"Tonight, you sleep in my bed," Rafael says, his voice full of command, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Elena’s heart skips a beat. She can feel the weight of his words pressing on her chest. His dark eyes are locked on hers, waiting for a reaction. This is it—the moment she’s been dreading, the moment she’s tried so hard to avoid.
She stands still, trying to steady her breath, her body tense. The soft flicker of candlelight from the bedside table casts shadows across the room, but all she can focus on is him. Rafael. The man who owns her, in every sense of the word.
"You're not going to argue, are you?" he presses, his voice almost playful, like he enjoys watching her squirm. His lips curve into a smirk, and Elena can almost feel the mockery in the air.
"No," she whispers, fighting the urge to shudder. "I’m not going to argue."
The words taste bitter on her tongue, but they’re the only ones she can say right now. She’s learned not to fight him head-on—not yet, anyway. Not while she’s still playing the game, pretending to be his. But the truth is, she’s suffocating. She’s desperate. And tonight, she’s going to make her move.
Rafael steps closer to her, his gaze never leaving hers. He watches her with a predator’s hunger, as though he’s savoring every moment of this control, every second of watching her bow to him. He lifts a glass of wine from the nightstand, swirling it slowly, the deep red liquid catching the light.
"Here," he says, holding out the glass to her. "Drink with me. It’s a special night, after all."
Elena hesitates, her fingers itching to take the glass. She knows the plan, the risk, the consequences. She’s already slipped the sleeping powder into his wine earlier, enough to make him drowsy, enough for her to slip away while he’s out.
It’s her only chance.
But as she reaches out, taking the glass from his hand, a shiver runs down her spine. She forces a smile, holding his gaze, pretending everything is normal. The last thing she wants is for him to see the panic in her eyes. He can never know what she’s really planning.
She lifts the glass to her lips, but her hands shake ever so slightly. She takes a slow sip, hoping it looks natural, hoping that he doesn’t notice. The taste of the wine is smooth, but there’s an underlying bitterness now, the weight of the lie she’s telling.
Rafael watches her closely, his expression unreadable. "You seem nervous," he says, almost taunting her. "Are you afraid, mi amor? Afraid to be close to me?"
Elena forces herself to hold his gaze, though her stomach twists with unease. "No," she replies, her voice steady but betraying her fear. "I’m not afraid."
The words hang in the air, but she knows they’re a lie. She’s terrified. Terrified of what he’s capable of. Terrified of what he might do if she fails tonight. But she has no choice. This is the only way out.
Rafael takes a sip of his wine, his eyes scanning her face, watching for any sign of weakness. Elena looks away, trying to hide the sudden surge of panic that threatens to rise in her chest. She needs to remain calm. She needs to stay focused.
As the minutes pass, Rafael begins to show signs of the drug’s effect. His posture slackens slightly, his movements slower, less deliberate. He puts the glass down on the table beside him with a quiet thud, his eyes beginning to droop. Elena watches him carefully, her heart pounding in her chest.
This is it. He’s almost out.
But just as she’s about to slip past him, make her way toward the door, Rafael stirs. He shifts in his seat, a slow grin spreading across his face. His eyes flicker up to meet hers, and something in his gaze makes her blood run cold.
"You think I wouldn’t see this coming?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.