Dimitri catches it, his brows lifting slightly. “You’re protecting her, then?”
“No.” My voice is iron. “I’m protecting what I built. If she’s the leak, she’s the thread. Pull her, and everything unravels. If she isn’t…” I trail off, staring at the dark outline of the warehouse. “If she isn’t, then someone inside my house is already too deep to see. That’s worse.”
Dimitri nods slowly. “So you keep her alive. For now.”
“For now.”
He smokes in silence for a moment longer before saying, “You want me to stay with her tonight?”
I shake my head. “No. Leave her there alone. Let her suffer in her silence, think we’ve abandoned her.”
His expression shifts, the faintest flicker of doubt. “Alone makes people think they’ve been forgotten. Sometimes that’s useful. Sometimes it makes them bold.”
“That’s what I want,” I say. “If she’s bold, she’ll slip. If she’s smart, she’ll wait. Either way, I’ll see who she is before the end.”
Dimitri exhales, his breath white in the cold. “What if she doesn’t break?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “Everyone breaks eventually.”
He studies me a long moment, then finally nods, flicking his cigarette into the dirt. “I’ll post men at a distance. Eyes only. If she tries anything, they’ll stop her.”
“Good.”
The warehouse looms dark and silent behind us, its steel doors locked tight. Inside, she sits in that chair, bound andwaiting. I can almost picture her: back straight, eyes steady, mind already calculating. Not a victim, not yet.
Dimitri adjusts his coat, his voice low. “You’re playing a dangerous game with her.”
“I know,” I answer.
He almost smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just remember, games like this don’t end with winners. Only survivors.”
The words hang between us, heavy as smoke.
I look back at the warehouse, my silence saying what I won’t out loud: if Vivienne Wilder wants to survive me, she’ll have to prove she deserves to.
I’ll decide what her survival costs.
Chapter Eleven - Vivienne
The air smells dank and rotten, even worse than I remember.
I sit up too fast, chest tight, and take in where I am.
It’s not a cell, not in the way people imagine them. This place is draped in velvet curtains that touch the floor, soft sheets that slip over my skin, furniture carved from dark wood that gleams under the low light. A chandelier hangs above, glittering with crystal drops that scatter fragments of light across the ceiling. Everything screams wealth, power, control.
The cuff tells the truth.
I stand, tugging once more at the chain that links me to the bedframe. It doesn’t give. I crouch, fingers testing the lock, nails scraping against steel. No weakness.
Not a guest. A prisoner in a cage dressed as a palace.
I move through the room in tight circles, chain dragging against the floor with every step. Seven paces from bed to window. Four to the dresser. Three to the door. My body memorizes the measurements, as if knowledge alone could carve a path to freedom.
The windows are locked. Heavy panes that rattle but don’t open, the kind that could take a crowbar without breaking. The door, when I try it, is the same—solid, silent. I remember that my bag is gone. My phone too. Everything abandoned or stripped from me until there’s nothing left but this room, this silence, and the thoughts I can’t push down.
Time stretches. No clock ticks. No voices pass outside. I try to lie back on the bed, to close my eyes, but the silence is too sharp. Every second feels like a rope pulling tighter around my throat.
I don’t know how long passes before I hear it.
