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She mustered her courage and asked him what he really needed.
The question hung in the air like thick smoke. The hallway was dimly lit with golden sconces casting long shadows across the marbled floor. Everything about this mansion whispered wealth, power — and danger.
He stopped walking.
She had spoken softly, but it was enough to halt him in his tracks. The silence between them became deafening, and for a moment, she thought he hadn't heard her. But then, slowly, he turned around. His sharp features were unreadable, expression carved in cold stone.
He looked at her the way a lion looks at a trembling deer — not out of pity, but with an eerie curiosity, as if surprised it had dared to speak.
"What I need?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly, voice like velvet dipped in venom. "You ask that now? When you're already in my house, under my roof, protected — or imprisoned, depending on how you choose to see it?"
She swallowed hard. "I need to understand. If I'm going to stay here, I deserve to know what you expect from me. Why me? Why my father's daughter?"
He smirked, amused by her boldness. His steps were slow and deliberate as he approached her, eyes never leaving hers. "You think this is about your father? No. He was the door. You… you're what was behind it. A daughter born from betrayal. A girl whose family crossed a line, made promises they couldn't keep."
"I didn't make any promises," she said, holding her ground.
"No," he said, eyes narrowing. "But you carry the debt. And I collect."
She trembled slightly but didn't step back. "Collect what? What exactly do you want from me?"
His smile vanished. His tone shifted, darker now. "Obedience. Silence. Loyalty. You will live under my name, eat at my table, breathe under my protection. You will learn to act, speak, move — as someone of value, of use. Because girls like you... you don't get to be free when blood ties are paid with lives."
Her lips parted slightly, stunned. She wasn't a daughter anymore — she was a pawn in a game she didn't understand. But something inside her lit up — not fear, not submission — fire.
"I'm not your puppet," she whispered.
"Not yet," he said. "But you will be."
He turned again and walked away, but this time, his footsteps echoed louder — as if the house itself were warning her of the storm ahead.
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