I inhale slowly, steadying myself. First, coffee. Then, my escape.
But as my eyes skim the contents of the replica of my bedroom, my thoughts take me back to my captor in all his glory. As much as I hate him, I hate the way he speaks even more. His tone is blunt, almost rude in its simplicity, as if wasting words is beneath him. There’s no softness, no unnecessary embellishment, just cold, hard command.
And yet, for all his brutish bluntness, there’s an undeniable air of aristocracy about him. That infuriating arrogance, the effortless way he carries himself, like the world was carved out for him and him alone.
It makes me sick.
It makes me want to give him a punch to his chiseled jaw, to knock that smug expression off his face just to see if he’s capable of anything other than cool indifference. But the worst part? The part that twists deep in my gut and refuses to let go?
I want to listen to him instead. I want to submit to his whims, listening like a well-behaved pet. I want to perform to his will, showing an expertly practiced ability to perform.
He’s hot. Infuriatingly, devastatingly hot. And I hate myself for noticing. His voice, smooth and deep, carries a cadence that demands obedience without ever needing to rise. The sharpangles of his face catch the low light, emphasizing the arrogant curve of his lips, the sharp cut of his jawline. His skin is perfectly bronzed and sun-kissed as if he's spent his days beneath the sun, even though I know he spends the majority of his days in that awful mausoleum. His eyes, piercing and predatory, hold mine with a casual confidence that's offensive in its ease.
There’s a maddening entitlement in the set of his broad shoulders, the elegant yet careless way he holds himself, as if the world exists solely to serve his whims. It’s pompous, patrician, as if he were born with absolute certainty that everything and everyone would follow his command.
I despise how intoxicating it is. How the smooth command in his voice lingers in my mind, winding itself around my thoughts like a snake. He speaks, and even when I refuse to listen, my body reacts. It makes me furious. Makes me want to fight back just to prove I’m not as easily controlled as he seems to believe.
But I can’t help but acquiesce to his authority, having been trained all my life to follow the direction of brooding men. I would have never crossed my own father, and at times, I even found comfort in his discipline—craving direction like a well-bred dog.
The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelming, a relentless storm of fear, uncertainty, and power struggles. Every second has been a battle to keep myself together, to resist, to survive. And a part of me feels so incredibly out of control because of it. I can’t help but wonder if submitting to his wills will offer me the comfort I can’t seem to find.
And yet, despite everything, there’s a disturbingly effortless pull to following Hayden’s directions—an unnerving simplicity in obeying when my mind is exhausted from constantly fighting.
It should scare me more than it does—That obeying is more enticing than escaping.
The thought of relinquishing control, even for a second, should be ridiculous. I barely know him, and what I do know is enough to tell me he’s the last person I should ever surrender to. He’s dangerous, arrogant, a man who doesn’t just take power; he assumes he already has it.
But still…the temptation lingers in the back of my mind like a whisper. It would be easier to submit. Every bone and muscle in my body is craving it. It’s the training in me—the childhood expectations bleeding out to my captivity.
I run a hand through my hair, smoothing it down as best I can. The vanity mirror in the corner catches my eye, its surface gleaming under the soft morning light. It's stocked with everything I could need—a brush similar in style to my set at home, perfumes, skincare. Every detail in this house has been accounted for, every necessity met before I could even realize I needed it.
I pick up a brush, dragging it through my hair with slow, deliberate strokes, and realize there's already some blonde hair in it. Is this my exact brush? Too freaked out to consider it, I brush my hair and ignore the sinking feeling in my gut—that my things missing from my bedroom at the estate somehow appeared here. The motion is soothing despite everything, despite the way my stomach twists at the thought of how easily he’s provided for me, as if I’m meant to be here. As if I belong or have already been here.
I gulp down a sick feeling at how the room I've been provided is a near-perfect replica of my bedroom at the Huntington-Russell estate. A sickened part of my skin crawls—and yet somehow finds comfort—in the perfection that surrounds me. It seems as though there are pieces of me staged around this room, as though I’m nothing more than a museum exhibit for his pleasure.
I flip my hair over one shoulder, inhaling deeply, bringing my focus back to what matters. My heart beats a little harder as I reach for the doorknob, but I force myself to turn it.
The hallway is quiet, eerily so. No distant murmurs, no heavy footsteps, just the hush of the house settling around me. I take a step forward, then another, my shoes silent against the wooden floor. The scent of coffee drifts faintly through the air, a cruel reminder of normalcy in a place that feels anything but.
I follow it, drawn forward despite the tightness in my chest. The kitchen must be downstairs. I steel myself before descending, each step controlled as I pad across the thick green carpeting from another century. If I can get through breakfast without incident, act rationally, and get him to listen, I might have a chance at convincing him to let me go.
Or at the very least, I might find a phone.
I suddenly realize I do have someone I can call. The thought makes my pulse quicken. Just a quick call to Archie. Just one chance to reach beyond these walls, to remind the outside world I still exist. If I can play this right, if I don’t push Hayden too hard, maybe, just maybe, I can regain a sliver of control.
The only problem is—control isn't something I've ever possessed. Nor am I sure what I would do with it.
But then again, Hayden doesn’t seem like the type to give anything willingly.
When I finally reach the kitchen, I stop in the doorway, momentarily taken aback. For such a classic, grand house, the kitchen is shockingly cozy. Warm wood, a massive farmhouse sink, and an island stacked with fresh produce in ivory bowls make it feel almost…inviting.
It smells like coffee and a faint trace of sweetness, and for a second, the normalcy of it all disorients me.
A woman stands at the stove, moving with the sharp efficiency of someone who knows exactly where everything is withoutlooking. She has the look of someone who could be Eastern European, with strong features, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes that flick to me the second I step inside.
"Good morning, Miss," she says, voice rich with amusement. "Would you like your breakfast in the blue dining room? I was readying it to take to your room."
“I’d just like some coffee right now.”
