Emilia
The lock clicks again.
I’m still cuffed to Vincent’s bed like some kind of kinky prisoner, seething and horny and humiliated in equal measure. My wrists ache, my dignity’s in tatters, and apparently my body missed the memo about hating him because it’s still buzzing from that kiss like I’m some desperate teenager.
He’s coming back to finish what he started. Part of me wants to murder him. The other part wants to finish it too.
Except it’s not him.
Some man I’ve never seen—tall, silent, built like a brick shithouse—walks in without making eye contact.
I freeze. The towel’s barely covering anything. My wrists are still restrained. My legs instinctively press together.
The stranger reaches for the cuffs.
“No,” I bark.
He doesn’t stop. Panic explodes in my chest. I twist hard and slam my foot into his shoulder.
“Back the fuck off!”
He staggers back, not hurt, just surprised. Hands raised like I’m the one being unreasonable.
“You don’t touch me,” I snarl. “Not without telling me who the fuck you are.”
He says nothing.
“I swear to God,” I growl, voice shaking now, “if this is some kind of sick test Vincent thinks is funny—”
When I feel the cuffs opening up I pushed the strange man off.
I storm into the hallway and immediately bumped into a chest made of steel. Vincent’s already dressed—black tactical everything, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“Answers. Now.” I plant myself directly in his line of sight.
He doesn’t even glance up. “There’s been a threat. We are leaving to somewhere safe.”
“You’re insane.” My voice climbs toward banshee territory. “What threat? You are just making that up!”
Finally, eye contact. His expression could freeze hell. “They were expecting you at Cleo’s. When you didn’t show, they adjusted.”
The words hit like ice water. “That’s—”
“Not negotiable.”
I try to argue, but there’s already an SUV waiting outside. Sleek, black, windows tinted like it’s transporting nuclear secrets instead of one pissed-off girl.
“This is kidnapping.”
Vincent meets my glare with those dark eyes that reveal absolutely nothing.
My phone gets confiscated before I can even think about texting Cleo. Vincent’s security guy—different from the bedroom ghoul—palms it like it’s evidence in a murder trial.
The drive stretches into tense, suffocating silence. City fades behind us, replaced by winding roads and ocean cliffs that look like something from a postcard designed to make you feel insignificant. I cross my arms, refuse to speak, let my heartbeat drum a steady rhythm of pure rage against my ribs.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My estate.”
Vincent’s estate appears like something from an architectural fever dream—glass and steel fortress perched on a cliff edge.
Remote doesn’t even begin to cover it. This isn’t just isolated—it’s intentional. Like he built it this far out just to keep the world at arm’s length.
Of course this is where he lives. Cold. Imposing. Controlled down to the air it exhales.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how quiet the car is, how loud my thoughts have become. I’m not being brought here as a guest. Not as a friend. Definitely not as someone he trusts.
I’m being brought here like a complication that needs locking down.
***
I’m shown to my room—luxurious in that sterile, hotel suite way. Everything’s perfect and cold. Chrome fixtures, pristine white surfaces, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the ocean like a screensaver.
There’s a locked door at the end of the main hall that draws my attention immediately. Heavy, unmarked, with the kind of lock that screams “classified.”
Vincent finds me inspecting it, naturally.
“Don’t touch that door.”
“What’s behind it?”
“It’s not for you.”
Cryptic asshole. Everything’s not for me, apparently, including basic human autonomy.
In the living room—all glass and steel like we’re living inside a very expensive prison—he lists the new rules.
No unapproved phone access. No leaving the house. Curfew at ten. Stay within camera range at all times.
He delivers them like law handed down from Mount Sinai.
I explode.
“I’m not your prisoner!”
His calm reply cuts through my rage. “You’re in danger. This isn’t about your comfort.”
That night, I pace my sterile cell until I’m dizzy. The sound of waves crashing outside only amplifies my restlessness, like nature itself is mocking my captivity.
My balcony doors are locked—of course they are—but I remember glimpsing a maintenance hatch above the side patio during our grand tour. Small, probably leads to some kind of access panel. Maybe freedom.
I grab my coat, creep down the hallway like a ninja with anger management issues. The house sleeps around me, all glass and shadows and the promise of escape.
I’m halfway through the maintenance hatch when the entire fortress erupts in sirens—blaring security alarm that splits the silence like a scream from hell.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Heavy footsteps thunder toward my room. Military-precise, terrifyingly fast.
I freeze as my door slams open with enough force to rattle the windows.