Damian
The sunlight bleeds into the room despite the heavy curtains, tracing her face in gold. She stirs, shifting against the silk sheets, and for a moment I just…watch. I shouldn't. Admiration is weakness, and I've carved a life out of never indulging in weakness. But there's something about her—her stillness, her fragility—that gnaws at me.
Her lashes flutter, her lips part slightly as she breathes. Innocent. Untouched. Dangerous only because of the way she makes me forget myself.
When her eyes finally open, she startles, clutching the sheet to her chest like a shield. I should laugh, but instead I find myself stepping closer, drawn in despite my better judgment. She keeps her gaze lowered, as if that might hide the fear burning in them.
"Why am I here?" she whispers, voice trembling.
I crouch slightly in front of her, forcing her to look at me. For once, I don't bark an order. Instead, I reach out and gently brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers linger for a fraction longer than they should, tracing the line of her jaw.
"You're here," I murmur, my tone softer than I intend, "because you thought you could escape me."
Her breath hitches. Her pulse is frantic beneath her skin. I could almost hear it.
I steel myself, pulling back, my voice hardening again. "You belong in my sight now. That's not negotiable."
Straightening, I gesture toward the massive wardrobe on the far wall. The doors gleam black against the pale marble floor, a stark contrast. "I had clothes brought for you. Dresses, shoes…whatever you'll need. Since you came here with nothing." My lips curl faintly. "Kidnapped women don't usually get to shop for themselves, after all."
Her eyes widen, flickering toward the wardrobe, then back to me. She doesn't answer, but the fear, the confusion, the small spark of defiance—it's all there in her expression.
"Get dressed," I order, though my tone isn't as sharp as it should be. "Breakfast will be waiting. And Elena…" I pause, letting her see that cold edge return in my eyes. "…don't test me again. You won't like how far I'll go."
She shivers, but I see it—beneath the fear, she's thinking, planning. Good. Let her. It gives me an excuse to keep her closer.
With one last look, I leave the room, my hand curling into a fist at my side. Admiring her was a mistake. I can't afford mistakes.
Elena
The room feels too big for me. Too silent. Too dangerous.
When Damian left, the echo of his voice stayed behind, rattling inside my chest like chains I couldn't shake off. The way his eyes lingered on me before he walked out—the brush of his fingers against my skin—burns hotter than it should. I hate myself for even remembering it, for replaying it in my head like some cruel trick.
I glance toward the wardrobe. Black and white, massive and intimidating like the rest of this king-sized prison. The bed I woke up in swallows me whole; the chandelier overhead glitters like ice, and the white marble beneath my bare feet feels too clean, too cold. Every inch of this place screams power, wealth, control. And none of it belongs to me.
Still, curiosity wins over hesitation. Slowly, I rise, clutching the sheet around me like armor, and open the wardrobe. My breath catches.
Inside hangs a row of clothes—dresses in expensive fabrics I've never touched before, shoes neatly lined up, even accessories in velvet boxes. Colors range from muted whites to soft silvers and blacks, elegant and expensive. Like they'd been waiting for me.
But that's impossible.
A bitter laugh claws its way up my throat before I swallow it back. He really did mean it. I was kidnapped, and yet here I am, with a wardrobe that probably costs more than every paycheck I've ever scraped together. My chest tightens as I think of my job—the little diner where I worked double shifts, where the boss was already eager to replace me. One day gone, and he'd cut me off without a thought. My only source of income, gone.
And I have no family to call, no one to look for me. I'm completely alone.
The tears sting before I can stop them. I press my hands to my face, sinking onto the edge of the bed, shaking silently. This is it, isn't it? My life has officially been stolen by the devil himself.
But even as I cry, one stubborn thought lodges itself in my mind: I can't give up. I can't just sit here like a doll he can dress up.
When I finally manage to pull myself together, I pick a simple dress from the wardrobe. It fits perfectly—too perfectly, like it was tailored for me. Slipping into it, I feel trapped even more, but I know Damian will expect me to appear at breakfast looking like I belong here.
As I stand in front of the mirror, brushing the stray tears from my cheeks, I whisper to myself, "You'll find a way out, Elena. No matter what he says."
My stomach twists, half from hunger, half from dread. The breakfast he mentioned waits for me somewhere in this enormous house. I already know he'll be there—watching, calculating, daring me to misstep.
And though my heart pounds in fear, one thought slices through the noise: I'll have to act smart. Patient. Careful. Because one mistake and Damian won't just scare me… he'll destroy me.
But if I ever get the chance, even the smallest crack in his walls—I'll run.
I'll run and never look back.