Chapter 10: The Diary
The next morning came in silence. No breakfast tray, no gentle knock from the maid. Just the faint hum of the rain outside and the heavy stillness of a locked room.
Vierrah sat by the edge of the bed, staring at the door that wouldn't open. Her throat felt dry, her eyes hollow from a night without sleep. The memory of Lucas's calm voice haunted her — "For your safety."
Safety. That word had become a curse.
Hours passed before she finally heard the soft click of the lock. The door opened, and a maid entered quietly, carrying a tray of food.
"Sir Lucas said you should eat, Ma'am," the maid whispered, avoiding her eyes.
Vierrah didn't move. "Where is he?"
"In his study."
The moment those words left the maid's lips, Vierrah's heart started pounding. Lucas was in his study — the one room he'd always forbidden her to enter.
When the maid left, locking the door again behind her, Vierrah waited. She pretended to eat, pacing the room until she heard the distant sound of Lucas's car leaving the driveway.
He was gone.
She moved quickly. The balcony doors were bolted, but the adjoining bathroom window opened just enough for her to squeeze through. She climbed down the side trellis barefoot, scraping her skin against the rough wood, until her feet hit the damp grass below.
The air was cold and sharp, but freedom—even a small taste of it—felt like oxygen after drowning.
She moved quietly along the back of the mansion until she reached the door to Lucas's study. It was unlocked.
Her trembling hand pushed it open.
The scent of expensive cologne and old paper filled the air. The room was dark, except for the faint light spilling through the half-open curtains. The walls were lined with shelves—rows of leather-bound books, business files, and folders. Everything meticulously arranged.
Vierrah's heart thudded as she stepped closer to his desk. On top of it lay an old, black journal. No name, no label—just worn leather, the corners slightly frayed.
Something about it felt… familiar.
She hesitated, then opened it.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Inside were photos—her photos. Some she recognized from years ago: her at the university courtyard, smiling with friends; her waiting at a bus stop; her sitting alone in a café, reading.
Each picture had notes beside it, written in Lucas's distinct handwriting.
> "She likes caramel coffee, no sugar."
"She cries when it rains."
"Spoke to a man at 3:42 PM. Find out who he is."
"Smiled today. She looked like sunlight."
Her vision blurred with tears. The pages went on—day after day, year after year. Her entire life, documented.
She turned another page—and found something worse.
A calendar. Her schedule from five years ago, every class time, every friend's name, even the route she took to get home.
And at the bottom of one page, in small, deliberate handwriting:
> "Soon. I'll take her away from all this. She deserves to be mine."
Vierrah's hand flew to her mouth as a sob escaped her. She dropped the book onto the desk, stumbling backward.
Her knees weakened. The air around her felt suffocating.
It wasn't love that brought her here—it was a plan. A carefully constructed trap built over years of obsession.
Her eyes darted around the room and landed on a locked drawer. Desperate, she searched the desk until she found a small key tucked beneath a photo frame. She opened it.
Inside were more folders.
Documents with her name—her school transcripts, her family's company records, even her father's debt agreements. All signed, all connected to him.
Lucas had orchestrated everything.
Her marriage, her family's rescue, her captivity.
Every piece of her life fit perfectly into the puzzle he built.
Her hands shook violently as she whispered, "He planned everything… even me."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched the journal to her chest. She wanted to scream, to destroy everything in that room—but fear held her still.
Because somewhere deep down, she knew he would find out.
And he always did.
She turned toward the door, ready to run back before anyone noticed. But just as her fingers touched the knob, she heard the familiar sound that made her blood run cold—footsteps.
Slow, steady, unhurried.
Lucas's voice came softly from behind her. "I didn't think you'd actually go through the window."
Her heart stopped. She turned slowly.
He stood there in the doorway, drenched from the rain, eyes unreadable.
"Lucas…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the open journal on the desk. For a long, silent moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed quietly, almost sadly.
"So now you know."
Vierrah took a step back. "How could you? How could you do this to me?"
Lucas's expression didn't change. "Because I loved you before you even knew my name."
"That's not love!" she shouted. "It's madness!"
He didn't argue. He simply walked toward her, each step deliberate, until he was close enough for her to see the faint sadness in his eyes.
"I told you before," he murmured, his voice low, calm, almost tender. "I only know how to love one way."
She shook her head, tears falling freely. "You built my entire life around your obsession."
He brushed his fingers against her cheek, and she flinched. "I built it so I'd never lose you."
"Lucas…" Her voice cracked, raw and pleading. "You already lost me."
The silence that followed was unbearable. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained soft. "No. Not yet."
He took the diary gently from her hands, closed it, and whispered, "This isn't something you were supposed to see."
When she tried to step back, he caught her wrist—not roughly, but firmly. "You don't understand how much I need you safe, Vierrah. You don't understand what I'd become if you left."
"I'm not your safety," she whispered brokenly. "I'm your prisoner."
Lucas's eyes flickered, something dark and shattered passing through them. Then, without a word, he turned away and placed the diary back in the drawer, locking it.
"Go back to our room," he said quietly.
She didn't move.
"Now, Vierrah."
The sharpness in his tone made her body obey even when her heart screamed to resist.
As she walked past him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window—his hands trembling slightly, his expression lost somewhere between love and despair.
When she reached the door, he spoke one last time.
"I never meant to hurt you," he said softly.
The door closed behind her.
And as she walked back down the hallway, heart pounding, tears blurring her vision, she realized the truth:
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