Velvet bars
986 Words
Layla’s POV
I used to think I was strong.
Not in a cliché, “girlboss” kind of way — just… emotionally solid. Independent. A woman who’d built her life on her own terms. Apartment. Career. Love.
But sitting on that silk bed, barefoot and shaking in a room I didn’t choose, that confidence was gone.
Stripped away.
Just like my freedom.
Just like my voice.
The only sound in the room was the ticking of an antique clock on the wall — not fast, not slow, just steady. Like it was reminding me time still existed. Even here.
Even in this cage.
I had no idea what time it was. Morning, afternoon, maybe night again. The lights didn’t change. There were no windows.
I was in a bubble. A beautiful one, but a prison all the same.
Every inch of me ached to scream. To break something. But what would that fix? He’d be watching. I knew he was watching.
Damien Blackwood.
Even his name felt like ice in my mouth.
How could someone I didn’t remember have such power over my life?
And worse — how could my father do this to me?
I’d barely spoken to him in the last year. We’d argued too much. About my choices, about Ethan, about refusing to marry the rich CEO’s son he’d tried to push on me like I was some company merger.
But this?
Selling me off like livestock to some cold-eyed lunatic?
That was a new level of betrayal.
And Ethan…
God. Ethan.
He’d be looking for me. He had to be.
He always walked me to my car when he could. Brought me lunch when I forgot to eat. He’d been talking about moving in with me last month. We weren’t perfect, but I trusted him.
He would notice I was gone.
He’d call the cops. He’d report me missing.
Would they find this place?
Could they?
I pressed my palm to my chest and breathed deeply, trying not to spiral.
I couldn’t fall apart.
Not here. Not in front of Damien.
If I gave him panic, he’d use it. If I gave him fear, he’d twist it.
So I gave him nothing.
Not when he returned. Not when he offered food I didn’t touch. Not when he asked if I was “comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” I laughed bitterly. “Do your hostages usually get room service?”
He didn’t react. He just stared like he was studying me. Like I was a puzzle he already knew the answer to, but still enjoyed playing with.
He told me I had three days. Three days before the wedding.
As if that meant something.
As if I was going to walk down an aisle and say I do to a man who thought possession and love were the same thing.
I smiled at him sweetly and said, “Can I see the house?”
His brow twitched. “Why?”
“If I’m going to be locked up, I might as well know where I’m imprisoned.”
There was a long pause before he nodded.
“Fine. Follow me.”
And that was how I started phase one of my plan.
Observe. Learn. Find a c***k.
The mansion was bigger than I thought — old-money architecture, stone walls, spiral staircases, libraries that smelled like history and secrets. Cameras in every hallway. Armed guards at the gates.
No visible way out.
But I memorized everything. Every corner. Every hallway.
Every locked door.
One in particular.
It was different. Not polished like the others. Scratched wood. Silver handle. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
“What’s in there?” I asked, feigning boredom.
“Storage,” he answered too quickly.
Liar.
That night, after everyone else had gone still and quiet, I acted.
I pulled the hairpin from my bun and padded silently through the hallway.
The cameras were high. I kept my head down. I’d studied the blind spots.
At the door, I slipped the pin into the lock and twisted.
It took longer than I expected. But finally — click.
I slipped inside.
And stopped breathing.
Photos.
Hundreds of them.
Of me.
Pinned on boards. Stacked on shelves. Hung like memories in a room full of obsession.
Me laughing at my graduation. Me at my firm’s open house. Me at a café with Ethan, sipping coffee.
Years’ worth.
Documented. Tracked.
Watched.
I was still staring, frozen in horror, when I heard the voice behind me.
“Looking for something?”
I spun around.
Damien stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
“You’ve been watching me,” I said, voice shaking. “This is sick.”
He stepped closer. “I needed to understand you.”
“This isn’t understanding. This is stalking.”
“You changed,” he said. “You used to smile more. Laugh without watching who was listening. You were softer once.”
I backed away. “You don’t know me.”
“I remember when you did,” he said quietly. “When you said my name.”
I stared at him, stunned. “We’ve met before?”
He gave a faint nod. “Ten years ago. Your father’s gala. I was nobody. But you saw me.”
I had no memory of it.
But to him, it had clearly meant everything.
“You’re insane,” I said. “You think a smile ten years ago means you own me now?”
“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”
I wanted to slap him. I wanted to cry.
But instead, I stood tall.
“You can dress me in silk. Lock me in gold. But you will never own me.”
And then I turned and walked out of the room, leaving the photos behind.
But not the fear.
That followed me.
And it whispered:
You’re running out of time.
- Writer
