Ashley's POV:
Waking up was a lesson in agony.
Before I even opened my eyes, I was aware of the pain—a deep, throbbing, and humiliating fire that seemed to have settled into my bones. Every nerve ending felt scalded. I was lying on my stomach, and the sheets beneath me were impossibly soft, which only seemed to make the rawness of my skin feel worse.
I was alone. The room was cast in a cool, gray morning light. It was vast, silent, and unfamiliar. The ceiling was high, vaulted with dark wooden beams. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panoramic view of a dense, rain-soaked forest. A beautiful prison.
A low, raw gasp escaped me as I tried to shift. The skin across my lower back and buttocks was an agonizing heat, but a faint, cool residue coated the area. Someone had tended to my wounds while I was unconscious, and the chilling realization of that anonymous, intimate care made my stomach clench. I forced myself to sit up, my body moving with a stiffness that felt ancient.
The room was a master suite, larger than the entire downstairs of my house. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace, warding off the chill. But the room was cold. It was the cold of a museum, a place where nothing was ever touched.
I saw myself in a full-length, gold-framed mirror. My hair was a wild, matted tangle. My face was pale, my eyes hollow and swollen. And on my cheek, a faint, yellowish-purple bruise was beginning to form—a shadow of the slap that had preceded the real "lesson."
The door opened without a knock.
I flinched, pulling the silk duvet up to my chin. It was Mary, the maid. She was just as I remembered: crisp uniform, neutral expression. She pushed a silver cart into the room, laden with a basin of steaming water, fresh towels, and toiletries.
"Good morning, miss," she said, her voice quiet, betraying nothing. "Mr. Roman requested you have breakfast. He also had these sent up for you."
She gestured to a set of clothes folded neatly on a chaise lounge. Not my jeans. Not my hoodies. It was a simple, elegant cashmere dress in a pale, anonymous gray, and a set of soft slippers.
Mary set the tray on a table near the window. "Please eat and dress quickly. Mr. Roman is waiting for you in the dining hall."
She turned and left, the door clicking shut with a heavy, final sound.
He expects. The words echoed in the silence. Defiance was a luxury. A luxury that cost my father's fingers and my family's lives. The fight I'd had in the car, the fire I'd felt when I spat at him—it was all gone, burned out, leaving only cold ash.
Moving felt like tearing something. I slowly, painfully, made my way to the bathroom—a massive cavern of white marble—and showered, wincing as the warm water hit my skin. I dressed in the gray cashmere. It was soft, but it felt like a shroud.
I pulled myself upright, the cashmere scratching the cool residue on my skin. I stumbled toward the door, navigating the massive house until I found the dining hall.
It was an endless room of dark mahogany. Roman was already there, seated at the head of a massive table. He looked pristine, rested. He wore dark trousers and a perfectly pressed black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked like a man who who had spent hours breaking someone.
A separate, exquisite breakfast spread was laid out near his chair.
"There you are, my love," he said, his voice a low, smooth caress that was more unsettling than a shout. I walked to the head of the table, careful not to meet his eyes. But before I could reach the empty chair, he reached out, caught my wrist, and pulled.
"No, Ashley," he said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "You sit here."
He slapped his thigh. His expression was intense, commanding. I instinctively resisted, my feet freezing to the Persian rug. The sheer audacity of the demand—to sit on the very spot that was still raw and bruised from his hands—made a rebellious spark flare in my chest.
"But," I choked out, shaking my head.
The air in the room instantly chilled. His eyes went flat, hard, and utterly ruthless, mirroring the gaze I remembered from the passenger seat of the car just before the first slap. He didn't raise his voice. He simply tightened his grip on my wrist, his fingers digging into the sensitive tendons until the pain was a sharp, clear warning.
It was a sudden, focused pressure that snapped my attention back, sending a spike of pure, familiar terror straight to my spine. His eyes held mine, demanding compliance, reminding me of the price of defiance—my father's hand, my family's safety.
I gasped, the resistance dissolving in a wash of fear. I allowed myself to be pulled down, lowering my body with agonizing care onto his lap. The movement made me wince, and the brief, involuntary tension in my buttocks did not escape his notice.
He wrapped an arm around my waist, settling me securely against him. "Good girl," he murmured, pulling a chair out slightly with his foot and allowing the illusion of space, though I was entirely trapped. "Do you feel how quickly the suffering stops when you obey, Ashley? This is how easy it is to be safe."
He motioned to the plate. My hands trembled as I took a bite of melon. It tasted like ash, but I swallowed. I kept eating, my eyes fixed on my plate, feeling his gaze on me like a physical weight.
"Sunbeam," he murmured, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. "Last night... was necessary. You forced my hand. You must understand that. I take no pleasure in punishing you."
He said it with such conviction that a part of me, a small, terrified, broken part, almost believed him.
"You understand, don't you, moya zvezda (my star)?" he pressed.
I couldn't speak. I just nodded, my gaze dropping back to the plate.
"Look at me when I speak to you."
I flinched, my head snapping up. His eyes were intense, demanding.
"You understand that your defiance was the cause of your pain?"
"Yes," I choked out.
"And you understand that your family's safety is entirely dependent on your good behavior?"
"Yes."
"Good." He smiled then, a small, terrifyingly gentle smile. "Then that part of our relationship is finished. The 'lesson,' is over. Provided you never forget it."
He tightened his arm around me. "The call to Leo was real. The order to cancel it was real. That order can be given again, at any time. Your family is safe, so long as you are here, as my future wife."
The words ripped through the fragile dam of my composure. Future Wife. The term was not a suggestion; it was a cold, present-tense declaration of a terrifying future he had imposed through violence and threat. I felt a visceral surge of revulsion and disbelief.
"No," I whispered, the single word a trembling puff of air. I pulled my chin back, attempting to create distance. "I am not your future wife. I am not."
The temperature in the room plummeted. Roman's smile vanished, replaced by a frightening stillness. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Do you forget so quickly, Sunbeam? We just finished the lesson on what happens when try to resists. Now try accepting the term?"
He didn't hurt me. He just held me, the silence stretching into a threat far worse than any pain.
I swallowed, the word "wife" burning my throat. I had no fight left for this. "Your… captive," I choked out, offering a compromise of identity.
His expression remained unchanged. "You are not a captive. Captives can be rescued. You are mine." He pressed his fingers harder into my waist, a gentle but firm pressure. "You will be safe, so long as you accept the term. Try it again."
I stared into his eyes, seeing the full, terrifying extent of his conviction. He would not allow me to deny his reality.
"Your future wife," I mumbled, lowering my head in defeat.
He nodded once, sharp and satisfied. Then, with a possessive tenderness that felt like a violation, he lifted his free hand and began to gently rake his fingers through my tangled hair, slowly beginning to braid a section of it.
"That's much better, moya zvezda," he murmured, his voice now a deep, soothing purr, utterly at odds with the brutality of the night before. "You are my jewel, my beautiful, clever girl. And now, you're learning how important you are to me. No one else has ever understood what I need. That's why I am so obsessed over you " He worked the braid with an unexpected proficiency, his concentration absolute.
As he finished securing the braid, he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin at the back of my neck. He placed several slow, lazy kisses there, proprietary and warm, a horrifying seal on my forced compliance.
He eased his grip on my waist, the pressure replaced by the heavy, proprietary weight of his arm. He leaned his head back against the chair. He wasn't leaving yet; he was settling in, cementing his ownership over this moment, this meal, and me.
I tried to focus on the melon, but the image of his eyes—flat, demanding, utterly insane—kept superimposing itself over the pale fruit.
"Roman," I started, needing to test the boundaries of my new, compliant self. "My phone. I need to call my... I need to check in with them."
He didn't move. He simply tipped his chin down and looked at me, a lazy, dangerous smile returning. "You're concerned they'll call the police. I assure you, they won't. I've already had a discussion with your parents, Ashley. They understand the stakes." He tilted his head, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "They know you're with me. They know that as long as they stay silent and allow me to protect you, they live. It's that simple."
The knot of terror twisted into something cold and sharp: rage. He hadn't just taken me; he had infected my family with his threat, using my love for them as a permanent weapon.
"You threatened them—"
He cut off my rising protest by pressing a single finger against my lips. Not roughly, but with the weight of finality. "Ah-ah. We just went over this. The rewards of obedience. The consequences of defiance."
"There is no need for your family to speak to you directly. They will only hear distress in your voice, and that will only put them in danger. My team will send them a simple text update every twenty-four hours, using your vernacular. They are entirely safe, entirely secure." He removed his finger, leaving my lips tingling. "Your job is to make sure I don't change that arrangement."
He stood then, effortlessly lifting me up with one hand, as if I weighed nothing more than a child. He placed me on the now-empty chair, his large hands lingering on my shoulders to ensure I stayed put.
"I have business to attend to. Important matters regarding the structure of our future. You will remain here. You will eat every bite of that food. You will rest to heal your bruises"
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looked back, his gaze softening into that possessive, adoring look that I now knew was more dangerous than his rage.
"Sunbeam?"
"Yes?" I whispered, my whole body tense.
"I love you."
The words hung in the air, a grotesque mockery of everything. I froze. He waited. He was testing me, waiting for the obedience he had beaten into me. He was waiting for the lie he'd demanded last night: You will love me as I love you.
My throat closed. I couldn't.
His smile faded. "I said, I love you."
The air was sharp. The threat was unspoken. My father's broken hand. The phone call.
____________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Fresh Start (Or, How to Brunch After a Beatdown)
Well, Ashley is officially living her best life! 💅 Who needs freedom when you have cashmere, a personal maid, and a gangster braiding your hair after giving you a trauma-induced makeover?
Roman, our resident walking red flag, is back in his "caring monster" mode. He applies the healing salve and then immediately uses the literal pain points (hello, lap-sitting!) to enforce her new job description: Future Wife and Full-Time Obedient Girlfriend.
Ashley's survival strategy is now 💯 Lie and Live. She's trading her soul for her family's safety, which is basically the plot of every Hallmark movie, if the handsome lead was also a sociopath. Bon appétit! ☕
Stay safe out there! (Unlike Ashley.)
-Vaanni🖤