The velvet was the first thing she noticed.
Not the scent of lavender soaked into the sheets, or the faint hum of ventilation breathing through invisible slits in the wall. No.
It was the red.
That deep, wine-stained crimson velvet that lined the ceiling and walls like theater drapes—heavy, soft, intentional.
Talia blinked slowly. Her head throbbed, a dull pulse behind her eyes. Her limbs felt light, like they'd been floating too long.
This wasn't a hospital.
And it wasn't anywhere she recognized.
Her bare feet grazed the floor—cool, smooth, stone maybe? She pressed her palms against the mattress beneath her, rising slowly, testing her balance. No cords. No restraints. Just silence. A kind of stillness that didn't feel like rest.
It felt like containment.
The room was beautiful. That made it worse.
There were no windows. No clocks. No mirrors.
But there was light—warm and low, spilling from golden sconces along the walls. A tray sat near the edge of the room, polished silver, with water, figs, and a folded note that made her stomach twist before she even touched it.
Talia stepped closer, her body stiff. Every movement felt too loud.
She picked up the note.
You're safe now, little dove.
Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled. It wasn't handwritten. It was printed in black serif font—elegant, like a wedding invitation or a eulogy.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. The sound bounced back to her, too soft, swallowed by velvet.
She spun in a slow circle, scanning the room again. No cameras. No doors, at least not visible. Just a perfect stage, and her—the star, or the prisoner.
Then came the voice.
Low. Calm. Male. It didn't come from above or below—it was just there, like breath on the back of her neck.
"You're awake. Good."
Talia backed up instinctively.
"Who are you?"
No answer.
"Where am I?" she tried again. Her voice was stronger this time. Angrier. That was good.
A soft click echoed. Her head whipped to the left.
A small slot in the wall—a hidden compartment—slid open just enough to let something through.
A single white rose.
The stem was fresh. Dew still clung to its petals.
She stared at it, horrified. Like it meant something only he understood.
"You don't need to be afraid, Talia."
"Not here."
She dropped the rose like it burned.
He knew her name.
That shouldn't have surprised her. But the way he said it—casual, familiar, like he had said it in his mind a thousand times—chilled her more than the cold floor.
"What do you
want from me?" she asked.
A pause.
Then, softly—
"Everything."