I swallow, forcing my shoulders back, even as I feel the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. "I don’t want a room upstairs, I want to leave."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, void of warmth. "That’s not an option."
I narrow my eyes. "So what’s the plan, then? Keep me locked up like some tragic and unwilling pet?"
His smirk widens. "But a pet obeys. You, on the other hand, don’t seem to be capable of proper behavior."
"Then the easiest solution seems to be to let me go."
He turns on his heel, ignoring my words entirely. When I don’t move, he glances over his shoulder, amusement flickering in his expression. "Don’t make me drag you to your room. You’d hate it, but I’d enjoy being rough with you."
The memory of being thrown over his shoulder, helpless and thrashing, is still too fresh. My skin burns with humiliation as I force my feet to move, trailing behind him through endless corridors of marble and mahogany. The air smells expensive, like leather-bound books and smoke. It smells like him. And beneath it all, I am marred by the scent of my own filth, an ugly reminder that I do not belong here.
We reach a door. He pushes it open, revealing a bedroom that looks more like a luxury suite than a prison. Sumptuous, elegant yet tinged with something that feels comfortingly sterile. The walls, the bedding, the curtains, everything is cream, soft, untouched, a sharp contrast to the dark, rich wood and deep colors of the house I’d seen on the way here. As if this room was meant to be something delicate, something pure. It doesn't look, feel, or smell like Hayden. I’m not sure why, but I don't like that I can’t see touches of him—only me.
In the center of the room, a bowl of perfect green apples sits on display. Glossy, the most crisp shade of grass green, stacked to perfection as a mockery.
My stomach knots, and my breath catches in my throat. These are just like the apples from my apartment at Eulogia. Once an unanswered question, now glaringly obvious.
I turn to Hayden, rage curling in my gut. "It was you!"
He leans casually against the doorframe, regarding me with cool amusement. "Do you not like apples?"
"That’s not the point." My voice sharpens. "Someone left apples in my suite at Eulogia. And now here they are."
His gaze darkens, but his smirk remains. "Threatening apples. How unsettling for you."
I stare at him, waiting for an answer, and like a stone wall, he gives none.
My fingers tighten into fists. "It was obviously you."
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. "And if it were?"
Something about the way he says it makes my pulse stutter. He’s playing with me. Teasing and provoking to see how far I’ll push before I snap.
"Then I’d start wondering if you have a fetish for stalking."
He chuckles, low and rich.
A cold wave rushes through me. He doesn’t know. Hecan’tknow.
Green apples. Most of the pages I’ve ever written about in my diary have been the brutal comparison of myself and that awfully beautiful fruit. Tart and wicked at their core, yet beautiful, glossy, and unassuming on the exterior. A contradiction, just like me.
My father always said I was a green apple. Not ripe enough to be sweet, destined to rot from the inside out. He used them against me, weaponized something I loved, and twisted it into proof of my own supposed shortcomings. He claimed no onewould ever want to take a bite unless they craved the sharp, sour taste of something truly awful.
Green apples were always a special reminder of my childhood horse, Cherry. I loved her so much, and every time I rode, I would give her sugar cubes and green apples.
I remember always having the sugar cubes in my pocket, sucking on them the entire ride like only a child does. And then at the end, for a job well done, Cherry and I would split a green apple.
Father found out somehow that this small joy meant something great to me, and instead of allowing his child the reprieve of sweet and sour treats with her horse, he weaponized it. I refused to let my father take something I loved away from me.
And now Hayden has placed them here, in a supposed space meant for me. The pain it causes, seeing a symbol of myself in the worst possible way, as the centerpiece, is so much more distressing than he can comprehend.
My breath comes short. I feel stripped bare, not in the way he wants, but in a deeper, far worse way.
"You read my diary," I accuse, my voice sharp as glass.
I don’t know how my gut has suddenly convinced me of this, but I feel he’s guilty of invading my privacy.
