The next morning, I wake up before sunrise. The mansion feels different at this hour—quieter, softer. For once, the air doesn't smell of fear or secrets. It smells of rain. The storm must have come in the night because the windows are streaked with water and the garden below looks washed clean.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. They don't feel like mine anymore. They shake sometimes, not because I'm cold, but because my mind won't stop running. Every time I close my eyes, I see Liam's face. His last words before everything went dark. Trust me, baby, it's going to be fine.
Fine. That word makes me sick.
I pull myself up and get dressed. The clothes Rosa left for me are simple today—a soft sweater and jeans. I almost thank her out loud even though she's not here. Maybe it's her way of reminding me I'm still a person, not an object.
When I step into the hallway, the smell of coffee drifts through the air. Somewhere in the distance, voices echo—low, male, businesslike. I don't recognize the language. I follow the sound until it fades near the main staircase.
I find Rosa in the dining room, setting the table. She looks tired, but she still gives me a small smile.
"You're awake early," she says.
"Couldn't sleep."
"I'm not surprised." She places a plate down carefully. "Mr. Moreau is leaving for the city today. He has meetings."
A strange mix of relief and disappointment stirs inside me. "So, he won't be around?"
"Not until this evening."
I nod and sit at the table. My appetite is gone, but I force myself to eat something anyway. Rosa pours tea into a delicate cup and watches me for a moment.
"Do you hate him?" she asks suddenly.
I look up, startled. "What kind of question is that?"
"One you'll have to answer eventually."
I stare at the tea. "I don't know. I think I should."
"Then why don't you?"
Because he saved me, my mind whispers. But I don't say that out loud. I'm not ready to admit it—not even to myself.
After breakfast, Rosa excuses herself to handle errands. I wander through the mansion, trying to memorize its endless halls. Every turn looks the same: paintings of storms, mirrors that make the space look bigger than it is, polished floors that reflect everything except warmth.
I find myself outside the study again. The door is closed, but curiosity eats at me.
He said Liam was in danger. That he sold me to pay debts. But there was something in his voice yesterday—something he wasn't telling me.
I hesitate only a second before pushing the door open.
The room smells like leather and smoke. Papers cover the desk. I move closer and see files stacked in neat piles, each with names I don't recognize. I know I shouldn't be here, but I can't stop.
When I find Liam's name again, my heart almost stops. The folder is thin, but inside are photos—Liam with people I've never seen before. Men in suits, one of them shaking his hand in what looks like a casino. There's money in the frame, too much to count. And then there's another photo.
Me.
My breath catches. I'm standing next to him, smiling, holding his arm. The picture looks innocent, but now I know better. It's proof. Proof that I was never just his girlfriend—I was part of his deal.
"What are you doing?"
His voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
I freeze. Then I turn around slowly. Dante stands in the doorway, dressed in black, his coat slung over one shoulder. His expression is calm, but his eyes are sharp.
"I wanted to understand," I say quietly.
He steps into the room, closes the door behind him. "And what did you find?"
"That he sold me. That you weren't lying."
He studies me. "You didn't believe me before."
"I didn't want to." My throat feels tight. "But you could have told me the truth."
"I did."
"Not all of it."
Dante walks past me, picks up the folder, and closes it without looking at the pictures. "Some truths are poison, Arden. Once you drink them, they never leave you."
"I deserve to know why."
He sets the folder down slowly. "Because Liam owed money to people who don't forgive. He thought he could outsmart them, but he was wrong. When they came for him, he offered you as collateral."
I shake my head. "That can't be real."
"It is."
My knees feel weak. I lean against the desk. "So, you bought me to protect me?"
"I bought you so they wouldn't."
He says it simply, like it's not supposed to hurt, but it does. Every word feels like a bruise pressed too hard.
"Why would you care?" I ask.
His eyes meet mine. "Because I knew what they would do if I didn't."
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence feels heavier than anger. I don't know what to feel anymore—fear, confusion, or gratitude.
He finally exhales and turns away. "You shouldn't be in here. Rosa will find you another room upstairs. It's safer."
"I'm not a child."
"I didn't say you were." His tone softens, almost apologetic. "But you don't understand the kind of people who want what they think they've lost."
"Then help me understand," I say quietly.
He stops near the door, hand on the handle. "Not today."
And then he's gone.
I stay in the study long after he leaves, staring at the closed door. For the first time since I got here, I feel like the ground beneath me isn't steady. Everything I believed about Liam—about love, about trust—feels like a lie now.
Later, Rosa finds me in the hallway. She looks at my face and doesn't ask what happened. She just says, "Come with me."
She leads me upstairs to a new room. It's smaller than the last one, but brighter. There's a bookshelf filled with old novels and a window that looks out over the gardens.
"This used to be his mother's room," Rosa says softly.
"His mother?"
"She died when he was young. Before all of this." She gestures to the mansion. "Before the walls grew thicker."
I sit on the edge of the bed. "Do you think he's evil?"
Rosa folds her hands. "Evil is easy. Dante is complicated."
She leaves me alone, and I spend the afternoon watching the rain. Every drop feels like a heartbeat against the glass.
When night falls, I can't stop thinking about him. About how he looked when he said, I bought you so they wouldn't. He didn't say it like a hero. He said it like a man who made a choice he hated but couldn't undo.
At some point, I must fall asleep because I wake to a knock at my door.
It's late. The hall outside is dark.
I open the door, and there he is—Dante, without his jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled again. He looks tired, older somehow.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he says quietly.
"You didn't."
He hesitates, then steps closer. "I wanted to make sure you're settling in."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
I meet his eyes. "No."
Something flickers in his expression—understanding, maybe guilt. He looks around the room, then back at me. "I don't expect you to forgive any of this. But I need you to stay alive until I can make it right."
"Make it right?" I whisper. "How?"
"I don't know yet."
He turns to leave, but I stop him. "Why me?"
He pauses in the doorway. "Because the man you loved made you part of a war you didn't choose."
And then he's gone again.
The door closes softly behind him, but his words stay.
I sit awake for hours, staring at the space where he stood. I don't know what scares me more—the world he protects me from or the feeling that, somehow, I'm starting to see him differently.
Because maybe monsters don't always look like monsters.
Sometimes they look like the only person who saved you.