Chapter 3:Caged violet
741 Words
The next morning, Ellie Allen woke up in a bed too soft to feel safe.
Her wrists were no longer tied, but the illusion of freedom was laughable. The room around her was massive—decorated in soft creams and deep mahogany, far too elegant for someone who’d been kidnapped less than twelve hours ago.
Sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the marble floor. The walls were bare, but expensive. Everything in the room whispered wealth. Class. Control.
She stood slowly, the silk sheets falling away, and padded toward the door. Locked.
Of course.
A soft knock startled her.
Before she could answer, the door opened and two men in black suits stepped inside. Neither looked at her. One carried her duffel bag, the other a stack of folded clothes.
They dropped them near the dresser and turned to leave.
Ellie’s voice came low and bitter. “What, no chains this time?”
Neither answered. The door clicked behind them, locking once more.
She stared at her belongings—her worn jeans, her old hoodie, her kitchen knives tucked into a case like a promise.
So he really did send someone to collect her things. Her privacy, her home, what little life she had—it had all been boxed and delivered without her consent.
She was officially his property now.
No. She refused to let that word stick.
⸻
Later, another knock—this time a woman. Tall, pale, with platinum-blonde hair pulled into a bun tight enough to hurt.
“I’m Beatrice. Housekeeper. I’ve been asked to orient you.”
Ellie crossed her arms. “Does that include a map out of here?”
Beatrice’s lips barely twitched. “Breakfast is served at 8. Lunch at 1. Dinner at 7. You’ll cook for Mr. Sinclair directly—meals to be plated in the east kitchen. You will not use the main hall unless summoned. You are not to enter his study, the basement level, or the south wing. Doing so will result in punishment. Understood?”
Ellie stared. “What kind of punishment?”
Beatrice’s smile was cold. “Try me and find out.”
⸻
By midday, Ellie had been allowed to roam—sort of. A guard shadowed her, silent and distant, but always watching. She explored only what she could: the grand staircase, the endless corridors, the garden that wrapped around the house like a cage disguised in roses.
Every door she passed, she noted. Every camera in the ceiling. Every possible exit.
She wasn’t just wandering.
She was mapping.
The house was a fortress.
No—a prison dressed like a palace.
She found the east kitchen and ran her fingers over the marble countertops. State-of-the-art appliances. Everything spotless. Everything sharp.
At least here, she still had a weapon.
She opened a drawer, found the familiar weight of a chef’s knife, and gripped it tightly. One good swing. That’s all it would take if she got close enough.
But close enough to who? The guard? Salvador?
She slid the knife into her apron and kept moving.
⸻
That night, she was called to the main dining hall.
He was already there, seated at the far end of a long black-glass table. The lighting was dim, warm, too intimate for the size of the room.
She placed the plate in front of him—her best attempt at steak au poivre.
He didn’t thank her.
Didn’t comment.
Just cut a slice, chewed, and stared at her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t decided whether to solve or smash.
“You’re quiet,” he said after a long silence.
“Kidnapping tends to kill the mood.”
He smirked.
Ellie leaned in slightly, voice low. “Enjoy the meal. It’s the only thing about this situation you’ll get without a fight.”
His smile vanished. “You’ll learn, Miss Allen. It’s not about the fight. It’s about who owns the ring.”
She met his gaze and held it.
“I might be in your house, Salvador,” she said softly, “but I’m not yours. And I will find a way out.”
He tilted his head. “Good. I prefer my staff with a little bite.”
She turned on her heel and left.
But she didn’t see the way his eyes followed her.
Not with desire.
With warning.
Because Salvador Sinclair didn’t like unknowns.
And Ellie Allen had just become his biggest one.
- Writer
