Chapter 2: The Glass Prison
1163 Words
Zara Malik’s POV
I woke up in silk.
Not my silk. Not anything I’d ever owned. The sheets smelled expensive, like rosewater and secrets. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting soft golden light over everything. The walls were cream, trimmed in gold. The windows were tall but sealed. Tinted. Heavy curtains, the color of dried blood, lined the edges.
There was no lock on the door—just a tiny red dot blinking from the corner above it.
A camera.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my arms.
I wasn’t hurt. Not physically. But something inside me felt snapped in half. Like the version of me that lived yesterday didn’t survive the night.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood, feet sinking into a plush rug that probably cost more than my tuition.
My first instinct was to find a way out.
I went straight to the door and twisted the handle. It opened.
The hallway outside was quiet. Polished floors. Dim lights. No sound.
I crept forward, peeking into rooms as I passed.
Office.
Gallery.
Library.
Everything was immaculate. Cold. Like a luxury hotel with no soul. Like, no one actually lived here. Or if they did, they’d forgotten how to be human.
I turned a corner and nearly collided with a man in black.
He didn’t speak. Just stood, expressionless, earpiece visible. A guard.
I moved to go around him.
He mirrored my steps.
I tried the other side.
He blocked me again.
“I just want to walk,” I said.
No response.
“I’m not running.”
Still nothing.
I stepped back and turned around. He followed silently.
Back in my room, I slammed the door shut behind me and growled under my breath.
“Prison. It’s a damn glass prison.”
There was a knock five minutes later.
I didn’t answer.
A second knock, firmer.
I opened the door a c***k. A woman in a gray dress stood holding a tray.
“I’m not hungry,” I snapped.
Her eyes didn’t move. “Mr. Blackwood instructed me to deliver your attire for dinner.”
“I’m not going.”
She didn’t flinch. “You should get dressed, Miss Malik. The consequences are not mine to explain.”
She stepped back and left the tray by the door.
Inside, I lifted the cover.
A black satin dress. Thin straps. Deep neckline. Slit up the side. No underwear included. Just heels.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
---
I didn’t wear the dress.
I wore my own clothes. Jeans. A sweater. I even pulled my hair into a bun to make a statement: I’m not your doll.
Dinner was served in what looked like a throne room disguised as a dining hall.
Kian sat at the end of the long table, flipping through a tablet like I hadn’t just been dragged into his mansion twenty-four hours ago.
He didn’t even look up when I walked in.
I sat as far from him as possible.
The chef—yes, a real one—appeared with plates I didn’t recognize and didn’t care to taste.
Still, I ate. Because starving wasn’t rebellion. It was a surrender.
Kian finally spoke.
“Was the dress not to your liking?”
“I don’t dress for kidnappers.”
He smiled at that. Not amused—something else.
“You’re dramatic.”
I set my fork down and stared at him. “And you’re deranged.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“You deserve worse.”
He tilted his head, eyes resting on my face. “You’re a fast learner.”
“You’re a slow rot.”
I grabbed my water glass and hurled it straight at him.
He caught it. Midair. Barehanded.
Didn’t even spill a drop.
I stared, lips parted. His eyes met mine.
And there it was.
That heat.
Not just anger.
It was something else. Something dangerous. Something I didn’t want to name.
He set the glass down, unbothered. “Finished?”
“Not even close.”
“I admire your spirit. It’s going to be such a shame when I break it.”
I stood from the table. “You can’t break something that’s already survived worse than you.”
“Want to test that?”
“I already am.”
---
I stormed back toward the hallway, needing to breathe before I lost it.
I turned down a wing I hadn’t noticed earlier. The doors were different here—darker. Older.
One in particular caught my eye.
It was red. Deep red. Crimson. Almost blood-colored.
It had no handle.
Just a biometric scanner on the wall beside it.
The Crimson Room.
I stepped closer. The scanner blinked. Blue light swept over me.
Access Denied.
My heart thudded.
What the hell was in there?
Footsteps approached behind me.
I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Curiosity can be fatal,” Kian said behind me.
“What’s in there?”
“You don’t get to ask questions.”
“I’ll ask anyway.”
He walked around me and stopped in front of the scanner.
“This room is off limits.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I raised a brow. “You rule with commands, not explanations?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation. But I’ll give you a warning.”
He leaned in again, voice low.
“Touch this door again, and I’ll start taking pieces of your family.”
I went cold.
He stepped back and studied my face.
“Still think I’m bluffing?”
I clenched my jaw. “You’re sick.”
He nodded slightly. “Probably.”
“Why are you doing this? Really. Is this still about my father?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m not him. Whatever he did—”
“He ruined lives,” Kian snapped. “And then vanished. So now I make sure his daughter understands what it means to lose everything.”
My voice cracked. “So I’m just… collateral?”
His expression darkened. “You’re the beginning.”
I shoved past him and walked quickly away.
His voice followed me.
“Dinner tomorrow is at eight. Try the dress next time.”
---
I shut the door to my room and locked it—not that it mattered. I sank onto the edge of the bed, mind reeling.
Crimson Room.
Secrets.
Biometric lock.
Why would he hide something that needed that level of protection?
I didn’t get to think for long.
Because just as I turned toward the window, I caught a figure moving in the hallway below.
I stepped closer.
My breath hitched.
Elias.
Laughing.
Next to Kian.
Like old friends.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
I rushed out of my room and down the stairs. My bare feet hit the marble hard.
“Elias!” I shouted.
He turned slowly, still smiling.
“Elias?” My voice cracked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
- Writer
