Then, one afternoon, the door swings open. My heart leaps, a mix of hope and terror, and when I see him, instinct takes over.
“You monster!” I lash out, punching his chest as hard as I can. “Let me go!”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look angry. He seizes my fists in one hand, holding me still with a strength that’s both terrifying and infuriating.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that any longer,” he says, voice low, unwavering. His eyes are hard, unyielding. “Pack anything you’ll need. We’re moving. You have ten minutes.”
Before I can respond, before I can even argue, he turns and walks out, leaving me frozen in the middle of the room, pulse racing, fear and anger coiling together like a living thing inside me.
Chapter 6 – Roman
We’re in the backseat of my SUV, gliding through the streets of New York. Elara sits beside me, quiet, tense, her wrists free now but her body still coiled with caution. For the past two weeks, she’s been in my safe house, trapped behind locked doors, under watch. I’ve been observing her, tracking her moods, the way she moves, the way she holds herself. She’s slowly folding in on herself, retreating into the shadows of her own mind.
She needs a change of scenery. I want her somewhere she can move, stretch, breathe—even if just a little—while I remain in control. My mansion will give me that. She’ll be free to walk the halls, but the escape routes are impossible for her to find. I know her, and I know my house.
The past week hasn’t just been about her. I’ve been keeping tabs on David Chang, too. Their relationship—if it can even be called that—has always been frayed. The man doesn’t respect her, never has. He parades her like an asset, uses her as leverage in his corrupt schemes, and recently dragged his depravity all the way into her workplace. The museum. My blood still boils thinking about it.
Elara doesn’t need me to hate her father for her; she’s already mastered it herself. And maybe that’s why I keep her close. She’s a storm contained in human form, all defiance and fire, yet for the last week, I’ve seen the cracks, the exhaustion, the flickers of doubt that make her real.
But she’s a fighter.
Because another thing I’ve found, something buried deep beneath all the noise, is that rerouting her father’s art shipments wasn’t her first act of rebellion. Far from it.
I had to dig for it. Old records, hushed transactions, digital trails scrubbed clean but not well enough. And what I found made me stop and stare at the screen for a long time. Elara Chang has been sabotaging her father for years. Quietly. Cleverly. In small ways he never noticed—or maybe he did, but dismissed them as harmless, beneath his attention.
But they weren’t harmless. Not to me. Not to anyone who understands power.
Those little acts tell me everything I need to know about her. She’s not just some spoiled daughter or naïve girl caught in the middle of her father’s crimes. She’s deliberate. Calculated. Dangerous in her own way.
A spark like that doesn’t die easily.
She’s a fighter. And whether she realizes it or not, she’ll be good to have on my side.
I watch her closely because that’s what I do—study, catalogue, decide. She looks calm, but it’s the same brittle calm I’ve seen in operatives just before they break.
I let myself look longer than common sense allows. She’s beautiful, in a way that’s sharp and dangerous, not decorative. I had Luka hire a designer and fill a closet with things she didn’t ask for. She ignored most of it—until now. She’s in jeans and a simple top, something that shows the length of her legs and the narrowness of her waist. Her black hair is piled in a messy bun; a few loose strands cling to her neck. I’ve wanted, in a foolish corner of my mind, to bury my hands in that hair and feel it between my fingers.
She turns and catches me staring. “What are you looking at?”
“You,” I say.
She scoffs and looks away, but the faint pink at her throat betrays her. She’s not as untouched as she pretends.
I keep watching. Use her to bait Chang, or break her and wield the pieces as leverage—both options work. Both cost different things. I decide nothing yet. For now, I hold the choice, and that is power.
“It’s rude to stare,” she murmurs, eyes on the window while the city blurs past outside.
“Who made the rules?” I say, amusement low in my voice.
She fixes me with another glare, and I laugh.
“How would you like it if I stared with fixation at you?” she asks, daring.
“By all means. Please do,” I challenge.
She holds my gaze for a beat, measuring, as if deciding whether I’m bait or threat. Then she rolls her eyes and turns away, but her shoulders don’t drop.
I let the silence sit between us. Her profile in the harsh light—the slope of her cheek, the stubborn set of her mouth—sharpens into focus. I could study her forever and still find unread territory.
