its limit, about to snap.
The afternoon arrived in its usual, silent torment.
When the door opened again, it was neither David nor a serving maid who entered.
Alexander Kane's tall figure appeared in the doorway. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, as if he had just returned from an important event, still carrying a trace of the cold outdoor air. His expression seemed colder and harder than usual, his gray-blue eyes like an icy lake, locking precisely onto Isabella, slumped on the bed like a wilted flower deprived of water.
His arrival instantly seemed to increase the air density in the suite. That cold, fiery pheromone spread forcefully. Even through the high-efficiency suppressant patch, Isabella felt a thrum of unease and inexplicable pressure. She instinctively clutched the thin blanket, her body stiff as stone.
Kane stepped closer, his shoes pressing into the soft carpet with dull thuds. He stopped at the bedside, looking down at her from above. His gaze swept over her pale, haggard face, reddened eyes, and the still-full lunch plates on the nightstand.
"Starving yourself?" His voice was low and icy, emotionless, yet more terrifying than outright anger. "Is this the way you've chosen to rebel against me?"
Isabella gritted her teeth, forcing herself to lift her head and meet his cold gaze. Despite her heart hammering wildly in her chest, she tried to keep her voice from trembling: "I just… have no appetite."
"No appetite?" Kane repeated, a faint, cold curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Or are you using this childish method to test my patience? Or, to probe my limits?"
He leaned slightly forward, and a powerful sense of oppression hit her; Isabella could almost smell the faint, cold base notes of his high-end cologne and tobacco, mixed with the highly aggressive scent of his own pheromones.
"David told me you wanted me to 'watch' you eat myself?" His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous magnetism. "Now, I'm here."
He straightened up and instructed outside the door: "Bring the lunch in."
A new meal cart was pushed in. The food was even more exquisite than before, and there was even a steaming bowl of aromatic, rich soup.
Kane sat down on a single-seat sofa by the bed, legs crossed, his posture relaxed yet imbued with undeniable authority. He made a gesture of "please," but his gray-blue eyes remained fixed on her, as if enjoying an interesting performance.
"Eat." He commanded, his tone calm yet imbued with absolute, irresistible power. "Finish it all. I dislike waste, and I dislike my… possessions neglecting themselves."
Isabella's fingers gripped the thin blanket tightly, her knuckles whitening. Shame and anger surged once again. What did he take her for? A pet that needed its owner to personally supervise eating?
She remained stiff, unmoving.
Seconds ticked by. The air in the room seemed to solidify, leaving only the rising steam of the food and the silent, intense standoff between them.
Kane's patience seemed to wear thin little by little. The ice in his eyes deepened, and the oppressive pheromones grew even stronger, pressing onto Isabella's heart like a tangible weight, making it difficult to breathe. Her glands began to stir restlessly, even though the high-efficiency suppressant patch kept them firmly under control.
"Isabella," he spoke again, his voice carrying a hint of warning, "do not test me. I have many ways. Trust me, you won't like the more 'effective' ones."
His gaze swept meaningfully across the back of her neck.
Isabella shuddered violently. She understood the unspoken threat. Compared to more direct, terrifying coercion, eating now seemed like the "better" choice.
Tears of humiliation welled up again, but she forced them back. She looked at the exquisite food before her, feeling as if each dish were a plate of poison.
Finally, under the enormous, despair-inducing pressure, the tightly stretched string let out a groan of unbearable strain. She slowly, extremely slowly, moved to the edge of the bed, put on her slippers, and limped to the dining table to sit down.
Picking up the spoon, her hands trembled violently. She scooped up a spoonful of soup and brought it to her mouth—tasting like chewing wax. She chewed and swallowed mechanically, as if completing a painful task.
Kane sat opposite her, quietly watching. His gaze was like a searchlight, leaving her nowhere to hide. Every tiny movement was filled with pressure and scrutiny.
She ate spoonful by spoonful, very slowly, each bite feeling like swallowing shards of glass. Her stomach protested the sudden intake of food, but her heart hurt more. She felt her last shred of pitiful dignity being crushed bit by bit under his cold scrutiny.
She ate with extreme difficulty, fine beads of cold sweat forming on her forehead.
She didn't know how long it took, but finally, she finished the last bite, her stomach bloated, and her throat tight.
She put down her utensils, keeping her head lowered, not wanting him to see her expression at that moment.
Kane seemed satisfied. He stood up and walked to her side, his tall shadow looming over her.
He didn't speak, only reaching out his hand, his fingertips lightly brushing the corners of her lips, which were slightly reddened from eating and still glistening with a bit of oil.
The touch was cold and brief, yet it made Isabella shudder as if struck by an electric current, every hair on her body standing on end!
"Very good." His low voice sounded above her head, impossible to tell if it was praise or mockery. "It seems you've started to learn obedience."
After speaking, he withdrew his hand, turned, and strode away without the slightest hesitation.
Isabella froze in place. The corners of her lips that he had touched burned as if seared with a hot iron. Her stomach churned violently, and she rushed into the bathroom, violently retching into the toilet, yet nothing came up—only the sour bile burning her throat.
She collapsed onto the cold tile floor, silently shedding tears.