“She’s fine. I made sure she’s comfortable,” he reports.
“Does she have all the, uhm, bathroom supplies women use?” I ask, flat.
He nods again. “Everything.”
“Send men to the museum.” I don’t waste breath. “Her car is there. Bring it down here. She has private property in it.”
“Okay, Boss.” He still doesn’t move. He waits. I sigh. “What is it, Luka?”
“She’s not the enemy,” he says. “Her father is.”
I blink. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m just saying we don’t have to hurt her to get to David.”
I study him. “Does she look hurt?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Luka lowers his head for a second in that deferential way he sometimes does. He’s my shadow in a dozen darker ways—a former sniper spotter from my military days, the man who watched my back when the world narrowed to a target and a breath. He’s blunt and violent and the sort of man who prefers breaking bones to making plans, but he’s always had a soft spot for women and children. That softness shows itself now in the way he argues against unnecessary cruelty.
“Go get her car, Luka,” I say. “Let me deal with Elara.”
He inclines his head. “Okay.”
Then he disappears.
I turn back to the window. The night outside is still quiet, too quiet for my mind.
As a former military man, I also don’t hurt women. That was one rule I never broke, even when orders blurred lines and morality was a luxury. But David Chang…he’s a different breed of monster. And monsters breed consequences. His daughter would pay for his sins—directly or indirectly. That’s how our world works. You don’t have to like it. You just accept it.
I walk to the minibar in the corner of my office, the floorboards creaking under my shoes. I pour myself a drink—whiskey, neat—and let it burn its way down my throat. The sting helps. It anchors me.
For a long moment, I just stand there, glass in hand, watching the faint reflection of my own face in the dark window. Somewhere out there, Elara Chang is probably cursing my name. Maybe she should.
Chapter 5 – Elara
Two days slide past like a dream I can’t wake from. Roman is a ghost, and I haven’t seen him since he put me out of his office that night. The door opens, a shadow passes, and then it’s closed again. A guard stands outside like a monument to my confinement, and his silence is heavier than any chain. He never speaks or responds to my questions.
They haven’t exactly starved me. The room is soft, almost insultingly kind: a chaise by the window, thick rugs, a stack of books Luka leaves on my desk. Meals arrive on a tray three times a day, a folded napkin, a porcelain plate, and the gentle clack of cutlery.
Luka’s movements are the only thing resembling warmth; he sets the food down as if he’s delivering provisions to an injured animal, never meeting my eyes for longer than a second. He brings books I choose and then pretends not to notice when I change my mind. He told me once, quietly, that the facilities are warm and that the bath water is always ready. That kindness feels like a mercy and a threat all at once.
But kindness doesn’t equal freedom. I’m caged by velvet and a pleasant view of someone else’s manicured courtyard. I count the cracks in the ceiling and the minutes between the guard’s steps. I memorize the cadence of the lock. I speak aloud to the empty room, ridiculous, hoarse whispers that scratch the air. “Is the shipment safe? Has my father noticed my absence?” My questions hang in the silence and return to me cold and unanswered.
I refuse breakfast. I refuse lunch. I tell myself I’m making a point, that withholding my obedience will matter when the right ears hear about it. The truth is uglier: I’m slipping. The edges of me are frayed, and the steady life I built with varnishand patience threatens to unravel into raw, tremulous threads. I pace until my feet ache, and then I press my palms to the window and watch the world go on without me—people living ordinary lives unaware of the ledger I tore open.
I pace, my hands pressed against the wall, trying to think, trying to plan. My chest aches with the questions I can’t answer. I sit on the edge of the bed. When will someone come for me? Will my father even notice I’m gone? Even if he hates me, surely he can’t go on without knowing where I disappeared to.
The door suddenly opens, and I don’t even look up.
“Take the food. I’m not hungry.”
“There’ll be no starving in my house,printsessa.”
I snap my head up and see Roman standing there. He fills the doorway with his shoulders, brown hair loose, brushing down to his shoulders, framing his face in a way that makes him impossible to ignore. My first instinct is to rush to my feet, but I force myself to stay seated, calm, collected.
