Time had lost its shape. It existed only as a heavy, suffocating blanket that wrapped around Elena's mind, pulling her down into a dreamless void. There was no pain, no fear vast and empty grayness.
Then, slowly, sensation began to bleed back into the world.
The first thing she noticed was the texture beneath her fingertips: smooth, cool, and impossibly soft, like water woven into fabric. Silk. She was lying on silk sheets.
Elena forced her eyes open. Her eyelids felt weighted with lead. The room's light was dim, filtering through heavy velvet curtains drawn shut.
She blinked, trying to clear the fog from her vision. The ceiling above was high, adorned with intricate plaster moldings that swirled in floral patterns. A crystal chandelier, unlit, hung from the center like a dormant frozen star.
This was not her apartment. Her apartment's ceiling had water stains and peeling paint.
This was not the warehouse. The warehouse had exposed beams and industrial lights.
Memory crashed into her like a physical blow: the debt, the sale, the car ride, the dog, the needle.
Elena sat up with a gasp.
The sudden movement made the room spin violently. Bile rose in her throat. She clutched her head, waiting for the vertigo to pass. The sedative—they had drugged her.
She looked down at herself.
A cold chill, unrelated to the temperature, swept over her skin. Her wet, paint-stained T-shirt and torn jeans were gone.
In their place was a nightgown: pale ivory, made of the same slippery silk as the sheets. Delicate, with thin straps and lace detailing across the bodice. Beautiful and it made her want to scream.
Someone had undressed her while she was unconscious.
She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet sinking into plush carpet thicker than any blanket she'd ever owned. Her legs were shaky, like a newborn colt's, but panic lent her strength.
She surveyed the room. It was massive and large than her entire apartment. A dark marble fireplace occupied one wall, cold and empty. A vanity table, stocked with expensive perfumes and creams, stood near the bathroom door. A cherry-wood wardrobe loomed in the corner.
A bedroom fit for a princess, yet the air carried the undeniable weight of a dungeon.
Elena stumbled to the door. She knew it would be locked, but she had to try. She grasped the heavy brass handle and twisted.
It didn't budge.
She rattled it, pulling with all her weight.
"Open it!" she screamed, her voice raspy and dry. "Let me out!"
Silence answered. The solid oak door was thick enough to muffle her cries.
She turned and rushed to the window, yanking back the heavy velvet curtains.
Daylight greeted her. The storm had passed, leaving the sky bruised purple and gray. She peered down.
Her room was on the second or perhaps third floor. Below, a manicured lawn stretched to a high stone wall encircling the estate. The drop was sheer at least thirty feet to the stone patio.
And there were the dogs.
Two black Dobermans with cropped ears patrolled the patio's perimeter. They glanced up as the curtain moved, ears twitching. They didn't bark. They simply watched.
Elena stepped back, letting the curtain fall.
She was trapped.
Hugging her arms around her chest, she felt the exposed skin. Violated. Stripped, washed, and dressed like a doll for someone else's amusement.
She limped to the bathroom. Her leg throbbed dully. Glancing down, she saw fresh bandages: clean white gauze, neatly secured with medical tape. Even her wound was managed and controlled.
The bathroom was a lavish expanse of white marble and gold fixtures. A massive soaking tub dominated the center. Above the sink hung a large mirror.
Elena stared at her reflection.
She looked like a ghost: skin pale, almost translucent; dark hair tangled around her shoulders; eyes wide and shadowed with exhaustion.
Gripping the sink's edge, she met her own gaze.
"You are Elena Rossi," she whispered to the reflection. "You are an artist. You are not a thing."
She splashed cold water on her face, chasing away the sedative's lingering haze. She needed a weapon. A plan.
Opening the vanity drawers revealed cotton balls, Q-tips, expensive moisturizers. Nothing sharp—no scissors, no nail file. Even razors had been removed.
A sanitized cell.
Returning to the bedroom, her eyes fell on a heavy crystal vase on the mantel, filled with fresh white roses.
She dumped the flowers onto the floor and seized the vase. Heavy, its cut ridges sharp. Not a gun, but enough to crack a skull if swung hard.
Retreating to the far corner behind the bed, she crouched, back against the wall, clutching it to her chest.
She waited.
Minutes stretched into hours. Her stomach growled, a painful reminder she hadn't eaten since yesterday. Thirst clawed her throat.
Finally, the lock clicked.
Elena tensed, fingers cramping around the vase.
The handle turned. The heavy door swung inward.
Dante Rossi entered.
He'd changed: dark slacks and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. More casual, yet no less dangerous. Tattoos covered his forearms—intricate dark ink that seemed to shift as his muscles flexed.
In one hand, he carried a silver tray with a plate of food and a glass of water.
He kicked the door shut behind him.
Scanning the room, he noted the empty bed, the askew curtains, the scattered roses.
His gaze settled on her hiding spot.
He didn't look surprised, only tired.
"You are awake," he said, voice flat.
Elena didn't respond. She raised the vase, ready to strike.
Dante sighed. He set the tray on a small round table near the window. The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary wafted across the room, making Elena's mouth water despite herself.
"Put the vase down, Elena," he said. "You look ridiculous."
"I will smash your head in," she hissed.
A faint smirk touched his lips as he turned to her.
"With that? You can barely lift it. The sedative lingers and your coordination is impaired."
He stepped closer.
"Stay back!" she warned, raising the vase higher.
Dante ignored her, advancing slowly, deliberately like approaching a frightened, cornered animal.
"You need to eat," he said. "You are too thin."
"I won't eat your food," she spat. "You probably drugged it too."
"If I wanted you drugged, I'd have kept you under for a week," Dante replied. "I prefer you awake. It's more interesting."
He stopped three feet away.
"Give me the vase."
"No."
Dante moved.
A blur. Before she could swing, his hand clamped her wrist—not breaking bone, but pressing a nerve that forced her fingers open.
Elena gasped as the vase slipped.
Dante caught it inches from the floor.
Straightening, he held it casually, glancing from it to her.
"Reflexes," he noted. "We'll work on yours."
He returned to the mantel, setting the vase down gently, then gathered the roses and rearranged them with unexpected delicacy.
"Sit at the table," he ordered.
Elena remained in her corner, rubbing her wrist. "I would rather starve."
The amusement faded from his face; steel returned to his eyes.
"I am not asking, Elena. I am telling you: sit at the table."
His command carried a weight that pressed on her chest—the voice of a man accustomed to instant obedience.
Elena rose slowly, legs trembling. She crossed to the table and sat, eyes locked on him.
Dante took the opposite chair and slid the plate toward her.
"Eat."
She stared at the food: roasted chicken, potatoes, green beans. Home-cooked. Normal. Terrifying in its ordinariness.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, voice cracking. "Why not just take the money from my father? Why me?"
Dante poured water from a pitcher, sipping before answering.
"Your father had no money, Elena, you know that. Men like Marco never learn. Forgive him once, and he'd gamble again tomorrow. He needs to understand debt isn't a game."
"So you punish me?" she demanded. "To teach him a lesson?"
His gaze intensified.
"No. I took you because you were the only thing of value he had. And because..."
He trailed off, eyes darkening as they traced her face.
"Because what?" she pressed.
"Because I need a wife," he said simply.
Elena choked. The room tilted.
"A wife?" she repeated, horrified. "You want to marry me?"
Dante laughed—a cold, sharp sound.
"Don't flatter yourself. I need an image. A public partner. The Commission pressures me to settle; they see a lone Don as unstable."
He forked a potato from her plate.
"Young, clean record, pretty enough once fed properly. You fit."
He extended the fork.
"Open."
Elena turned away, lips sealed.
Dante sighed, dropping the fork with a clatter.
Leaning forward, elbows on the table:
"You are making this difficult," he said softly. "I don't like difficult things."
"I want to go home," she whispered. "Please. I won't tell anyone. I'll disappear."
He shook his head.
"You don't understand. Your home is gone, apartment vacated, landlord paid to forget you, art school notified of withdrawal."
Her face drained of color. "No... you can't..."
"You no longer exist out there," Dante said ruthlessly. "You're a ghost. You exist only here."
He rose and gazed out the window at the gray sky.
"Two choices: accept this. Eat, read, paint. Live comfortably. Or..."
He turned.
"...fight. Starve. Escape."
"I will fight you," she vowed. "Until I die."
His expression hardened. He loomed over her.
"Then let me clarify the stakes."
From his pocket, he drew a smartphone, tapped the screen, and showed her.
A live feed: a dingy concrete cell, a thin mattress in the corner where an older man slept—gray hair disheveled, clad in a gray jumpsuit.
"Dad," Elena breathed.
"He's not in a hotel," Dante whispered lethally. "One of my underground facilities. Soundproof. Lonely."
She reached for the phone; he withdrew it.
"Behave here, eat, comply and Marco is safe. Meals, television, life."
Leaning close:
"But run, refuse food, disrespect me..."
He killed the feed.
"...and Marco pays."
Elena stared at the blank screen. Horror washed over her, colder than rain.
He wasn't merely her captor but he held her father's life, weaponizing her deepest vulnerability.
"You are a monster," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Dante pocketed the phone.
"I am a businessman, Elena. I protect my investments."
He pointed to the plate.
"Now, eat."
She eyed the chicken, nausea rising. Her heart squeezed in a vise. But her father's image burned.
Starve, and he suffered.
Trembling, she took the fork—heavy as lead.
She speared a potato, brought it to her lips.
Bit. It tasted like ash.
Dante watched her chew, swallow.
"Good girl," he said softly.
He stroked her hair. She flinched but held still as she couldn't risk more.
"See?" he murmured. "Obedience isn't so hard."
He walked to the door.
"Finish the plate," he commanded. "Maria collects the tray in an hour. If it's not empty, I'll call the facility."
He opened the door.
Elena sat, fork in hand, tears staining silk.
One last glance back:
"Sleep well, Elena. Tomorrow, your training begins."
He exited.
The door slammed.
The lock clicked.
She was alone.
This time, no screams, no vase hurled, no dash to the window.
She sat in silence, forcing down food that tasted of surrender and realizing her cage wasn't stone or iron.
It was fear.
And fear had no key.