He's always aware of where I am. What I'm doing. How I'm feeling.
It's suffocating.
I have no choice, after the shower, but to get dressed in the clothes he’s purchased for me, but I pick the most boring options. It’s that or go naked, which is somehow worse, so I opt for a pair of loose blue jeans and a grey sweater, trying not to think about how he picked out the underwear lying against my bare skin. I don’t want him to think I’m taking pleasure in accepting the things
But they're all his gifts. I can't escape it.
I usually try to wait long enough to get breakfast to avoid running into him in the kitchen—or I just don’t eat at all. My appetite has diminished considerably lately, and the anxiety over what’s happening to my life outside of this gilded cage and what’s going to come next for me has only made it worse. But even when I wait, there’s always food waiting for me in the kitchen—fresh-cut fruit, local bagels, fancy pastries, and hot French-press coffee with real cream in a small pitcher next to it.
I know Ilya wants us to behave like a normal couple having a normal morning, discussing how we slept and the weather and whatever other bullshit would come up. But I’m not going to pretend that anything about this is normal. I’ve done my best toignore him and find ways to fill the day that will keep my mind occupied and stop me from thinking about where I am and why I'm here.
Mostly, I’ve been reading. The penthouse is well-stocked with books, and I pull books at random, curl up in one of the leather chairs, and try to lose myself in stories. But the words always blur together, the plots fail to hold my attention, and I find myself reading the same page over and over without absorbing any of it. My mind won't settle. It keeps circling back to the same thoughts: How do I get out? What is Ilya planning? What does he want from me, beyond just to behis? That can’t be all there is to it.
And, besides all of that, the worst thought, the one I try desperately to suppress: Why does part of me not want to leave?
Ilya has stocked the penthouse with art supplies too, which made my stomach twist the first time I saw them, realizing that he’s undoubtedly seen me painting in my own apartment and looked over the paintings himself to know exactly what I would need. There’s professional-grade watercolors and oils, expensive brushes and thick, luxurious paper. The first time I saw them, I wanted to throw them all out the window. I wanted to reject his attempt to make this comfortable, to make me forget that I'm a prisoner.
But the temptation to use them has been so strong. They’re all beautiful, and I know I coud make beautiful things with them. He’s giving me everything I could possibly want… except my freedom… and it feels harder and harder each day to ignore how good it could be to just give in.
Each day, the walls seem a little closer, the ceilings a little lower, the air a little thinner. I'm suffocating in luxury, drowning in expensive things, losing myself in the beautiful cage Ilya has built for me.
I stand at the windows and stare out at the city. From this height, I can see for miles—the river, the bridges, the buildings stretching toward the horizon. I can see people moving on the streets below, tiny figures going about their lives, free to go wherever they want, do whatever they want. And on the other side of the penthouse, I know, is my apartment, easily visible from the living room.
That's the cruelest part. My home is right there, so close it feels like I could almost reach out and touch it. My life is waiting for me, frozen in time—my books, my clothes, my bed, my freedom. Everything I took for granted is sitting there empty, while I'm trapped here, watching it across what might as well be an ocean.
Shaking off the feeling, I go to the door and unlock it, stepping out into the hall…
And that’s when I see it.
I almost trip over the flat velvet box lying just in front of the door. My heart is hammering as I catch myself and look down at it, unable to entirely reconcile in my head what I’m looking at.
Jewelry. Of course he bought me jewelry. I consider ignoring it; just walking off and pretending that I didn’t see it there. He deserves nothing more, as far as I’m concerned.
But my curiosity is too much.
I reach down and pick up the box. There’s no jeweler’s name on the box, just smooth black velvet, luxurious under my fingertips.
I open it slowly, and my breath catches.
It’s quite possibly the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen. Layers of thin links that look like platinum hold together more small diamonds than I’ve ever seen in one place, creating a panel of flashing, prismatic light that is unmistakably…
A collar.
There’s nothing subtle about it. I can imagine how it would look on my neck, how it would sit snugly against my throat, the small clasp at the back that would require someone else to fasten it. This isn't just jewelry, it's a brand. A statement of ownership.
You belong to me,it says.You wear my mark.
The sight of it makes me furious, my blood boiling with the insult, that he not only thinks he can own me but that he can do so so… blatantly. That he thinks for a second I would put this on, and…
I can feel how cool and secure it would be against my skin. How it would lie against my throat with just the right amount of pressure. I can imagine his fingers brushing against the base of my spine as he hooks it…
I’m insulted, yes. I’m so fucking angry.
And I’m also horribly turned on.
The realization makes my face flush hot with shame. I stare at the choker, at the way the diamonds glitter in the light, and I imagine Ilya fastening it, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers,Mine.
I imagine wearing it. Walking through the penthouse, in the city, at some function or gala with his mark on my throat, visible to anyone who might see, a declaration of ownership that I can't hide or deny. I imagine the way he would look at me, the satisfaction in his eyes, the possessive pride.
