Ashley's POV:
The silence was a physical weight, crushing the oxygen out of the room. My father's broken hand. The echo of the phone call—the raw, trembling fear in my family's voices—was the only thing that mattered.
Not my dignity.
Not my soul.
Only their safety.
The sanctity of that one forbidden word—love—was a small, worthless thing against the scale of their lives.
He was waiting. His gaze was the only sound in the universe. An executioner's stare—steady, final.
My throat was bone-dry, my voice a broken, rusted mechanism. I closed my eyes, sacrificing the last piece of myself.
The lie tasted like ash and scraped down my throat, burning away what little resolve I had left.
"I…" The sound caught. I forced air into my lungs and pushed the traitorous word out. "…I love you."
It was barely audible—a whisper of utter, absolute defeat. But it was enough.
The tension didn't vanish; it shifted, resolving into a deep, unsettling stillness. His smile returned, slow and genuine, settling into the lines around his eyes—the conqueror's smile.
"Good girl, Sunbeam," he murmured, the possessive adoration in his tone ringing with absolute ownership.
He dropped his hand from the doorknob and stepped closer, cupping my cheek. His thumb traced the curve of my jaw—a gesture both tender and controlling.
"That is the sound of your safety," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "You've chosen wisely. You've chosen us."
He tilted my face up, his eyes softening until they glowed like molten gold. "My business is important, and my patience isn't infinite," he said, slipping back into command. "I'll return at sundown. You will show me the obedience you've just promised. The twenty-four-hour clock for your family's update begins the moment I walk out that door. You know what happens if my team reports a disturbance."
He gave my cheek one final, possessive squeeze before turning away. The door closed behind him with a soft, decisive click.
____________________________________________________________________________
The hours that followed were a blur of numb compliance. I forced myself to eat, shoving strength into a body that felt hollow and bruised.
I obeyed his command to rest—not out of fatigue, but paralysis. I was a caged animal, defeated, waiting for the sun to set—and praying it wouldn't.
At noon, a shadow flickered under the door. Not the sound of a key or footsteps—just a smooth, deliberate motion.
A manila envelope slid across the polished floor and came to rest near the rug.
I waited five agonizing minutes, listening for retreating steps, before crawling forward. My hands shook as I picked it up.
The envelope was heavy, sealed with cheap glue, and unmarked.
This wasn't from Roman.
It was something illicit.
Something dangerous.
I tore it open. Inside was a stack of glossy photographs and a single folded piece of cream-colored paper.
The first photo was a blurry, candid shot of a familiar place: the abandoned boathouse near the lake where I grew up.
The next three made my stomach turn. Clear, high-zoom images—taken in secret.
They showed the same boathouse, years ago.
Roman stood over a figure slumped on the ground. A figure I recognized instantly, despite the blood and the distance.
Jeremy.
Jeremy, my first boyfriend. The one who had vanished three years ago. The one they said had simply run away. I had never believed it.
The final photo was the worst. Roman stared directly into the camera—not smiling, but satisfied. A shovel in his hand. Jeremy's body gone.
A dizzying wave of nausea hit me. I stumbled back, clutching the photos. Roman wasn't just violent—he was lethal.
The chilling truth settled in my stomach like ice: he had killed Jeremy. And I had just made a murderer obsessed to me.
The paper slipped from my grasp. I snatched it up with trembling fingers.
A single line, typed in black ink:
The cage may be strong, but the keys are always within reach. Fear is just leverage.
No signature.
No mark.
Obviously not Roman.
Someone else.
A warning—or a lifeline.
My terror, once a suffocating weight, turned sharp and electric.
This wasn't just about surviving anymore. Roman had built his empire on blood and fear, and I was his newest secret.
My life depended on the lie I'd just told.
But the truth was now a weapon—and I intended to use it.
I looked around the sterile, beautiful room and saw it for what it was: a gilded cell.
I had less than 5 hours until sundown. I had to something but I knew one thing for sure....
Fear is just leverage and I would make it mine.
________________________________________________________________________________-
My mind wouldn't stop turning. I mapped the house in my head: every door that locked from the outside, every corridor that ended in silence, every flicker from the hidden cameras.
Roman's empire of control was too perfect, too clean.
Perfection always cracks under pressure.
By late afternoon, I'd memorized everything and gained nothing—until Mary came.
She slipped in without meeting my eyes, her steps soft and obedient.
The dinner tray rattled faintly in her hands. She wasn't just afraid of Roman; she believed in him. The kind of loyalty that comes from being saved by your captor, rebuilt into something useful.
"Mary," I said softly as she set the tray down.
She flinched at my voice. "You should rest, Miss. Mr. Roman said—"
"I know." I made my tone small, fragile. "He told me to call him. Said I should confirm I've eaten. He's checking that I'm cooperating."
Her head snapped up at that. "He said that?"
I nodded, letting a hint of panic bleed through. "He told me he'd be furious if I didn't. I don't want him thinking you stopped me."
That landed like a blade. She froze—torn between rules she didn't fully understand and the threat of Roman's temper.
After a long second, she fumbled with her apron pocket and slid her phone onto the table.
"Two minutes," she muttered. "I'll… I'll wait outside the door."
She stepped out, closing it behind her.
The instant she was gone, I dialed the only number that mattered.
My father's voice broke when he answered. "Sweetheart? Oh my God—where—"
"Dad, listen," I cut in quickly. My voice was low, sharp, deliberate. "Don't ask questions. Book emergency flights. Take passports and cash. Go to the airport tonight. Wait for me there. Don't go home. Don't tell anyone. Please."
"Wait, what's happening? Who—"
"I can't explain. Just do it. Promise me."
"I—promise," he said, voice trembling.
I hung up, deleted the call, wiped the phone, and set it neatly back on the table. By the time Mary reentered, I was lying on the couch, pretending exhaustion.
"Did you speak to him?" she asked quietly.
"Yes." My voice was dull, empty. "He's pleased."
Something in her shoulders eased. She picked up the tray and slipped out again, still avoiding my gaze.
When the door closed, I sat up, heart hammering. The call had gone through. My parents were moving. The first stone had shifted.
The light from the window had turned to gold, bleeding into orange. The sun was sinking.
Roman would return soon.
__________________________________________________________
The golden light had vanished, replaced by the bruised, purple-gray of twilight. Outside, the world was going dark. Inside, the motion-sensor lights clicked on, bathing the room in harsh, unforgiving white.
Roman was coming
The house fell utterly silent. The air crackled with anticipation.
Then, I heard it. Not footsteps, but the heavy, measured thump-thump of a man who owned the ground he walked on.
The sound stopped right outside the door.
A pause.
Then, the doorknob turned.
___________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Well… that escalated faster than my caffeine addiction at 3 a.m.
So, in this chapter, Ashley finally says the three words every hostage dreams of saying to their captor — "I love you." Romantic, right? Yeah, if your idea of romance includes psychological warfare, emotional blackmail, and a man whose love language is terrorism but make it fancy.
Roman continues to redefine "toxic relationship goals," proving that flowers and chocolates are overrated when you can just threaten someone's entire family. Truly, a man of innovation. 💀
And shoutout to the mysterious envelope guy — because nothing says "plot twist" like "Hey, here's photographic evidence your kidnapper's a murderer, have a nice day."
Ashley's finally realizing she's not just in a cage; she's in a whole damn labyrinth of manipulation with mood lighting. But now she's got fire in her veins and a plan brewing. Roman might have the upper hand, but she's got something he doesn't… an unhinged author with a taste for poetic vengeance and chaos.
Anyway, stay tuned for the next chapter — where love is fake, murder is confirmed, and everyone badly needs therapy (and possibly an exorcist).
P.S. If Roman ever starts a self-help podcast, please block him on every platform.
-Vaanni🖤