4.1: My Room has a panic button
1041 Words
“Wow. Marriage is such a blessing.” With heavy steps, I reached for the door and unlocked it.
And I regretted opening that door.
Because there he was—Dark Demetrecov Mathially in all his early morning, freshly-woken-up, reality-warping glory.
Unfair.
His hair was a tousled masterpiece, strands rebelliously falling over his forehead like they were hand-placed by Aphrodite herself.
A little messy. A little damp.
The kind of mess that whispered, I slept well because I have no conscience.
And his eyes—God help me—they weren’t just eyes. They were sleepy, half-lidded storm clouds.
Still warm from sleep, rimmed with that lazy male sensuality that made me want to either slap him or write a poem about it.
Or both.
He looked like sin wrapped in silk.
Barefoot, of course, with a black robe hanging loose over a body that clearly hadn’t skipped any gym day in his entire life.
And that robe? Barely tied. Like he wanted me to struggle. Like he knew.
“I brought tea.”
And I regretted opening that door.
Because there he was—Dark Demetrecov Mathially in all his early morning, freshly-woken-up, reality-warping glory.
Unfair.
His hair was a tousled masterpiece, strands rebelliously falling over his forehead like they were hand-placed by Aphrodite herself.
A little messy.
A little damp.
The kind of mess that whispered, I slept well because I have no conscience.
And his eyes—God help me—they weren’t just eyes.
They were sleepy, half-lidded storm clouds.
Still warm from sleep, rimmed with that lazy male sensuality that made me want to either slap him or write a poem about it.
Or both.
He looked like sin wrapped in silk.
Barefoot, of course, with a black robe hanging loose over a body that clearly hadn’t skipped any gym day in his entire life.
And that robe? Barely tied. Like he wanted me to struggle.
Like he knew.
I glare at the door. “If it’s peach, I’m throwing it at your face.”
Pause. Then.. and then… he smiled.
“…It’s chamomile.”
That lopsided, evil little grin that once stole my reason, my virginity, and my favorite papaya.
His dimple showed up to say hello, like it had a personal vendetta against my peace of mind.
He lifts the tray slightly. “Didn’t think you’d drink it. But I figured I owed you something.”
I stare at the cup. Then at him.
“Wow,” I muttered, blinking too fast, “marriage is such a blessing.”
But what I really meant was…
How dare you look this good at 7 A.M.?
How dare you look at me like you still remember the shape of my thighs?
And how dare my knees… agree with you?
I backed up like a woman betrayed by her own hormones.
Because I was.
I was betrayed by every cell in my traitorous body.
Especially the ones that fluttered in my stomach and whispered, Maybe let him in.
Maybe see what happens.
Then sigh. “Leave it by the door. Thanks.” And tried—tried—not to look at his collarbone again.
Before I could close the door, I heard him softly chuckle.
I waited for a couple of minutes before opening the door once again.
I looked side by side like a promoted ninja, confirming the devil is not around.
Now I’m holding this stupid porcelain cup like it means something, and trying to ignore how his voice keeps echoing in my ears, soft and calm, like he wasn’t just the reason I’m spiraling.
I pace.
Then I sit on the bed.
Then I roll off the bed and lie on the floor because the tiles here are heated and I need a dramatic location to host my breakdown.
The silence in the room is thick.
Almost like it’s listening.
I glance back at the panic button.
It’s glowing again. Just faintly. Like it knows.
Like it’s daring me.
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter.
It doesn’t respond.
An hour later, I’m wearing a pair of satin pajamas I found in the closet, tag still on, of course, hair in a messy bun, and I’ve fully accepted that I now live in a mansion-sized hostage situation with excellent interior design.
Out of boredom—and possibly rage—I decide to explore the suite.
The walk-in closet? Bigger than my apartment. It has a rotating shoe rack.
For what?
The Met Gala?
The bathroom? Don’t even get me started. It has an automatic tub that fills to your preferred temperature when you say, “Relaxation Mode.”
I tried it by accident. Almost drowned in rose-scented bubbles.
Then I found it.
A door I didn’t notice before.
Not because it was hidden—but because this place has so many doors I might as well be in a Scooby-Doo episode.
This one is labeled, “PRIVATE ACCESS. Authorized Entry Only.”
My curiosity says do it.
My common sense says it’s probably booby-trapped.
So obviously, I opened it.
It leads to… another hallway.
Narrower.
Colder.
The lights flicker on automatically, casting a sterile glow on cream walls and a polished floor.
It doesn’t feel like part of the estate.
It feels like a hospital.
Or a lab.
I take a step forward.
Then two.
Then—"Madam Hyacinth?"
I jump a full foot off the ground.
It’s one of the guards.
The one who walks like he used to be military.
He’s got a sharp jaw, an earpiece, and the expression of someone who absolutely knows where all the bodies are buried.
“This area is restricted,” he says gently but firmly.
“Oh. Sorry. I got lost.”
He nods once. “I’ll escort you back.”
I let him.
But I glance back as I walk away.
And I swear—I heard something behind that door.
A whisper. A hum. Like machines. Or something mechanical breathing.
Back in my suite, I shut the door.
Lock it.
Then turn to the panic button.
And for the first time, I seriously consider pressing it—not because I’m in danger, but because something in this house feels off.
Off, and watching.
- Writer
