Chapter Four: The Rules of the Game
904 Words
Aria didn’t sleep.
She sat curled in the corner of the massive bedroom, the red dress wrinkled and forgotten on the floor, her knees hugged to her chest as she stared out the window. The city lights blinked in the distance like indifferent stars.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lucien’s face—his calm, his confidence. The way he kissed her, like he was writing a prophecy into her skin.
And worse: the way she kissed him back.
Her fingers clenched tighter around her legs. That wasn’t me. That was adrenaline. Confusion. Shock. She wouldn’t let him play her like that. She wouldn’t let herself be rewritten into something that desired a man like him.
The door opened.
She jolted, pulse quickening.
But it wasn’t Lucien.
A woman entered instead—tall, graceful, dressed in black with platinum hair pulled into a sleek knot. She carried a small black box.
“I’m Elira,” she said, voice smooth with a faint Eastern European accent. “I work for Mr. Rivas. He asked me to deliver this.”
Aria didn’t move.
Elira set the box on the edge of the bed. “He said to tell you that you may explore the house. The cuff will remain off—unless you break the rules.”
“What rules?” Aria’s voice was hoarse from hours of silence.
“Don’t leave the grounds. Don’t touch the safes. Don’t call for help.”
“That’s not freedom.”
“It’s the illusion of it,” Elira replied with a tight smile. “It’s what you’ve earned.”
Aria rose slowly, the ache of restraint still in her muscles. “And the box?”
Elira’s smile faded. “He said you should choose whether to open it.”
And then she was gone.
Aria stared at the box for a long time.
She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him. But curiosity was a dangerous thing—and it had already dragged her this far.
She opened the lid.
Inside: a sleek leather journal, embossed with gold initials—A.V. Her initials.
Below it, a fountain pen. Black and silver. Heavy. Elegant.
And a single note:
If you must have control, take it where you can. Write. Tell your truth. But you will show me every word.
—L.R.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the pen. The pages inside the journal were blank—waiting. Daring.
She closed the lid sharply and shoved it back.
No.
She wouldn’t play his game. She wouldn’t bare her thoughts for his amusement. He didn’t deserve access to her mind.
But hours passed. The sun rose higher. The silence grew louder.
And the pen sat on the desk like a loaded gun.
---
She didn’t open the journal until the second night.
Not out of surrender—but survival.
There was no television. No phone. No internet. The books in the room were all in French and Latin, as if he’d picked them specifically to frustrate her.
She sat at the desk in a plain cotton robe, hair still damp from a shower, and opened the journal to the first page.
Day One.
I don’t know what you want from me, Lucien. But I know what I want from you: the truth. Not your theatrics. Not your seduction. Just the truth. Who are you when you’re not playing god? Who are you when no one’s watching?
She paused.
Then added:
And why do I feel like you already know who I am better than I know myself?
---
The next morning, the journal was gone.
She hadn’t heard anyone enter the room.
But on the desk, in its place, was a reply.
A single page. Typed. Precise.
Truth is rarely pure, and never simple. But if you want pieces of mine, you’ll have to give me pieces of yours. You see, Aria—I’m not trying to own you. I’m trying to unmake you. So I can watch what you become.
—L
---
By the end of the week, she had four entries. And each time, he left a reply.
Sometimes it was a single line. Sometimes a full paragraph. His words were never crude, never demanding. But they circled her mind like smoke—quiet, slow, suffocating.
He didn’t touch her again. Didn’t kiss her. He kept his distance.
But his words were in her bloodstream now.
Worse than his touch.
She began to explore the house—three floors, silent halls, luxury laced with shadows. Cameras followed her. She found no phones, no exits that weren’t guarded.
But the library…
The library was her escape.
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and in one corner: a leather chair, worn and inviting. She spent hours there, curled under a blanket, pretending she wasn’t a captive. Pretending this was all a dream.
Until she felt his eyes on her.
Lucien didn’t speak when he found her in the library one night. He stood in the doorway, watching. She felt it before she saw him—the heat of his presence.
“You read like you’re starving,” he said softly.
She didn’t look up. “And you watch like you’re hunting.”
A long silence.
Then, footsteps. Closer.
But he didn’t come near.
He simply said, “Goodnight, Aria.”
And left.
And that, somehow, was worse than if he’d tried to touch her.
- Writer
