POV: Lily Ashford
Hands grab me before I can process what's happening.
Not Dante's hands. Bigger, rougher. A man I haven't seen before drags me toward the door, his grip iron around my upper arm. I twist, trying to break free, but it's useless. I'm not strong enough. Nobody my size is strong enough to fight a man twice my weight.
"Don't touch her like that," Dante says from somewhere behind us. His voice is still quiet, but the change is immediate. The man releases me but keeps his hand on my back, guiding me like a jailer now instead of a captor.
It's a subtle difference.
It means everything.
We move down the stairwell fast. My feet barely touch the steps. My mind is racing, calculating exits, distances, possibilities. Could I jump from a window? No. Break away and run down the street? No—there are too many of them, and I don't even know where I am.
Could I die trying?
Probably.
The thought doesn't scare me as much as it should.
The night air hits like a slap when we burst through the apartment building's front door. The rain has stopped, but the streets are slick and dark. A black SUV waits at the curb, engine running, back door open like a mouth.
Dante is already there, sitting in the front passenger seat. He doesn't look back at me as I'm loaded into the back. Just stares straight ahead like I'm beneath his attention now.
Maybe I am.
Two men sit on either side of me. Massive men. Prison men. The kind who've broken people for money and sleep fine afterward.
The SUV lurches forward.
I try to memorize the route—left on Fifth, right on 42nd, heading north. I know New York. I can find my way back if I'm smart. If I'm fast. If I live long enough to try.
But after thirty minutes, the streets become unfamiliar. After forty-five, I'm completely lost. The city lights fade into darkness. Trees replace buildings. The world becomes empty and vast and absolutely terrifying.
We're in the mountains now. I can feel it. The air tastes different. Cold. Clean. Isolated.
The SUV slows. Turns. Stops.
I brace myself for whatever comes next.
A massive iron gate stands before us. Beyond it, a driveway winds up into darkness. Dante says something to the driver, and the gate slides open with an automated hiss. We drive through.
And then the estate appears.
It's not a house. Houses are warm, lived-in, human. This is a fortress. A palace. Lights illuminate high stone walls, surveillance cameras at every corner, guards stationed at intervals like chess pieces on a board.
This is the kind of place people don't leave.
We pull up to the main entrance. I'm pulled out before the vehicle even stops, my feet stumbling on the gravel. The night air is cold against my wet skin. I'm still soaked from the rain, shaking, and absolutely powerless.
Dante emerges from the passenger side without looking at me. He walks toward the entrance like he owns the world. He probably does.
A woman appears in the doorway—older, maybe sixties, with kind eyes and gray hair pulled back tight. She's wearing an apron like she's been cooking.
"Good evening, Mr. Morelli," she says warmly. Then her eyes find me, and something sad flickers across her face.
"Sofia," Dante says. It's the first time I've heard him sound almost human. Almost like he actually cares about someone. "This is Lily. She'll be staying with us for a while. Show her to the east wing, third floor. The peacock suite."
The peacock suite. Of course. Not a cell. Not a dungeon. A suite.
Sofia steps toward me, and the guards finally release their grip. I'm free to move. Free to do... what, exactly? Run toward the armed perimeter? Try to scale the walls?
"Come with me, dear," Sofia says gently. She takes my arm, but her touch is different. She's guiding, not controlling. "Let's get you warm and dry."
I follow her through marble hallways and up curved staircases. The estate is beautiful—too beautiful. Crystal chandeliers. Original paintings. Everything screaming money and power and danger.
We arrive at the peacock suite.
It's a bedroom. A real bedroom. King-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets. An attached bathroom with a soaking tub. A closet already filled with clothes—silk dresses, cashmere sweaters, expensive things in colors that somehow match my skin tone perfectly.
Like Dante knew exactly what he wanted.
Like he planned this.
"There's fresh towels in the bathroom," Sofia says, setting down a tray of hot tea and cookies. "You should change out of those wet things. There are pajamas in the dresser."
"Why?" The word comes out raw. "Why is he doing this? Why am I here?"
Sofia's expression breaks into something like pity. She sits on the edge of my bed, and suddenly she's not the housekeeper. She's a person. A person who understands something terrible.
"Mr. Morelli collects things," she says carefully. "Beautiful things. Broken things. Things that interest him."
"I'm not a thing."
"No," Sofia agrees. "But he doesn't know that yet. He knows you're valuable. He knows you're strong. He knows you're different from every other person he's ever met." She pauses. "What he doesn't understand is that you're a person."
"Will he hurt me?"
Sofia stands, and the sadness in her eyes is answer enough. "That depends on what you do. On what you decide. On what you choose."
"I didn't choose this."
"No," Sofia says. "But you can choose what happens next."
She moves toward the door. "The rules are simple. You can move freely in the house and grounds. There's a library, an art studio, a music room, a gym. Everything you need. But you cannot leave the property. Any attempt will have... consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
Sofia doesn't answer. She just looks at me with those sad eyes.
"What does he want from me?" I ask desperately. "Why am I here?"
"I don't think he knows yet," Sofia says quietly. "But whatever it is, it's going to change both of your lives."
She leaves before I can respond.
The door locks behind her. I hear the click, final and absolute. A prisoner's sound.
I move to the window. Three stories up, surrounded by walls and guards and cameras and forest. No escape. No way out. No one coming to save me.
Just me and my survival.
I lie on the bed—softer than any bed I've ever slept in—and my mind won't shut off. My parents sold me. This man bought me. And now I'm trapped in a beautiful prison with no idea what he wants.
The hours crawl by. Midnight becomes 1 AM becomes 2 AM.
At 3 AM, unable to sleep, I get up and explore the suite more carefully. Looking for tools, weapons, anything useful. The paintings on the walls are originals—worth thousands. There's a crystal vase on the dresser that could be a weapon.
I'm planning.
Always planning.
I move to the bathroom and find myself staring at my reflection. I'm pale. Shaking. My blonde hair is matted from rain and fear. My emerald eyes are too wide, too scared.
That's not me anymore.
I can feel something shifting inside my chest. The soft thing cracking further. The shell getting harder.
By the time dawn breaks, I've made a decision: I'm not breaking. I'm not crying. I'm not becoming a victim.
I'm going to survive this.
I shower. I change into clothes that fit perfectly. I wait.
Around 9 AM, Sofia brings breakfast. Eggs, fresh fruit, orange juice. Real food. The kind I can't afford. I eat it methodically, watching her watch me.
"Will he come see me?" I ask.
"Probably not today," Sofia says. "Mr. Morelli doesn't rush anything. He observes first. Understands second. Acts third."
"And what if I don't want to wait?"
Sofia's sad smile appears. "Then you'll learn the consequences faster."
She leaves me alone again.
I spend the day exploring the suite, the hallways, the grounds I can access. A beautiful prison has rooms. Has libraries. Has gardens. But it still has walls.
Still has guards.
Still has locks.
As evening falls, I'm in the library, running my fingers over leather-bound books, when I hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. A man's footsteps.
My heart stops.
"Lily," a voice calls. Deep. Familiar. That black-eyed crime lord who bought me like I was nothing.
I turn.
Dante stands in the doorway, still in his expensive suit, still looking at me like I'm the most interesting puzzle he's ever tried to solve.
"Come with me," he says. It's not a request.
And behind him, standing in the shadows of the hallway, I see another man. Massive. Scarred. Watching me with intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"There's someone I want you to meet," Dante continues.
And I realize: I'm not alone in this prison.
There are others.