The threat he had uttered in the principal's office—cutting off her hand—had never been a joke.
Amelie knew that better than anyone.
***
The moment she stepped out of the university gates, she was escorted straight into that familiar black Maybach.
There were no questions. No resistance allowed.
The interior lights were off. The car moved smoothly through the streets of K City, silent as a prowling beast. Christopher sat beside her, his presence rigid and cold, like a statue carved from ice.
Streetlights streaked past the windows, their fleeting glow brushing over the sharp lines of his profile—illuminating him for a second, then plunging him back into shadow.
Amelie pressed herself into the far corner by the door, her body curled inward, afraid to make even the smallest sound.
The quieter he was, the more terrified she became.
That clean, sharp scent of cedarwood filled the enclosed space, overwhelming, inescapable—invading her lungs, stealing her breath.
The car didn't head toward the Hayden family estate.
Instead, it turned onto a winding road halfway up the mountain and stopped before a secluded private villa.
This was one of Christopher Hayden's personal properties.
Heavily guarded. Completely sealed off.
Not even a bird could fly in uninvited.
This was not a home.
This was his courtroom.
His execution ground.
He dragged her inside with visible force.
The massive door slammed shut behind them with a dull, echoing boom, sealing off the outside world entirely.
The living room lights were off. Only the pale moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated the space, casting cold silver shadows across the black marble floor.
Christopher finally released her then.
He didn't say a word.
Instead, he calmly unfastened the cuffs of his shirt.
Then—under Amelie's horrified gaze—he removed the object that never left his body.
The strand of black agarwood prayer beads.
One hundred and eight beads.
Dark, heavy, polished smooth by years of touch.
They coiled slowly in his pale palm, reflecting a soft, muted sheen—warm in appearance, yet radiating unmistakable danger.
This was his final warning.
The clearest sign that he was truly angry.
Amelie's legs weakened. She stumbled backward instinctively.
"Kneel."
His voice was hoarse—dangerously so.
She froze, unable to move.
Christopher had no patience left.
In two strides, he was in front of her. His hand closed around her throat, forcing her down.
Bang.
Her knees struck the cold, black marble floor. Pain exploded behind her eyes, white sparks bursting across her vision.
He forced her into a kneeling position.
The posture was degrading. Absolute.
Then he stepped away.
Christopher turned and sat down on a massive single sofa that resembled a throne.
From there, he looked down at her.
Moonlight carved his features into something cruel and inhuman.
He was no longer a man.
He was a judge in the dark.
"Which hand touched him?" he asked calmly.
Amelie trembled too violently to answer.
He didn't repeat the question.
Instead, he raised the prayer beads toward the moonlight.
The trial began.
With his thumb, he flicked the first bead.
"This one," he said quietly, "is for the way you looked at him."
The sound echoed faintly in the empty villa.
The bead slipped from his fingers.
Tap.
It hit the marble floor, sharp and piercing.
Amelie shuddered violently.
He flicked the second bead.
"This one," he continued, "is for the smile you gave him."
Tap.
Another bead fell.
He was methodical. Relentless. A demon.
A merciless executioner, counting her so-called sins one by one.
Each sound struck her nerves like a hammer.
"This one—for letting him touch your books."
Tap.
"This one—for taking the milk from his hand."
Tap.
Time lost all meaning.
Every second felt like torture.
This was worse than being beaten.
He was telling her—clearly, brutally—that everything she did was under his surveillance.
A glance. A smile. A moment of warmth.
All crimes.
He wasn't punishing her.
He was breaking her down, erasing her sense of self, teaching her that she wasn't even allowed her own emotions.
"Please…" she finally collapsed, sobbing. "Stop… don't say it anymore… please… I was wrong…"
Christopher's voice fell silent.
The beads stopped moving.
He stood and walked toward her slowly.
Then he crouched down and pinched her chin, forcing her tear-streaked face upward.
Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes churned with a terrifying, unrestrained possessiveness.
"Wrong how?"
"I… I shouldn't have smiled at him… I shouldn't have taken anything from him…"
The answer pleased him.
But mercy was not part of the verdict.
He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his words sinking in like poison.
"Amelie," he whispered, voice low and intimate, "remember this."
"You are something I raised."
"Your eyes are only allowed to look at me."
"Your smile belongs to me alone."
"Everything about you—every breath, every thought—is mine."
"Tonight, I'm going to make you reclaim what belongs to me."
That was when the real punishment began.
***
Soon, the sound of running water and rising steam swallowed her broken sobs.
The night stretched endlessly onward.
Without mercy.
Without escape.
***
Dawn came at last.
Soft morning light slipped through the bathroom blinds, scattering pale streaks across the floor.
The light revealed the aftermath.
The black marble was a mess.
Whether from the violence of the night or the loss of control that followed, the string holding the prayer beads had snapped.
One hundred and eight black beads lay scattered across the floor, rolling in every direction.
They were damp, slick with lingering moisture, resting silently on the cold stone.
On one of them—
A single strand of long, dark hair remained tangled, unmoving.