The fabric against my cheek isn't the rough, pilling cotton of my cheap Target sheets. It’s fluid. Cool. Slippery like water.
Silk.
Memory crashes into me like a head-on collision.
The car. The bath. The man with the scar and the eyes like frozen oceans.
Silas.
I shoot up in bed, gasping as if I’ve just surfaced from drowning. The movement makes the room spin, a lingering effect of the adrenaline hangover and the sheer exhaustion that pulled me under last night.
I’m alone.
The massive bedroom is silent. The black silk sheets are tangled around my legs, shimmering in the sunlight. I look down at myself. I’m still wearing the midnight blue pajamas he gave me. The top button has come undone in my sleep, revealing the flash of the diamond choker at my throat.
I touch it instantly. It’s warm from my body heat, a heavy, constant reminder of my new reality.
This is your cage now.
I scramble out of bed, my bare feet sinking into a plush charcoal rug that probably costs more than my student loans. I run to the door.
It opens.
I blink, surprised. I expected it to be locked. I expected to have to pound on the wood and scream until my throat bled. But the handle turns smoothly, and the heavy door swings inward on silent hinges.
I step out into the hallway. It’s wide, lined with modern art that looks aggressive—splashes of red and black paint that resemble wounds. The floor is polished concrete, cold and industrial, softening the luxury of the rest of the penthouse.
"Hello?" I call out.
My voice echoes, bouncing off the hard surfaces. It sounds small. Insignificant.
There is no answer.
I walk slowly toward the main living area, hugging my arms around my chest. The space is cavernous. The living room is a masterpiece of minimalist design—low-slung Italian leather sofas, a fireplace encased in glass, and a wall of windows thatoffers a view of Manhattan so clear it feels like a high-definition screen.
I walk to the glass.
My stomach drops. We are impossibly high up. The cars down on the avenue look like ants. The people are invisible specks. I press my hand against the glass. It’s thick, cool, and utterly unyielding.
I look for a handle, a latch, anything.
There is nothing. It’s a seamless sheet of glass. A fishbowl in the sky.
"Okay," I whisper to myself, my heart rate picking up. "Okay. Find the door."
I spot the elevator bank across the room. It’s the only way down. I run to it, my footsteps slapping against the floor.
There are no buttons. Just a sleek black panel next to the brushed steel doors.
I press my hand against the panel. Nothing happens. I tap it. I punch it.
"Come on!" I hiss, frustration rising like bile.
A small red light blinks on the panel.ACCESS DENIED.
I spin around, scanning the room for the fire stairs. Every building has fire stairs. It’s code.
I find a nondescript gray door near the kitchen. I yank the handle.
