Nathaniel looked down at the burner phone his fingers held.The text cut through him.> "It's time to talk."Leya.He breathed slowly, shoving back from the edge of the bar, pulling on his hair with his fingers. City lights late at night glow in front of the penthouse windows of the high-end club, but he was already lost in his head.She was not afraid.He had once appreciated that. Respect had boundaries, and Leya had gone beyond all of them.He weighed his options.> Don't pull me into this. I warned you once.I owe my family.Deleted the last two lines.Typed them back in.> You're no victim, Leya. You're a gold digger who would put glory on ashes. Your word means nothing to anyone where the Blackwoods hold court.Sent it.Cold. Done.He pushed the phone into his pocket and finished the remainder of his scotch.---Later That Night – Blackwood MansionTentative knock on Leya's apartment door. No.Not tentative at all.Barbaric.She leaped, stood up, and pinched her heart.Not Vivia
The door was shut. Leya hadn't left her bed for hours. She stayed, at first, because it hurt. Bruises take their slow journeys along her ribs, down her arms, and the numbness of her cheekbone where Harrison's ring sliced into her. But in the morning, something else it was. Hunger. No food tray gets pushed in by the maids. No water glass. No knock. No sound. Nothing but silence. And that cursed lock. She tried to talk—to scream. Her throat was dry and withered, her voice parched within it, and she let the effort fall away. Not because anyone would hear. Because they knew they wouldn't arrive. They were abandoning her to die. Not overtly. Not knives and gore. But like this—silently, dishonorably, where no one would even notice. --- Day One She had lost all sense of time. Only the pale arc of the sun and the cerulean hue of the moon's light filtering between the curtains permitted her to even guess. Aching with every little movement lay her body. But it wasn't the bru
The second night was colder than the first.Leya didn't know if it was cold or not, or if her body had just decided to quit trying to manage anything. She was mounded under blankets on the wooden floorboards, her scarf tightened around her, armory-fashion, but it wasn't even in the running for warm enough.Her lips were parched. Her skin was damp.And in the middle of her stomach—nothing.Even the pain had started to fade away.And maybe that was the most lethal splinter of all.Not the hunger. Not the punching. Not the exhaustion.But the numbness.She had started losing herself. The silence, the coldness, the knife, cutting, numbing stinging sharpness in the bones—it had started peeling off layers of self. No longer could she keep track of the days. Hadn't laughed in years. Hadn't felt sunlight on skin. Hadn't wrapped fingers around one that didn't throb to hurt her.There was only a repetition of her name in her head—Leya. Leya. Leya.She'd remind herself every now and then, just t
Day ThreeSilence fell over her like a second skin, drawn tight and stretched wide across her breast, and tauter with every cringing second. Second by miserable second, time retreated, dragging her consciousness of it with it.No longer hunger.The waiting.Waiting for the inevitable.Waiting for the next faint spurt of hope.Waiting for the door to open, to find it wouldn't.Her belly had quit pleading, asking for food. It had given up the need, the place where dwelt. No meal—no way to move, to stand up and see. She had tried once to creep, her hands trembling for every inch, but her legs went out from her, and she lay on the hardness of the ground.The pain was another kind.It didn't belong to her. Not all hers.The weight of being left behind, and seeds of doubt that had planted themselves in her. How it had led her to doubt everything she'd ever known and been of Harrison, of herself. The soft-whispered man at the door today, who had her contained in this cold room.She knew what
The voice went on. Soft. Measured. Familiar—and not. "Leya…" She winced in the darkness, her body contorting against the air. Shoving her head back, fists on the bed. No one came in. They did not knock again. They just waited. Not like Harrison. Not like Eleanor. This. this was no threat donning silence. It wasn't that. More, somehow. Doubt. She did not respond. She never blamed the voice. But she recalled—uttering them uttered them back. Clanking footsteps shattered the silence. No squeaking door creaked open. No voice answered. But something within Leya shrieked. Someone still had her name on their lips. Someone spoke it like an object. And that was an object. That was lethal. Because now she remembered why she struggled. Flashback – Weeks Ago The sun was low in the west that afternoon when Leya disembarked from the train, coat pulled tightly around her shoulders as fingers of autumn curled into its folds. The college campus stretched out before her, red-brick
The door creaked open slowly.Slow.Creaking.Intentional.Leya did not move.Not yet.She was curled tight in the bend of the bed, turned away from the door, towards the wall. She was motionless, breathing even and deep, the only sound in a room still heavy with the scent of silence and stale air.Then there were footsteps.Two sets.Heavy. Deliberate.Harrison.And—Nathaniel.She had their pace now. The way they moved. The way one moved like he owned the world and the other like he never wanted to ever hit the ground.Harrison's feet first on the ground. Closer to the center of the room.Nathaniel is close by the door.Not a sound.Leya didn't turn. She didn't even blink. She let them gawk.Let them know what they have done.She didn’t need to perform pain. It was written on her skin. It bled into the room from the pale blue under her eyes, from the sharp edge of her cheekbones, from the chapped split of her lower lip.She had wasted away beautifully.Harrison’s voice broke the sil
The sound of Leya's footsteps had echoed down the corridor for a seriously good long period since she'd gone.Neither of them stirred.Not Nathaniel.Not Harrison.Not yet.Between them was space—it was charged, a fuse waiting for a spark to light.Nathaniel was gritted, eyes on the open door, jaw so tight the muscle was shaking. Fists white on his hips, fists he didn't even realize he'd made."She's not the same," he whispered.Harrison spoke not a word.Because he knew.He saw it.It wasn't the cuts to her lip or the bruise to her cheek nor the shudder in her arms or the quiver in her voice.It was the way she walked away.As if the world beneath her weren't sufficient, naturally."She lived," Nathaniel interrupted, voice sour. "And that's going to cost us.""She was never in that bargain," Harrison paced now—furiously, agitated paces up and down along the carpet.Nathaniel grinned nastily. "And whose brilliance suggested hiding it in the safe in the study, yeah? Behind a painting l
Nathaniel closed the door, and Harrison was left standing by himself in the vacant room that had been overrun by them.He did not stir.There was a smell of rose soap that still clung to the air with an unforgiving hold.It was not her fragrance that lingered, however.It was her silence.She never pleaded.She never cried.She never even regarded him as a man.She left him in the sunlight.And did not mind if she might as well murder him. But at least.There was a fist on either side of him.Harrison Blackwood, for the first time in his life, did not have that feeling of the presence of a hunter in the room.He did have the feeling of the quarry.---Meanwhile – East Wing, Vivian's Private Sitting RoomThe drapes were drawn. The fire was burning low. And the brandy in Vivian Blackwood's snifter was older than most of the servants.She stood at the mantelpiece, stiff as a cathedral.Eleanor sat across from her, still on the velvet chaise—cross-legged, unspotted, like an over-indulged
The Morning After — Blackwood Mansion Grounds The sun tried but failed to cut through the clouds that morning, its beam yellow and subdued, as though cautioned not to burn too bright on this planet. Fog curled over the lawn in a pall, low-floating and enigmatic, over statues and fountains set out singly along the paths of the garden like forsaken memories. Leya lay among the roses, elbows resting in the soil. Not digging. Just. Being. Cold earth concentrated her. Silence gave room for thought. She'd fought to stay alive for three weeks—now she could build something out of sparks. She wasn't naive enough to hope to leave this house unscathed right off the bat. No, if she were going to break out of this house alive—really alive—then she must wait. Wait and demonstrate. And fangs. The chill seeped into the sleeves and the ends of her fingers. She did not crash to the floor, though. Not when she heard Eleanor's gentle laughter outside the west windows. Not when she caught H
Morning came—but nothing was new. The sun struggled weakly through the curtains, filtering down to stone floors still holding remnants of the shadows cast last night. In a house like the Blackwood mansion, nothing ever really changed. Walls didn't merely hold people—They held silence, secrets, and sins. But deep within those walls, everything changed. Something had broken. Something was going to be born. West Wing Lounge – 7:00 A.M. Harrison stood before the fireplace, arms folded on his chest, watching ashes dance as dying suns. He had not slept. He did not need to. The buzz of breakfast cooking was from far down the halls, but where he sat in silence with worry. The door opened without apology. Nathaniel stood, coat still on, face unyielding. He shut the door, movements too planned, too measured. "You were with her," Harrison accused, not even bothering to turn around. Nathaniel was silent. There was no use for him to do anything else. "She's manipulating you," Harrison
The mansion fell softly again. Tonight, silence did not frighten Leya. Tonight, permission was the formality. She dressed with purpose—not out of fear, but because she knew details were essential. Black pants. Pullover pushed high. Topcoat light for the part of the night but precisely what the message required. Not hiding. Not running. Walking proudly as if this world belonged to her at her feet. The burner phone rang again. Nathaniel: Back gate to the yard. Ten minutes. Nobody in sight. Leya stuffed the phone into her jacket pocket, smoothed her hair again, and stood before the mirror. "Back" just managed to squeeze out the word. She didn't look like the captive girl Harrison had held. She looked like something born of agony. The bruises remained—the pale yellow and blue smudges across the curve of her ribs, her collarbone, and jaw. No longer embarrassed. They were proof. Proof. She survived. She floated. Down. The. Hall. Bare feet silent. The east wing. Empty. Even
The whisper had stopped. But the silence that followed wasn't silence. It was charged. With purpose. With intent. Leya did not lie well once the voice had stopped—her body outstretched on the bed, back tense against the headboard, every hair on her arms bristling not due to fear, but due to awareness. Not every step is a threat. But there are warnings. And the one that had named her tonight. It hadn't been trying to scare her. It had been trying to communicate something. That she was still being watched. And perhaps—perhaps—that someone still cared that she was worth at least something. That cut deeper at her chest than splintered ribs. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, seething an angry glare at where the door had existed once in the darkness. Someone had whispered her name as if it still held meaning. And that was what disturbed her most. Because it meant there was someone in this house who still thought she was worth whispering about. And that? That m
The voice continued. Soft. Tuned. Familiar—and otherwise. "Leya…" A breath—neither cold nor warm. Did not command, did not scold. Was. Like a stretched bowstring pulled taut behind her at her back. She blinked, sight blurring through fever and weariness, but her backbone firmed—beneath, a little. Her fingers clenched into a blanket on her lap, fine cloth now armor, her foothold in the world. > Who was it? They didn't knock the second time. Didn't stir. I just stood there long enough for her to regain her breath. Long enough for her to realize this hadn't been a mistake. And then, nothing. A withdrawal in silence. The steps light. Stealthy. Commanding. No squeak of the door. No sound of retreating feet. But the tension beyond had changed. As if something had looked at her. Listened to her. Comprehended her. And that had scared her. Not because it had threatened. But because it hadn't. Because for the first time in what had seemed like forever… Someone had said her
Nathaniel was awake. Not that night. After he'd left Leya at the mansion, her silence armor, he'd headed to the east wing. Where the paintings were, where the button-down-bloke blokes with dead eyes in frames—false gods in frames. He didn't switch on the hall light. Didn't switch it on. The weight of her words fell behind him like footprints. I don't need saving, Nathaniel. I need respect. He stood beside the bed, suit jacket still buttoned, tie open but not yet undone. He gazed at the floor for what had to be minutes or maybe hours. He imagined Leya's bruised cheek. Imagine her shaking hands from exhaustion. Recall her eyes—not wide with terror, but level with fire. If she was a fake, then she was the family's finest work. But in a part of him, he knew she wasn't. Still… in the Blackwood house, believing wasn’t enough. You had to be certain. --- The Next Morning – Nathaniel’s Study The morning sun didn’t warm him. He made the call anyway. “St. Delacroix University,
The alley reeked of desperation and stale beer. Leya's shift had run past closing time—again. The night had crawled, but Reed had stayed with her an hour past closing to clean up a spilled drink and split tips. She didn't mind. The more hours she worked, the less she was herself. As if she were somebody else. Somebody free. Somebody who didn't owe the Blackwoods. And then the bar door slammed shut behind her and she was alone in the dark. Zipper up as far as it would go around her neck, purse on her shoulder, and still buzzing hands against sock lining—where tip envelope folded back warm along her ankle. One block down. Just one. Then— A scrape. Heavy feet, too heavy to be mistaken. She shook her head over it, looking back over her shoulder. Two black figures. Too close. Too close by design. Her heartbeat came a little quicker. Muttered voice in the distance. "Hey now… what's a fine-looking girl like you doing way out here by herself?" She stood for military attenti
The voice remained on.Low. Controlled. Familiar—and not."Leya…"A murmur—icy or gentle, neither. A sound that did not request requested not. It remained just so without her leave. Like a thread pulling at her beyond the door just so.Her own eyes dim with fever and exhaustion, she blinked, but sat up a little more in her backroom bed—a little.Her fists clenched in the blanket spread over her lap, thin blanket now buckler, a lifeline to something sacrosanct.> Who was it?They did not knock again.Didn't move.Stand there, long enough for her to catch her breath. Long enough for her to get a grip on this wasn't an accident.And then, nothing.Silent retreat.The footsteps were careful. Light. Measured.No creak of any door. No patter of feet.But tension at the table had changed.As if whatever had been listening to her.Had seen her.Had known her.-----And that was scaring her.Not by threat of harm which it had seemed to do before.But because it wasn't there.Because for the fi
The house slept. That deep, heavy sleep money buys. No bedlam. No alarms. But only endless corridors with silent sconces and floors that shone without a creak. Leya was rigid in the center of her bedroom. She spent there once a minute or two—or so—rigid, inaccessible, just staring at the spread on her bed. Same hoodie. Same jeans. The same black sneakers that never creaked on marble. Her ritual. Her uniform for the other existence. The one she had. --- Getting Ready Slid out of her silk nightgown and into jeans with the knees worn soft at the frayed hems. Pulled the hoodie over her battered shoulders. Tied back her hair in a tight braid. Stuffed the crumpled money into her sock—never her purse. The purse got grabbed. She'd learned that. And she looked in the mirror. No makeup. No perfume. No hint of the woman Harrison used to know. A face carved out of determination. Eyes that wouldn't blink. She stuffed the pocket knife into her sleeve and closed the drawer. Just in c