Debt Of Desire

Chapter4

Bella's pov

I hated this room.

Hated the silk sheets that still smelled faintly of his cologne. I hated the walk-in closet full of dresses and lingeries in my exact size— black lace, emerald silk, things I would never have chosen but fit like they have been measured off my skin. I hated the view most of all: Manhattan's glittering floor below like it was mocking me. My freedom was so close that I could taste the exhaust and hot dog steam, yet I was separated by a bulletproof glass and a biometric lock.

I crossed to the window and pressed my palm flat against the cool pane. The city pulsed— taxi bleeding red taillights, people hurrying home with paper bags and phone screens glowing. Normal people, people who aren't collateral.

My reflection stared back— pale, eyes too wide, lips swollen from biting them to keep from screaming. I looked like someone who had already lost.

No.

Not yet.

I won't give up.

I turned away from the glass and forced myself to think, I need to make my escape today. Enzo had left for ‘business’ an hour ago, he told me over breakfast casually like telling the weather. Then he kissed the top of my head before walking out. The kiss had been worse than any slap. Soft. Possessive. Like I already belong to the rhythm of his day.

I hated how much my scalp still tingled from where his lips had brushed. My hand subconsciously went to it.

No.

Focus.

You need to escape.

I'd been watching the guards for two days now. There were three regular ones: Marco ( he was broad shouldered, always chewing gum), Luca ( he was younger, fidgety and he checked his phone too often), and the quiet one whose name I didn't know but who never smiled. They rotated every four hours. Marco usually took the evening shift outside my door. Luca liked to disappear into the kitchen around ten for coffee. The quiet one was the wildcard— too still, too alert.

The service elevator was my best shot. I’d seen it yesterday when Enzo had a ‘meeting’ in the living room and the guards had been distracted long enough to slip down the hallway. It was tucked behind a laundry room. It had a keypad entry but I’d noticed Luca punching in 7-4-1-9 once when he thought no one was looking. Sloppy. Humans.

I needed something to wear that wouldn't scream ‘runaway billionaire’s captive.’ The closet offered options: plain black hoodies( it was oversized, probably one of his), dark jeans, and sneakers that fit perfectly. Of course they did. He’d thought of everything.

I dressed quickly, heart hammering so loud I was sure the guards could hear it through the door. I pulled the hood up, sleeves well tucked over my hands. I looked like any other twenty something heading out for a late walk. Except I wasn't. I was escaping from my captor.

I waited until the clock hit 10:03. Luca’s coffee run.

I cracked the door open an inch. The corridor was empty. Marco’s gum chewing had stopped five minutes ago. I slipped out, shoe silent on the marble until I reached the carpet runner. Every step felt like betrayal of my own fear, of the tiny, traitorous part of me that had almost relaxed when Enzo called me ‘good girl’ this morning.

Almost.

I hated that part most of all.

The laundry room door was unlocked. Inside smelled of detergent and warm linen. The service elevator waited at the far wall, keypad glowing softly blue. I pressed 7-4-1-9.

The keypad glowed green. A soft chime.

The doors slid open.

I stepped inside, jabbed the button for the lobby, then jabbed the close- door button a few times like it would make the ride faster. The descent was smooth, silent and endless. My reflection is the polished steel looked feral— eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, I looked like someone running for her life.

Because I was.

The lobby dinged, the doors opened into the service corridor— dim, concrete, humming with HVAC. No guards here. Just a metal door marked exit at the far end.

I ran as fast as I could like my life depended on it because it did.

Cold air hit my face when I pushed through into the alley behind the building. Trash bins and the faint stink of garbage and motor oil wafted into my nostrils. Freedom tasted like asphalt and possibility. I sprinted towards the streetlights, lungs burning, hoodie flapping. A cab idled at the curb— yellow, beautiful, salvation.

I was a few steps away from the cab when a black SUV rolled to a stop between me and the taxi.

Doors opened.

Marco. Luca. The quiet one.

They didn't shout or chase. Just stepped into my path like they have been waiting.

I skidded to a halt. Chest heaving. “Get out of my way” I said to them.

Marco shook his head almost regretfully. “The boss said you might try something like this.”

My stomach dropped.

They closed in— slowly, professionally. No roughness, just a firm grip on my arms. I trashed anyway, kicking, cursing. Luca winced when my sneaker caught his shin, but he didn't let go.

They carried me into the car and drove to the entrance of the building with me still trashing. They marched me up the elevator, down the hall to my room. The same silk sheets. The same locked door.

Only this time Enzo was waiting.

He stood in the center of the room, arms folded, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. The scar looked sharper, like it had been carved deep by anger he wasn't showing.

He was too calm for someone who is angry.

He didn't speak at first. Just watched me pant, hair wild, hoodie askew.

Then he said quietly: “ you didn't get far cara, how disappointing.”

The words landed worse than a slap, because they were true.

I lifted my chin even though my legs were shaking. “I’ll keep trying.” I said.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint cedar of his aftershave, close enough to see the pulse at the base of his throat. He was steady. Controlled. Everything that I wasn't.

“You will,” he said, “ And every time you do, the consequences will only grow.”

I swallowed. “I am not afraid of you.”

It was a lie. And we both knew it.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and then back to my eyes. “You should be.”

He reached out to me— slow, deliberate and tugged the hood off my head, his fingers brushed my cheek, lingering on the spot where tears had started to dry without my permission.

“I will give you a grace of today, but if you try to run again there will be a punishment.”

He turned and left, the door locking behind him.

I sank to the floor, back against the bed,knees to my chest.

I should have felt rage or a triumph that I had almost made it.

But instead there was something else— something small and treacherous— curling in my stomach.

Relief.

Relief that he’d come for me.

I pressed my forehead to my knees and squeezed my eyes shut.

I hated him.

I hated myself more.