What he sees in you

Sherry sat at the edge of the plush leather couch in the room, her fingers tracing the seams of high end fashioned clothes nervously. The lavish, dimly lit penthouse she now found herself in was a far cry from her old life, and every opulent detail seemed to scream that she didn’t belong. A sudden chill ran down her spine when she remembered the list of rules Dallion had recited before locking her in that cold, isolated room for hours.

“Don’t leave the room. Don’t eat anything except what Butler Nickson gives you. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t touch anything. Don’t even think about running away. You’re mine, and you’ll listen only to me.”

So many don’ts. She’d already broken two. Would Dallion find out? Could she claim it was Lady Grace who brought her out, leaving her with no choice?

The woman in question stood by the window, her silhouette illuminated by the city lights reflecting through the glass. Sherry couldn’t shake the feeling that getting out of that room was a mistake. Dallion’s unpredictability unnerved her—one moment he’d been threatening her life back at Madam Cross’s mansion, the next, he was letting her walk around his penthouse. Well, after locking her away in that room, of course.

“You seem like you’ve got something on your mind,” Grace’s voice pulled Sherry from her thoughts. The woman turned, a soft smile playing on her lips, her elegant presence almost disarming.

Sherry shook her head quickly. “It’s nothing, ma’am. I just—thank you for getting me out of that room.”

Grace chuckled, brushing her manicured fingers through her soft brown curls. “Trust me, darling. I’d never leave you in there. My brother’s a bit...extreme, but he won’t hurt you.” She walked over to a large, ancient-looking trunk in the corner, its presence seemed out of place in the otherwise modern setting. “I have a theory, you know.”

Sherry arched a brow as she dipped a cloth into the bucket of water beside her. She wasn’t a maid, but helping Grace clean up felt like the least she could do. The trunk had deep scratches on the floor beneath it, as if it had been dragged recently.

“A theory about what?”

Grace’s hand hovered over the trunk before wiping away the dust with a delicate swipe. “About Dallion. He wasn’t always this cold, you know.” The trunk opened with a creak, revealing items Sherry couldn’t make sense of—odd objects that looked out of place in such a luxurious space.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Sherry admitted, still glancing over her shoulder as if Dallion might appear at any moment, his dark presence filling the room.

Grace reached into the trunk and pulled out something that looked like an ancient relic—a twisted, weathered stick. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, rubbing two sticks together until a red ember sparked between them. Sherry’s eyes widened at the sight, a flicker of something dangerous in the air.

“That’s…what is that?”

“Not something you’d expect a mafia princess like me to be handling, is it?” Grace teased, her smile both innocent and unnerving. “This wood—let’s just say it’s a reminder of a different world, one where power doesn’t come from money or fear, but something darker.”

Sherry swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the eerie glow of the stick. It felt wrong, like she was glimpsing into something she had no business seeing.

“My father hated this stuff. Wanted it all gone, burned.” Grace’s eyes glittered as she spoke, “But Dallion...he’s different. He likes to keep things around that should be buried deep. He doesn’t let anyone up here—except you, apparently.”

Sherry’s stomach churned. Was she in danger? Grace seemed kind, gentle even, but there was a coldness behind her eyes that matched Dallion’s. It was unsettling how alike the two were, despite the sister’s soft-spoken demeanor.

“You’re probably wondering why Dallion keeps you around,” Grace continued, her voice a gentle lilt that only made Sherry more uneasy. “He despises weakness, especially in captives.”

Sherry’s breath caught at the word—captive. It was true, Dallion had bought her at the black market auction, but she hadn’t heard anyone else refer to her like that since. Grace said it so easily, with no malice, just fact.

“I don’t know what he sees in you,” Grace went on, “but I wouldn’t test him if I were you. He doesn’t have patience for rule-breakers.”

Sherry shuddered at the thought. She’d already pushed her luck by leaving the room. Her mind drifted back to the woman she’d seen burned in the square back in her hometown—someone who had defied the order, the same way Sherry was now. The memory of the flames still haunted her, a constant reminder of what happens when people in power decide your fate.

Grace noticed the shift in her expression and smiled, a small, unreadable curve of her lips. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? The way we handle traitors, rule-breakers. But you…you don’t strike me as a rebel. More like a survivor.”

“Is that what you think?” Sherry asked quietly, wringing out the cloth in her hands. Her heart pounded in her chest as she glanced toward the door, wondering if Dallion would storm in at any moment.

“Survivor, yes.” Grace tilted her head, studying her as though trying to decipher a puzzle. “But there’s something else about you. Something Dallion hasn’t quite figured out yet.”

Sherry looked away, her hands shaking as she tried to keep herself from completely unraveling. Grace’s kindness had a sharp edge, one that made her more dangerous than she appeared.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” Sherry murmured, eyes darting to the door, wondering how much longer she had before everything went wrong.

And somehow, Grace’s smile only grew.