I wake up to sunlight.
For a moment, I forget where I am. The bed is soft, the sheets smell clean, and there's a faint sound of birds outside the window. It could almost be peaceful — if not for the tightness in my chest when I remember.
Last night wasn't a dream.
The mansion.
The crowd.
Dante.
My hands clutch the blanket. I sit up slowly, my heartbeat loud in my ears. My shoes are still on the floor beside the bed, covered in dust. My dress from last night hangs off the chair, wrinkled and wrong.
Someone's been in the room.
There's a tray on the table — breakfast, untouched. A silver lid hides the food, but I can smell coffee and something sweet. For a second, I consider eating. Then I see the folded note next to it.
"Eat. You'll need your strength. — D"
The handwriting is clean, sharp. The kind that doesn't allow mistakes.
I push the note away. My stomach twists too tightly to eat.
The knock on the door comes just as I stand. It's soft but firm.
"Miss Arden?" It's Rosa's voice — calm, careful.
"Come in," I manage to say.
She enters carrying a set of clothes — simple but elegant: soft beige pants, a white blouse, and shoes that probably cost more than everything I own.
"Mr. Moreau asked that you join him downstairs when you're ready," she says, setting the clothes on the bed.
I hesitate. "Why?"
Rosa hesitates too. "He doesn't explain his reasons."
That's all she says before leaving.
It takes me longer than it should to get dressed. My hands keep shaking. The clothes fit perfectly, which makes me even more uneasy. Someone knew my size. Someone planned this.
When I finally leave the room, the hallway feels colder. The walls are high and bright, with paintings of ships and storms. I try to walk quietly, but every sound echoes.
A servant passes me, nodding politely but not stopping. I want to ask how to get out, but my voice dies before I try.
By the time I reach the stairs, I can already smell coffee again. The scent leads me toward a wide dining room filled with light.
Dante sits at the far end of the long table, reading something on a tablet. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Sit," he says.
I stay where I am for a moment, trying to find my courage. Then I walk to the opposite end and sit down.
The silence stretches. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock and the faint clink of his spoon against the cup.
Finally, he looks up. His eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable.
"You didn't eat your breakfast," he says.
I swallow. "I wasn't hungry."
His gaze doesn't soften. "You will be."
I hate how calm he sounds, how sure of everything. "Why am I here, Dante?" I ask, the words trembling but clear. "Really. Why?"
He sets the tablet down and leans back. "I told you last night. Liam owed me. He chose the payment."
"That's not a reason to keep me."
He studies me for a long moment. "You think you still have a choice."
"I do," I say, though my voice is barely more than a whisper.
A flicker of something passes through his eyes — not anger, but a kind of quiet frustration. "Then tell me," he says. "Where would you go?"
The question stops me. I open my mouth but no answer comes. My life outside this place feels far away — my apartment, my job, the ordinary things I thought mattered. All gone in one night.
"I'll find a way," I say anyway, even though I don't believe it.
He nods once, like he expected that answer. "Maybe you will. But not today."
He stands, tall and controlled, and the room seems to shrink. "You'll stay here until I decide otherwise. You'll be treated well if you follow the rules."
"What rules?"
"Don't leave your wing without permission. Don't speak to anyone unless they speak to you first. And if I call for you, you come."
His tone doesn't rise, but the weight of his words makes my skin prickle.
I want to argue, but the look in his eyes silences me. There's no cruelty there — just certainty. Like this is how the world works for him, and nothing I say can change it.
When he turns away, I catch a glimpse of something inked along his wrist — a tattoo, dark against his skin, vanishing beneath the sleeve of his shirt. I wonder what it means, who he really is beneath the polished surface.
He stops at the doorway. "Rosa will show you the library. You'll stay busy there. It's better than staring at the walls."
Then he leaves.
The rest of the morning passes slowly. Rosa leads me through rooms I can barely process — polished marble floors, silver-framed mirrors, hallways lined with books. Everything gleams, but it feels empty.
In the library, dust floats in the sunlight from tall windows. The shelves stretch higher than I can reach, filled with old leather books and newer ones arranged perfectly by color.
Rosa sets down a cup of tea for me. "You should rest here for a while," she says.
I nod, though I don't want to rest. I want to understand.
When she's gone, I move slowly between the shelves, trailing my fingers along the spines. I recognize some titles — history, philosophy, languages. Whoever Dante is, he's not just rich. He's educated, maybe dangerous in more ways than one.
I stop by the window. Outside, the garden glows under the afternoon sun. The gates are far beyond it, glinting like a promise I can't reach.
I wonder if anyone would even look for me. Liam won't. My friends will think I left town.
The thought makes my chest ache.
A faint sound breaks the quiet — the door opening. I turn quickly.
It's Dante again.
He steps inside without knocking, as if this place belongs to him — because it does. His eyes find mine immediately.
"You're restless," he says simply.
"I'm not used to being… here," I answer.
He walks closer, stopping a few feet away. "You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to."
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly, not quite a smile. "No one ever does at first."
I don't know what to say. My pulse won't slow down.
He glances around the room, his tone softer now. "You can read. Walk in the garden during the day. You're not a prisoner, Arden. But you're not free either."
His honesty shocks me more than any threat could.
"Why tell me that?" I ask.
"Because pretending would be crueler."
For a moment, I see something in him — not kindness exactly, but a shadow of it. Something that doesn't fit with the man from last night.
Then it's gone.
He turns toward the door. "Dinner. Seven sharp."
When he leaves, the room feels colder again.
I stand there, staring at the empty doorway, trying to decide whether he's my captor or my savior or something in between.
I don't have the answer.
All I know is that the longer I stay in this place, the harder it is to remember what freedom even felt like.