Then, the dressing room. The vast closet, filled with clothes he chose for me. I run my hands over the fabrics, the silks, the cashmeres. He thinks he’s dressing his doll. But these clothesare tools. They are camouflage. They are a way to blend in, to observe, to learn.
I find a small, discreet pocket in one of the tailored jackets. Empty. I check another. Nothing. He’s thorough.
I sit on the plush chaise lounge, my mind racing. He watches me. I know he does. Every room, every corner, every breath. He is everywhere. The thought used to terrify me. Now, it’s a challenge.
If he watches me, then I must perform. I must give him the illusion of compliance, of adaptation. I must make him believe his methods are working.
But underneath that performance, I will be watching him. I will be learning his patterns, his weaknesses, the cracks in his carefully constructed empire.
He wants me to be strong. He wants me to thrive. He wants me to be his queen.
Very well. I will be his queen. But not the queen he expects. Not the queen who bows. I will be the queen who learns, who plans, who waits.
I remember his words from last night, the ones he whispered as he held me: “You belong to me now. Nothing will ever harm you again.”
A cold, hard laugh escapes me. He thinks he’s protecting me. He thinks he’s the only one who can inflict harm.
He has no idea.
I will learn his rules. I will learn his game. And then, when he least expects it, I will burn his castle to the ground. And I will do it with the very power he thinks he has given me.
Thirty One
Kaden
Iwatchheronthemonitors. She’s in the conservatory, just as I instructed. She’s no longer pacing. She’s no longer staring out the window with that desperate, caged look. She’ssitting on the stone bench, amidst the lush foliage, a book in her hands. Every movement is deliberate, controlled. She’s reclaiming her strength. Good.
The fury from this morning, the fire in her eyes as she tossed the raspberries, as she spat my name back at me – it was magnificent. It was a challenge. And I thrive on challenges. It confirmed that the purity I saw in her, the strength I craved, is very much alive.
She thinks she’s playing a game. She thinks she’s hiding her true intentions. I can see it in the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes dart around the room when she thinks I’m not watching. She’s observing. She’s planning.
My lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. Let her plan. Let her observe. Every move she makes, every thought she has, brings her deeper into my world. Every act of defiance, when met with my unwavering control, only reinforces my dominance.
I press the intercom. “Alrik, ensure the art supplies, books, and a selection of the finest teas are delivered to the conservatory. And inform the chef that Wynter prefers her tea with a slice of lemon, not milk.”
A small detail. A piece of information gleaned from her file, confirmed by my observation of her this morning. It’s a subtle act, a whisper of care amidst the roar of my possession. It’s a seed.
I watch as the uniformed woman delivers the items. Wynter watches her, her expression unreadable. She picks up a book, a collection of poetry, and settles into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. She doesn’t immediately open it. She just holds it, her fingers tracing the spine.
She’s waiting. She’s testing. She’s seeing if I’ll make the next move.
I lean back in my chair, a sense of deep satisfaction settling over me. This is the game. This is the dance. And she is a most captivating partner.
Her strength, her defiance, is not a threat. It’s a promise. A promise of the queen she will become, ruling by my side. A queen forged in fire, tempered by my will.
I want her to fall in love with me. The thought, once a dangerous intrusion, is now a burning objective. It’s not enough for her to be mine by force. I want her to choose it. I want her to crave my darkness, to see it not as a prison, but as the only place where her true self can flourish.
She is my Snowflake. My pure, untamed beauty. And I am the storm that will shape her, the darkness that will protect her, the fire that will consume her.
I will show her a world where her curvy figure is celebrated, not shamed. Where her sharp mind is respected, not stifled. Where her spirit is ignited, not extinguished.
She thinks she is fighting me. But she is fighting for the life I am offering her. A life where she is cherished, protected, and utterly, irrevocably mine.
And I will make sure she understands that. One calculated kindness. One undeniable pleasure. One inescapable claim at a time.
Thirty Two
Wynter
