"What kind of a sick fuck are you? You stole my wedding cake?"
"Seemed a shame to waste it." He accepts a plate from the server and takes a deliberate bite. "Not bad, though a bit dry. Your family's baker cut corners on the buttercream."
I stare at the cake. A symbol of the life that was ripped away from me this morning and my composure finally breaks.
"You bastard," I whisper.
"It's your wedding cake. You should enjoy it. It’s not every day you get wedding cake."
"I can't eat it."
"You can and you will." He cuts a piece from a fresh slice and holds up the fork. "Open your mouth, Camilla."
"Fuck you."
"I wasn't asking." His voice drops to something dangerous. "Open your mouth, or I'll open it for you."
The threat in his voice is unmistakable. I part my lips slightly, and he guides the fork into my mouth. He’s right. The cake is dry and I almost choke on it.
"Good girl," he murmurs, cutting another piece. "Again."
This time I open my mouth without being told, hating myself for the submission but understanding the power dynamic he's establishing. There’s not a damn thing I can do and he knows it. He feeds me another bite, then another, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
"There," he says finally, setting down the fork. "See? Not so difficult."
My hands are shaking with rage and humiliation. "May I return to my room now?"
"Soon." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those calculating eyes. "First, finish your wine. Then I'll escort you back personally."
The walk back to my room feels like a funeral march. At my door, he stops and turns to face me.
"You did well tonight," he says. "Cooperation suits you."
"Go to hell."
He smiles but his eyes are cold. "I'm already there. The question is whether you'll join me willingly or whether I'll drag you down with me." He unlocks my door and steps aside. "Sweet dreams."
The lock clicks shut behind me, and I'm alone again. But now I understand something I didn't before. This isn't only about money.
This is about power.
Control.
The thrill of breaking something beautiful just because he can.
I walk to the writing desk and open the first drawer. Expensive stationary, fountain pens with gold nibs. I slip the heaviest pen into my pocket. Then I methodically search the rest of the room, every drawer, every corner, every possible hiding place.
By the time I'm finished, I have a modest collection of potential miniature weapons. Two nail files from the vanity, the fountain pen, a forgotten hairpin from the jewelry box. It's not much, but it's a start.
I also notice something else. Small red lights in the corners of the room—cameras. He's been watching me this entire time.
I force myself to continue as if I haven't noticed, but inside, my mind is calculating. If there are cameras, there might be blind spots. And if he's watching, it means he considers me dangerous enough to monitor. Or perhaps he’s worried I might be suicidal.
That's something, at least.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still within view of the cameras, and let my shoulders slump as if in defeat. Let him think his expensive villa and wedding cake mind games have broken my spirit.
He has no idea what he's awakened.
