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Chapter 4 — The Mansion of Gold and Fear
Vierrah
The car slows to a stop in front of the mansion.
I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until Lucas opens the door for me.
For a moment, I just stare — at the massive iron gates, the long stretch of marble steps, the glittering chandeliers visible through glass walls.
It doesn't look like a home.
It looks like a palace built for someone who never wants to be seen by the world.
"Welcome home, mi amore," Lucas murmurs beside me.
His voice is warm, but it makes something twist inside my stomach.
The word home doesn't sound like comfort — it sounds like ownership.
I step inside, and everything gleams: gold accents, white marble floors, expensive paintings lining every hallway. The air smells faintly of roses and sandalwood. There's even a faint hum of classical music coming from somewhere upstairs.
Too perfect. Too quiet.
Like even the walls are watching.
"Do you like it?" he asks.
"It's beautiful," I manage to say.
But my voice sounds small in the wide silence of the room.
He smiles, the kind of smile that could melt anyone's heart — gentle, practiced, dangerous.
"I had the whole east wing renovated for you. Walk-in closet, reading room, balcony facing the sea."
I blink, surprised. "You did that… for me?"
"I wanted you to feel comfortable," he says simply. "You deserve everything beautiful."
His hand brushes my lower back, guiding me toward the grand staircase. I try to focus on his words, but every touch feels deliberate — light but claiming.
---
That night, he gives me everything — a diamond necklace, designer dresses still wrapped in silk, even a piano in one of the rooms "because you once mentioned you used to play."
I don't remember ever telling him that.
"How did you—?"
"I have my ways," he answers, cutting me off gently. "I pay attention."
I swallow. "Lucas… I don't need all of this."
He tilts his head, eyes soft but unreadable. "Then what do you need, Vierrah?"
I open my mouth but no words come out.
Because what I want — freedom, space, air — isn't something he can give.
Or maybe he just doesn't want to.
---
Lucas
She looks fragile standing there, surrounded by everything I built for her.
Every dress, every gold-trimmed mirror, every flower arrangement — I planned all of it. Because I wanted her first week here to be perfect. I wanted her to see that being mine isn't a prison. It's safety. It's luxury.
But she keeps looking around like the walls are closing in.
I watch her trace her fingers on the piano keys, hesitant, distant.
She doesn't play. Just stares at her reflection on the polished surface.
"You can play whenever you want," I say softly.
She doesn't respond.
Patience, Lucas. Don't scare her.
So I smile, step closer, tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You'll get used to it here," I whisper. "Everything in this house belongs to you."
Except you, a voice in my head mutters. You belong to me.
---
The following days pass in a blur of gifts.
A gown from Paris. Jewelry delivered before breakfast.
Trips planned but never taken because she always says she's "tired."
I notice the way she avoids calls, the way her phone is always in her hand but never rings.
So I make sure of it.
"Vierrah, about your work—"
"I'll go back soon," she says quickly, as if defending herself.
I shake my head, pretending calm. "You don't need to. Let me take care of you. You've done enough for your family."
"I just… want to feel normal again," she whispers.
Normal.
That word stings like a knife.
I force a smile. "You'll get used to this life, I promise."
And I mean it. I'll make sure she does — even if it takes locking every door in this mansion until she forgets there was ever a world outside.
---
Vierrah
Days turn into weeks.
At first, I tried convincing myself this was comfort — that maybe this quiet life could heal what I'd lost. But the longer I stay here, the more I feel like a guest trapped in a beautiful museum.
Every morning, someone delivers boxes — dresses, bags, jewelry I never asked for.
Every night, Lucas dines with me like clockwork — polite, attentive, too perfect.
And yet, every time I say I want to visit my parents, he changes the topic.
Once, I asked if I could meet my best friend, Alessa. His tone didn't change, but his smile froze.
"She's not good for you, love. She talks too much."
"I just want to see her—"
He set down his wine glass, eyes locking on mine.
"Do you trust me, Vierrah?"
The question hit harder than I expected.
And before I could answer, he reached across the table and held my hand.
"I'm protecting you," he said softly. "That's all I've ever wanted."
I nodded because I didn't know what else to do.
That night, I cried silently in the bathtub, my tears mixing with the scent of lavender soap.
Luxury can drown you too, I realized.
Especially when the hands that built it are the same ones that won't let you leave.
---
Lucas
She's quiet these days. Softer. Slower.
Part of me hates that I might be the reason why.
But she smiles sometimes — small, tired smiles — and it's enough to keep me sane.
I know she doesn't see it yet, but one day she'll understand. The world is cruel. People hurt each other without reason. I'm the only constant she'll ever need.
I've given her everything — and I'll keep giving.
Until she looks at me not with fear, but with something close to love.
When she falls asleep on the couch one night, I watch her from the doorway. The moonlight paints her face, her lashes trembling as she dreams. I step closer, brushing my thumb along her cheek.
"So perfect," I whisper. "So mine."
She stirs but doesn't wake.
And for a second, guilt hits me — sharp, cold.
But it fades just as quickly.
Because this isn't wrong.
This is devotion.
---
Vierrah
I wake up to the sound of waves outside the balcony — soft, distant, almost comforting.
Lucas is gone for a meeting, or so the staff says.
For the first time, I'm alone.
I wander through the mansion's halls, barefoot, my fingers tracing the smooth walls.
Every door I pass is locked.
The library. The study. Even the glass room at the end of the corridor.
When I finally find one open, it's filled with portraits.
Mostly of him — and one of me.
It's a painting I've never seen before.
I'm wearing a white dress, sitting under a tree, smiling softly.
My heart races because I've never posed for this.
My hands start to shake.
Because the details — the bracelet I lost years ago, the way my hair falls over my shoulder — they're too exact.
I step back, breath trembling.
He's been watching me long before this marriage.
And now, I'm trapped in the proof.
---
Lucas
When I return home that night, she greets me quietly, eyes a little distant.
Something inside me tightens.
Maybe she found the painting. Maybe she's starting to see the edges of what I've done.
But I just smile and take her hand.
"Did you miss me?" I ask.
She hesitates before whispering, "Yes."
I know it's a lie.
But it's enough for now.
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