CHAPTER TWO
I wasn't just inside his cage.
I was starting to want it.
The thought made my chest tighten with something sharp , something I didn't have a name for yet. I stood and walked toward the window. Outside, the ocean churned under a storm-colored sky, waves crashing like something angry and hungry. Like something that knew how to take.
Maybe that's why I came here.
Maybe I was tired of running from the things that could swallow me whole.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
The maid—same girl, small frame, quiet voice—entered carefully, carrying a neatly folded black dress across her arms. The fabric looked expensive, smooth like ink and moonless night.
"This was selected for you," she said, setting it on the bed.
I touched it.
It fit my size exactly.
My throat tightened. He already knows everything about me. Even the measurements of my body.
The maid hesitated before leaving, like she wanted to say something but didn't know if she had the right to.
"If you need anything… be careful who you ask," she whispered.
Before I could respond, she slipped out the door.
Be careful who I ask.
Not what, not how, not when.
Who.
This place didn't just have secrets — it lived on them.
---
I took a slow shower, steam fogging the mirror until even my own reflection blurred. Maybe that was easier. To not see myself. To not remember who I used to be.
When I put the dress on, it molded to me like it had always been mine. Simple, elegant, with a slit that traced up my thigh — revealing, but not loud. It was the kind of beauty that whispered instead of screamed.
When I opened the door to step out—
He was already there.
Lorenzo.
As if he knew exactly when I would be ready.
He didn't speak at first. His eyes traveled down the length of me — not greedy, not vulgar. Just… assessing. Like I was something he was learning how to hold without breaking.
His gaze returned to my face.
"It suits you," he said softly.
My pulse jumped.
"Did you choose it?" I asked.
"Yes."
"You choose what all the women here wear?"
"No." His eyes stayed on mine. "Only the ones who matter."
My breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
I should have looked away. I should have stepped back. But I didn't.
He offered his arm. Not forceful. Not demanding.
Inviting.
And that was more dangerous.
I placed my hand on his forearm.
Warm. Solid. Steady.
He didn't move until I looked up at him.
Then he led me.
Not down the main staircase.
But deeper.
Through quieter hallways lined with photographs, old paintings, shadows that held stories no one told aloud. There was a weight in the air — like the house remembered everything. Every promise. Every betrayal. Every confession spoken too soft to echo.
We arrived at a pair of tall double doors.
He paused, eyes still on the wood — not on me.
"What happens next," he said slowly, "depends on how honest you're willing to be."
My heartbeat stuttered.
The rules.
No lies.
No running.
Say what you feel.
I wasn't ready.
But I nodded.
He opened the doors.
The dining room wasn't what I expected. No long table. No crowd. Just a small arrangement near a fireplace, warm light painting everything gold.
Two seats.
Only two.
He pulled out mine.
I sat.
He sat across from me, silent at first.
Then—
"What are you afraid of most, Zara?"
My chest tightened. I swallowed, staring at the flicker of the flames.
"Being known," I whispered.
He didn't look surprised.
"Good," he said. "Because I already do."
My eyes lifted sharply.
His expression was calm — too calm.
"I know what you lost," he continued.
"And I know who took it."
The room fell still.
Completely still.
My breath froze.
I felt it in my bones — he wasn't guessing. He knew.
The past I ran from.
The blood I tried to wash off my hands.
The night everything changed.
The reason Zara Bennett died.
The reason I created someone else.
My fingers trembled around my napkin.
He didn't look away.
"You think you came here to hide," he said quietly.
"But you came here to finish something."
The fire crackled.
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.
My heartbeat roared louder than both.
I forced out a whisper:
"And what do you get from me?"
He leaned back. The flames caught the sharp planes of his face, making him look carved from something ancient.
"I get to decide," he murmured, "if I am your cage…"
His gaze locked with mine.
"Or your escape."
The air between us tightened.
Heavy.
Magnetic.
Unspoken.
And for the first time, I didn't know which answer terrified me more.
The silence between us didn't feel empty.
It felt charged.
Firelight flickered across his face, sharpening the hard lines of his jaw, the carved stillness in his expression. He didn't rush. Men like Lorenzo didn't need to. Power followed him like a shadow.
He poured wine into my glass — crimson, dark, like something sacred or sinful. I didn't reach for it. Not yet.
"Eat," he said simply.
Not harsh. Not cold.
Just… certain.
I lifted my fork, but my appetite had disappeared somewhere between my fear and fascination.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmured.
I blinked. "Thinking loudly?"
"You hold your breath when you lie," he said. "Even to yourself."
My lungs tightened again. I exhaled — slow, controlled.
"So tell me," he continued, leaning back in his chair, eyes steady on mine. "Who do you think I am?"
The question was a test. A knife wrapped in velvet.
"I think," I began carefully, "you want me to believe you're the villain."
His lips curved — not into a smile, but something darker.
"And?"
"But I don't think you are," I whispered.
Silence.
Hot.
Dense.
His gaze deepened — not softening, not warming — intensifying, like he was searching something buried inside me.
"Good," he said quietly.
"Because villains are predictable."
He took a sip of wine.
"And I am not."
My chest tightened. I looked down, trying to gather myself, but his voice found me again — low, disarming, too perceptive.
"Do you know why you're drawn to danger, Zara?"
My eyes snapped up to his.
He wasn't mocking me.
He wasn't taunting me.
He was reading me.
"You've lost something," he said. "Something that mattered enough to break you."
Heat stung behind my eyes. I blinked it away. Hard.
"I'm not broken."
"No," he agreed softly. "You're unfinished."
Those words hit something deep. Deeper than I wanted him to reach.
He didn't look away.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't give me space to hide.
"You think coming here was your idea," he continued, voice quiet but relentless. "But grief doesn't guide people. It pushes them. And it pushed you to me."
My throat tightened.
"I didn't come for you," I managed.
His gaze sharpened — not angry — certain.
"You will."
The air caught fire.
Not with desire — not fully — not yet.
With inevitability.
The kind that changes the shape of a person.
I swallowed, voice unsteady. "You're very sure of yourself."
"No," he said, his voice dropping lower.
"I'm sure of you."
The fork trembled slightly in my fingers. I set it down.
He didn't reach for me.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't need to.
His presence was a hand around my pulse.
Then, for the first time, his expression shifted — just enough to reveal something raw beneath the control.
"Whatever you ran from," he said, "you won't have to run here."
My eyes flickered up to him.
"And if what I ran from finds me?"
His answer came instantly.
"Then it dies."
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be.
They were a promise.
A threat.
A vow.
My breath wavered — not out of fear — but something far, far more dangerous:
Trust.
He pushed his chair back and stood. Slow. Unhurried. A man who owned time itself.
I rose too.
He stepped closer not touching, just near enough that I could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the gravity of him.
His hand lifted .... paused .... hovered near my jaw, not yet touching. Waiting.
Giving me a choice.
I didn't step back.
His fingertips traced my jawline ,slow, deliberate ... like a question he already knew the answer to.
My pulse raced.
My breath caught.
My guard faltered.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Rule number three," he said. "If you feel something, say it."
I swallowed — heat rising through my chest — truth fighting past walls I thought were permanent.
"I don't know what I feel," I breathed.
His hand didn't leave my skin.
"That," he murmured, "is the beginning."
He let go.
The room exhaled with me.
"Come," he said softly. "There's something I want to show you."
I followed him.
Not because I trusted him.
But because I wanted to.
And that, I realized…
Was the most dangerous part of all.