The Second Door Closed
Valenhart Estate — The Morning After
The ride through Paris was quiet.
Anna sat rigid in the back seat, scarf wrapped tightly around her body, her wrists sore from beating the hotel door hours earlier. Her face was drawn, eyes rimmed in red.
Her uncle sat beside her like a man fulfilling a contract.
He didn't speak.
When the black iron gates opened — twisted like thorns and taller than any freedom — Anna didn't need to ask.
She knew.
She was not arriving.
She was being delivered.
The Fortress That Waits
The gravel drive curled toward a manor carved from stone and silence. It rose from the ground like it had always been there — older than war, more patient than time.
The car pulled into a long, gravel drive flanked by blood-red roses. The gravel crunched beneath Anna's heels as she stepped out of the car, her jaw tight, her eyes blazing behind a veil of disbelief. The estate was a fortress. Stone walls. Heavy shutters. Gothic architecture crouched like a beast ready to pounce.
Her throat was dry.
The doors opened.
The driver nodded. "Mademoiselle."
She didn't move.
Her uncle grabbed her wrist. "Don't make this worse."
But Anna didn't look at him. She stared ahead, toward the massive oak doors of the manor. And the man standing in front of them.
Daimion Valenhart.
He was waiting.
Daimion Valenhart.
Silent. Still. Sharp enough to slice the air.
He didn't walk toward her.
He let her come to him.
Her Uncle Hands Her Over
Daimion Valenhart stood atop the steps, dressed in black, the wind in his coat. His silver eyes were still and unblinking.
He said nothing.
She took a step forward.
Her uncle stopped beside her.
Anna's voice cracked. "You're leaving me?"
Her uncle didn't look at her. "She's yours now," he said.
And then — he left.
Not a word of comfort. Not a glance back.
The iron gates groaned shut.
Behind her, Paris vanished.
Into the Quiet
Daimion turned without a word and walked into the manor. She didn't follow right away — not until she realized standing still wouldn't stop the inevitable.
The grand hallway swallowed her.
Velvet curtains. Glass chandeliers. A fireplace —---------------------------
-lit. Her footsteps echoed like fear.
He didn't speak.
Not until they reached a salon soaked in shadows and wine-colored light.
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
"I'm not a dog."
"No," he said. "You're something wilder."
She didn't sit.
He poured wine. Sat across from her. Waited.
And watched.
Second Contact, Without a Hand
Her shoulders were tense. Her jaw locked.
He didn't move.
Only his voice came — low, deliberate.
"You dreamt of me last night."
"I didn't sleep."
"But you imagined it."
"No."
"You imagined what I'd say. What I'd do. If I'd kiss your neck again like I did yesterday. Or press you to the wall instead of letting you run."
Her heart thudded. She tried not to show it.
"I remember your body," he continued. "How it tensed. The heat under your scarf. The way you clenched your fists when I kissed your wrist."
She looked away.
"You think you're resisting. But your silence is just arousal disguised."
"Stop it," she said, voice hoarse.
"Or what?"
"I'll scream."
"And who will come for you?"
She froze.
There it was.
The reminder.
There was no one coming.
The Unspoken Cage
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I could touch you again right now," he said. "But I won't."
She blinked.
"I'll wait."
"For what?"
"For the moment you ask me to."
"Never," she spat.
He smiled. "Good. I want to earn your hatred first."
He stood.
Walked behind her.
Didn't touch.
But she felt his shadow.
"I'll teach you how to unravel. One breath at a time."
Then he whispered — so softly she wasn't sure it was real:
"By the time I touch you again, you'll crave it more than your next breath."
Inside Daimion's Mind — The Chokehold of Obsession
Later That Night – Surveillance Room
Daimion sat in his private chamber, glass of scotch untouched in his hand. The wall of monitors glowed before him — all showing her.
Anna.
Pacing the guest suite. Fiddling with her scarf. Picking at her thumbnail. Sitting. Standing. Sitting again.
She was beginning to understand.
Not his power.
But her powerlessness.
She had fought.
And she had lost.
But she still had pride. That was what he would enjoy breaking.
Slowly.
Delicately.
"I don't want her on her knees," he whispered to himself. "Not yet."
He traced a line of condensation down the glass in his hand.
"I want her upright when she begs. I want her to burn every ounce of dignity before she falls."
His eyes stayed fixed to the screen.
"I will not touch her until she wants it. Until she needs it more than escape."
He stood, voice dropping to a near growl.
"And then I'll take everything."
He didn't touch her again. And yet, she didn't sleep. Because she knew — the next time he did…She wouldn't be ready. But her body would be.
The Dinner Table Is a Cage
Valenhart Estate — Nightfall
Anna didn't eat all day.
Not because they withheld food.
Because she couldn't swallow.
Her stomach was a tight knot of panic and rage. Her hands trembled when she touched her scarf. She'd been watched through hidden cameras, she was sure of it. She could feel him, even when he wasn't in the room.
So when the knock came — not from Daimion himself, but a woman in a fitted black uniform — Anna stiffened.
"The Master requests your presence for dinner," the woman said.
"Requests?"
The woman's gaze didn't shift. "You will wear the dress on the bed."
Anna opened her mouth to argue — but the woman was already gone.
The Dress That Wasn't Hers
On the bed lay a dress she hadn't chosen.
Black silk. Sleeveless. Deep cut. Elegant and damning.
It was not made for comfort. It was made for exposure.
Her hands shook as she stepped into it.
It clung to her hips. Hugged her chest. The hem brushed mid-thigh — far shorter than she would ever wear. She felt naked, even though nothing vital was revealed.
No scarf. No sleeves. No choice.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Her lips were pale. Her body a contradiction — delicate, defiant.
And somewhere deep inside, a tremble she couldn't kill.
The Walk to Nowhere
Two silent guards escorted her down the candlelit corridor.
Her bare arms brushed cold marble.
She didn't speak.
The dining room was vast — ancient stone columns, high ceilings, and a table long enough to seat thirty.
But only two chairs were set.
One at each end.
Daimion stood near the fire. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. No jacket. His eyes found her the moment she entered.
She didn't falter.
But he saw it.
The tiny shift in her breath. The goosebumps on her arms. The fight she wrapped around her like a second skin.
The Ritual Begins
"Sit," he said.
She didn't move.
His voice was soft. "You're not here to win, Anna."
She walked to the far end of the table and sat. The chair was carved oak, taller than her spine. Her back ached from sitting upright, her shoulders drawn tight.
Silver domes were lifted by silent staff.
Steam curled from lamb, truffle potatoes, roasted figs.
Her stomach twisted.
She said nothing.
He began to eat.
She watched his hands — how precise they were. Controlled. Like everything he did.
He chewed slowly. Eyes on her the entire time.
"Eat."
She didn't move.
His voice didn't rise. "Don't make me feed you."
Her throat tightened.
She picked up the fork.
Tasted one bite.
Swallowed. Barely.
The Conversation That Wasn't
They sat in silence.
And yet the room was full of noise.
The clink of silver. The sound of her breathing. The crackling fire.
Then he spoke.
"Do you know why this table is so long?"
She didn't answer.
He continued. "Because power requires distance. It reminds people where they stand."
She raised her chin. "You could've just locked me in a cage. That would've been faster."
"I don't want a caged animal," he said. "I want a trembling goddess."
She flinched.
"I want you to sit across from me like this," he murmured, "while your thighs press together under the table and your mouth denies the heat in your chest."
"You think I'm turned on?" she snapped.
"I know you are."
She stabbed a fig with her fork. Didn't eat it.
His voice was a whisper across stone.
"I want you to eat what I give you. Wear what I choose. Sleep where I say. And hate how your body obeys before your voice does."
She swallowed hard. Her lips were dry.
"I won't beg," she whispered.
He smirked. "Not yet."
The Final Bite
He stood slowly, wine glass in hand.
Walked toward her.
She didn't rise.
He circled the chair behind her, one hand resting on the carved wood.
"I'm not going to touch you tonight," he said.
She exhaled.
"But you will dream of this moment tomorrow," he added. "Of what could have happened. Of what didn't. And you'll wake up aching."
He bent forward.
His mouth just behind her ear.
"And you'll hate that your first instinct… is to touch yourself."
She jerked to her feet.
His hand caught her arm.
Not rough. Not firm. Just there.
"You'll stay seated until I say otherwise."
She sat.
And he walked away.
He never laid a finger on her skin. And yet — That night, in her dreams,He did things that made her wake up wet. And crying. And she hated him more… for being right.
Her Escape, His Warning, Their Wedding
Valenhart Estate — The Night Before the Wedding
The manor was silent.
Shadows stretched long across marble floors, and the windows glowed faintly from the city lights beyond. Everyone was asleep.
Except her.
Anna moved like a ghost through the hallway, dressed in black — leggings, an old coat she'd found in the wardrobe, scarf wound tight to hide her hair. Barefoot. Silent.
She clutched her phone in one hand. In the other — a pin she'd hidden in her sleeve.
She reached the garden gates just after 2:00 AM.
They weren't locked.
Not because Daimion hadn't planned to trap her.
Because he wanted her to run.
The City That Hides No One
She darted through the alleyways, heart hammering, scarf slipping.
At the main road, she flagged down a taxi with shaking fingers.
"Rue de la Glacière," she lied.
"Cash only," the driver said.
"I have it." (She didn't.)
He drove.
She pressed her forehead to the window. Streetlights slid past. Paris at night was beautiful, but she didn't feel it.
She felt hunted.
The building she chose was forgotten. Cracked windows. Rusted shutters. Dead leaves in the stairwell.
She crouched inside a room on the second floor — dust on her palms, knees pulled to her chest, heartbeat so loud she was sure someone would hear it.
For two hours…
She was free.
Until she wasn't.
The Black Car
4:23 AM — Somewhere in the forgotten outskirts of Paris
Anna crouched low behind a broken window.
Her fingers were numb. Her breath fogged in the cold air. Her pulse was wild — each beat louder than the last.
She dared to peek outside.
And then she saw it.
The black car.
Parked across the street. Matte finish. No lights. No sound.
Like it had materialized from the shadows.
She froze.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A message.
You run well, Anna. But I never lose. – D.V.
Her blood ran cold.
She backed away from the window, nearly tripping over a cracked floorboard. Her chest heaved. Her fingers tightened around her phone.
The silence was too perfect.
She turned—ready to flee through the back.
That's when the door creaked open.
Two men stood in the hallway. Black suits. Black gloves. Emotionless.
"Stay away," she hissed, voice cracking.
They didn't move.
"I'm not going back. I won't. He can't force me—"
Another buzz.
She looked down.
Another text. This time, no poetry. No seduction.
Just cold truth.
If you don't return now, I'll send someone else.Someone to visit your parents in Lahore.Your little brother won't survive the accident I'll arrange.
Anna dropped the phone.
Her knees gave.
"No…"
The men didn't speak.
Tears burned in her eyes. "He wouldn't."
They just stood there. Waiting.
Another buzz.
Choose, Anna. You. Or them.
She clutched the edge of the wall like it could anchor her.
The rage inside her turned to something worse.
Helplessness.
She whispered, "Please… don't hurt them."
No answer.
Just a slight nod from one of the men.
It wasn't mercy.
It was confirmation.
She had made the only choice she was allowed to make.
She walked out.
Back into the street.
Toward the black car.
They opened the door.
And she climbed in.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
But her face remained still.
Because she knew—
He had just won.