The mansion wakes before I do.
By the time I open my eyes, I can already hear footsteps in the hallway — quiet but constant, like the house breathes even when no one speaks. Light seeps through the curtains, soft and golden. For a moment, I lie still, listening.
It's easy to pretend this place is peaceful when I don't move. But peace doesn't exist here. Not really.
I get up, wash my face, and dress in the same clothes as yesterday. The wardrobe is full of things that aren't mine — silk, linen, pale colors. I pick something plain. I don't want to look like I belong here.
When I step into the hall, Rosa is already waiting. She smiles in that careful way she does, polite but distant.
"Good morning, Miss Arden," she says. "Breakfast is ready if you'd like."
I nod. "Is he there?"
She pauses before answering. "Mr. Moreau usually eats alone."
Of course he does.
I follow her downstairs anyway. The dining room is empty except for the sound of a clock ticking on the wall. The air smells of coffee and warm bread. On the table, a plate sits waiting for me — fruit, toast, something delicate I don't recognize.
Rosa hovers by the doorway. "He asked me to tell you he'll see you later this morning," she says.
"Did he say why?"
"No," she replies softly. "He rarely does."
I study her face. She looks calm, but her eyes flick toward the hallway as if even speaking about him too long feels risky.
"Rosa," I say quietly. "How long have you worked for him?"
"Many years."
"And he's… what, exactly?"
Her hands tighten around the tray she's holding. "He's the man who keeps this place standing."
"That's not an answer."
She sighs. "Some answers aren't safe to give."
Then she leaves before I can ask more.
I sit there for a while, staring at the food. My stomach still knots too tightly to eat.
When I finally push my chair back, I notice a young man in uniform standing by the far doorway — one of the guards, maybe early twenties. His expression is neutral, but when our eyes meet, he looks away quickly.
He reminds me of someone who's seen too much and learned to say nothing.
I take a few steps toward him. "Do you know where he is?" I ask.
The guard shifts his weight, uncomfortable. "In his study, ma'am."
"Can I go there?"
He hesitates. "You can try."
It's the closest thing to permission I'm going to get.
The hallway leading to Dante's study is long, lined with tall windows that open onto the garden. Outside, the fountain glitters in the sunlight. Everything here is beautiful and wrong at the same time.
When I reach the end of the corridor, the door to his study stands half open. I knock once, quietly.
"Come in."
His voice is low, steady, and somehow it still makes me hesitate.
I push the door open.
He's seated behind a large wooden desk, surrounded by papers and faint light from the window. He's not wearing a jacket today, just a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves. There's ink on his wrist, faint lines disappearing under the fabric — the same tattoo I glimpsed before.
He doesn't look surprised to see me.
"Arden," he says. My name sounds strange in his mouth — like he's testing it, shaping it.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes." He gestures to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
I do, carefully.
He studies me for a long moment, then leans back in his chair. "How are you adjusting?"
I almost laugh. "Adjusting?" I repeat. "You mean to being trapped in your house?"
He doesn't flinch. "To being safe."
"That's what you call this?"
"It's safer than the life you were about to have," he says quietly.
The words stop me cold. "What does that mean?"
Dante's gaze holds mine. "Liam wasn't paying his debts. Not just to me. To people worse than me."
I shake my head. "You expect me to believe you're doing this for my safety?"
He sighs softly, sets down his pen. "Believe what you want. But by the time he came to me, you were already in danger."
I don't know what to say. My throat tightens. "He said he loved me."
"Maybe he did," Dante says, and there's no mockery in his tone. "But love doesn't always stop people from selling what they can't protect."
The words hurt more than I expect them to.
I look down at my hands, twisting together in my lap. "You could have let me go."
He's silent for a moment. Then: "I could have."
When I glance up, his expression has changed. The sharpness is still there, but behind it — something else. Maybe regret. Maybe pity.
"I don't understand you," I whisper.
"You don't need to," he says softly. "You just need to stay alive."
He stands and walks toward the window, his back to me now. The light catches the edges of his hair, the straight lines of his shoulders. There's something haunted about the way he stares outside, like the walls around him are both his armor and his prison.
I take a slow breath. "You don't seem like someone who saves people."
He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. "Maybe I'm not."
The quiet between us stretches. I should be afraid — and I am — but there's something else now, something heavier. I want to know who he really is.
"Who are you, Dante?" I ask finally.
He turns fully toward me, his expression unreadable. "Someone who learned too late that control is the only way to survive."
Before I can ask what that means, there's a knock on the door. Rosa appears, holding a folder. "Mr. Moreau, the files you asked for."
He nods for her to leave it on the desk.
When she's gone, I glance at the papers she left — reports, numbers, names. At the top of one page, I catch a familiar word before he slides it out of sight.
Liam.
My stomach twists. "What are those?"
"Business," he says flatly.
"Business involving him?"
He doesn't answer.
I stand suddenly, the chair scraping the floor. "Tell me the truth. What did he do?"
Dante's voice stays calm. "If you knew, you'd never stop running."
I hate how steady he sounds, how sure. "You think you can just lock me up and pretend you're protecting me?"
He steps closer, eyes dark. "I don't pretend, Arden. I do what needs to be done."
Something in his tone silences me. It's not anger; it's conviction. The kind that makes me realize he's not lying.
Still, I turn and walk toward the door. "I don't belong here," I say, my voice trembling.
He doesn't stop me.
When I leave the study, my legs feel weak. My mind spins with too many questions. I don't know whether to hate him or believe him.
I find Rosa waiting near the stairs, as if she knew I'd come this way. She looks at me closely. "You spoke with him."
"Yes."
Her lips press together. "And you're still standing. That's something."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you asked questions. Most people here learn not to."
"Most people?"
She hesitates, then shakes her head. "There are things you shouldn't know yet."
"Then when?"
"When you stop being afraid," she says softly.
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath. "That might take a while."
"Then it will take as long as it takes."
That afternoon, I wander the garden. The sun is warm, the sky impossibly blue. The roses smell like they shouldn't belong to a place this cold.
I sit by the fountain, listening to the sound of water. For the first time, I notice cameras hidden near the walls. The idea of being watched makes my skin crawl.
Still, part of me feels something I didn't expect — safety. Not freedom, but safety.
Maybe Dante was right about one thing. Maybe the world outside this mansion is worse than I know.
When I go back inside, the halls are quiet. I pass his study again; the door is closed now. A shadow moves behind the glass.
I don't knock this time. I just keep walking.
In my room, the note he left this morning still lies on the table. Eat. You'll need your strength.
I crumple it, then stop halfway. Something about his words lingers — not a command, but a warning.
When I finally lie down, my mind won't stop replaying everything he said.
Liam owed him.
He saved me from something worse.
He keeps control to survive.
None of it fits together, but one thing is clear:
Dante Moreau isn't just a man who buys people.
He's a man with ghosts — and I've just been added to the list.
As sleep pulls me under, I wonder which one of us is really trapped — him, in this cage of power, or me, inside his world.