Hope in hostility
977 Words
Layla’s POV
He wanted me to think this was about love.
He wanted me to believe he was just some broken man, obsessed with a woman he couldn’t have.
But I wasn’t an i***t.
This wasn’t about me. Not really.
It was about my father.
And Damien Blackwood wanted him to suffer.
The problem? My father didn’t care about me. He’d signed my life away like a business deal, like I was part of some debt he needed to clear. He probably hadn’t lost a single hour of sleep since I vanished.
So Damien’s entire revenge plan? It didn’t even touch the man it was meant for.
It was touching me.
And I refused to be the collateral damage in someone else’s war.
I stared at my reflection in the massive mirror of the guest bathroom — or prison bathroom, really — and tried to steady my breathing.
Three days.
That’s how long I had until the wedding he was planning. The one I was supposed to show up for in a gown I didn’t choose, with vows I didn’t write, to a man I didn’t love.
I gripped the counter until my knuckles turned white.
I couldn’t afford to panic anymore.
Panic hadn’t saved me in the parking garage. Panic hadn’t gotten me out of this estate. Panic didn’t keep me safe from the storm that was Damien Blackwood.
So I let the fear settle deep inside, quiet and cold. Like armor.
I washed my face. Tied up my hair. Straightened my spine.
And walked out like I was ready to meet my captor for tea.
He was in the library, because of course he was. Damien had that air about him — dark, brooding, rich, and far too educated for someone so completely unhinged.
He looked up from a book when I entered.
“You’re out of your room,” he said.
“I’m not going to stay locked in like some tragic heroine,” I replied flatly. “Besides, I’m getting used to your hallways.”
That made him smile, like we were flirting. Like this was a game.
“You’re adapting,” he said. “Good. You’ll need that strength.”
“Let’s stop pretending I’m adapting to a marriage. I’m surviving a kidnapping.”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “And yet, you’re here. Not chained. Not drugged. Not silenced.”
“Don’t act noble, Damien. This is still a cage, even if you lined it with gold.”
He watched me for a long moment, then closed his book slowly.
“You think I wanted this?” he asked. “You think I enjoyed pulling you out of your life?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes.”
A flicker of something passed behind his eyes — guilt? Or maybe frustration that I saw through him.
“I wanted your father to feel what I felt,” he said at last. “To watch his legacy fall apart the way mine did. To lose something he loved.”
“Then you picked the wrong girl,” I snapped. “Because he doesn’t love me.”
Silence.
It hit him harder than I thought it would.
He stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned against it, arms folded.
“You think I don’t know that?” he said. “You think I didn’t see it in every picture, every interview, every interaction between you two?”
“Then why take me?”
“Because you were the only thing he could lose.”
I swallowed, the words sticking in my throat. “Well, congratulations. He won’t come for me. But someone else will.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
Damien’s eyes darkened. “I know about Ethan.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “You’ve watched everything, haven’t you? Every detail. Every kiss. Every conversation.”
His jaw clenched.
“He loves me,” I said, and I meant it. “He’s probably out there right now, tearing the world apart looking for me.”
“You think that matters?” he snapped. “Do you think love wins in this world, Layla?”
I stepped forward, slow and careful. “No. But it survives.”
His expression faltered.
And for the first time, I saw it — not the anger. Not the power. But the fear.
He wasn’t afraid of Ethan.
He was afraid of what Ethan represented.
That there might be something in my heart that Damien could never reach. Never own. Never corrupt.
Later that evening, he brought me dinner.
He didn’t speak much. Just set the tray down, eyes flickering across my face like he was looking for something — fear, maybe. Or surrender.
He wouldn’t find either.
The moment he left and the door clicked shut behind him, I exhaled and slid the tray aside untouched. I wasn’t hungry. I was ready.
I pulled the bedsheet off the mattress and tore a strip from the hem with my teeth and hands. My fingers moved on instinct — like the part of me that still believed in survival had finally woken up.
These days, I’d been quiet. Watching. Learning.
Now it was my turn.
I mapped the blind spots in the hallway. Counted every guard rotation. Noted every second Damien’s study door stayed cracked when he went to pour himself another drink.
The man may have studied my life — butwhat Damien didn’t know was that I’d been learning, too.
Every hallway. Every camera angle. Every key he left lying on a desk when he thought I wasn’t watching.
And I’ll make sure Damien Blackwood remembers exactly what it feels like to lose everything he thought he controlled.
I was done being the victim in his story.
It was time to write my own.
- Writer
