Damien's door closing behind him left the loudest sound Elena had ever heard in her life. It bound her in a silence so deep that she could feel pressure on her eardrums. The princess suite was almost empty for most of the time, but her breathing was ragged enough to prove that she still lived, still existed in this fantasized dimension.
I was with you.
His words echoed relentlessly through that vast, empty space in return into her mind, losing all meaning, becoming a dreadful mantra. How could he know her dreams? That would be a much more violating thing than knowing her name or even her mother's sickness; it would be entering that last, most private corner of her soul. She crossed her arms about herself, feeling suddenly cold in a way not related to the temperature, as if the walls had eyes.
Her first instinct was to test her cage. Therefore, she walked to the main door and gently pushed it. Naturally, it wasn't locked. But this was of no consequence because he didn't need locks. The tower itself was a vertical prison, and on its topmost floor, she was. Essentially, nowhere to run.
Restless, nervously driven, she went on. She headed to the bathroom, gigantic as a white marble cavern with shiny chrome fittings, and larger than the entire old apartment. Right before the window displaying a dizzying sight over the ground, a massive freestanding tub stood. A ceiling-embedded rainfall shower head the size of a large dinner plate was in the vanity cluttered with dizzy bottles and jars, whose scents were too foreign and overwhelming. The bathroom of a queen, while here she felt like a filthy peasant who stumbled in mistakenly.
Next, she faced the closet. The clothes were hanging in perfect rows, color coordinated, silent strangers in an army. A sweater was there, and she reached out to touch its sleeve. Cashmere. Softer than anything she had ever felt: a whisper against her callused fingertips. Designer labels that she had only ever read about in magazines handed down by customers at the diner. It was an entire life, bought and paid for, lying in wait as a blanket before her to slip into. In an act of defiance, she turned her back on all that. Would not wear this stranger's clothes. Her worn-out uniform, faintly smelling of coffee and regret, was the last piece of armor, the last shred left of yesterday's person.
Spent pacing around the suite: the hour. Her mind was a frantic battlefield. "A master manipulator," she screamed as her rational side, but the part of her that had lied to the police and felt the tingle of his touch whispered a much more terrifying truth; his words were not a lie. Then came that real connection between them.
Then hunger began to gnaw at her stomach as a soft, electronic chime sounded from the sitting area. She flinched. A discreet panel opened near the door, revealing a recessed compartment behind it. The tray showed food consisting of a covered silver dish, a glass of water, and a single white rose in a crystal vase. It was like that-certainly without human involvement in the delivery of meals, as it was isolated. The food was great-perfectly grilled fish with roasted vegetables-but within herself, it all tasted like cardboard. She ate because she knew she needed to build power.
Sleep did not come easily. In the middle of the massive silk-draped bed, she lay staring at the ceiling, feeling very small and lost. The lights of the city would finally fade and give way to soft gray dawn light. She woke not refreshed but with a hard, cold knot of resolve in her stomach, ready to set a trap. Neither would she lie rotting in that beautiful house, waiting for him to come and govern the terms of her day. She would put it straight. Needed answers. Real answers.
Same clothes from the day before-warthog bravery in leaving the suite. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into a main living area of the penthouse. Sunlight from early morning poured through the panoramic windows with motes of dust dancing in the air like diamonds. The space was empty. Then she heard low, serious voices issuing from down the hall through a partially opened door. His voice. And another man's.
Driven by the impulse to confront him, she approached the sound. As she walked into a big, open-plan office space, the voices ceased. Damien was leaning back against a massive desk; alongside him stood the man she recognized from the business journals, his ever-obliging second lieutenant, Marcus.
And the moment she walked in, they stopped talking to turn and face her with identical, unreadable expressions. And in that charged, sudden silence, Elena knew she hadn't just interrupted a business meeting; she had stumbled into a secret council where the main topic of discussion was her.