He finally lifts his chin a fraction. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
The comment hits harder than I expect. It isn’t a compliment. It isn’t an insult. It’s an observation, spoken like a fact he already decided on before coming into this room.
I take a breath that shakes slightly. “What do you want from me?”
“Truth.”
“I already gave you that.”
“We’ll see.”
He turns without warning. The movement is smooth, controlled, and final. He steps through the doorway, and the moment he crosses the threshold I feel the room shift again, like the air loosens and tightens at the same time.
He doesn’t look back. Not once.
I wait a few seconds before leaning against the wall, forcing myself to stay upright, even though my legs shake.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten, or try to touch me, but I have never felt more trapped in my life.
His last words replay in my head with slow, steady certainty.“You’re too smart for your own good.”
I don’t know how long I sit on the bed after he leaves. The light in the room shifts from bright to dim as evening creeps in, but I barely notice. My mind keeps circling everything he said, everything he didn’t say, the way he watched me like he was reading more than my words.
When a guard slips in hours later to leave another tray of food, I don’t move fast enough to catch him. The door shuts a second after I stand. I bite down a curse and walk to the table.
Another plate. Lunch, I guess.
Something white peeks from beneath the rim.
My stomach twists. I lift the plate and find a folded note. Thick paper, crisp edges. My name isn’t on it. Just one line in dark ink.
You’re safe here until I decide otherwise.
I crumple it instantly. The paper cracks beneath my fingers as I squeeze hard enough for the edges to bite into my palm.
Safe. He thinks this is safety.
I throw the crushed note at the wall and pace across the carpet, the adrenaline returning in sharp waves. My anger feels clearer than fear. It helps me breathe. It helps me stay upright.
I count my steps. Back and forth. The room is too big and too small at the same time. Luxury wrapped around confinement.
I stop when I hear voices in the hall—low, muffled, two men speaking just outside my door. I press my ear against the surface, holding my breath.
“She’s not talking,” one says. His voice is unfamiliar. Maybe one of Lukyan’s guards.
“She doesn’t need to talk yet,” the other replies. Deeper. Steadier. I know that tone. His second-in-command. The man who waited by the SUV the night everything changed.
“Boss is wasting his time,” the guard mutters. “She’s a kid with a laptop. Let me handle her. She’ll crack.”
“No,” the second-in-command says. “She’s off-limits.”
“She’s angry at him.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She wakes the whole place screaming.”
“She’s off-limits,” he repeats, sharper this time. “You lay a hand on her, he’ll break every bone you’ve got.”
