Chapter3
1338 Words
The walls of her new room were too quiet.
Not the soft kind of quiet that whispered safety or rest, but the eerie, sterile kind that made her bones ache and her skin itch. Every breath she took echoed back at her. Every sound—the low hum of the chandelier’s bulbs, the soft rustle of the curtains as wind teased their edges, even the distant creak of the floor settling beneath her feet—sounded too loud in the oppressive stillness.
It wasn’t silence. It was abandonment in disguise.
Xochi sat stiffly on the edge of a king-sized bed covered in white silk sheets she hadn’t dared to touch until now. They were cool beneath her fingertips, smooth in a way that didn’t feel real. Like everything else in this oversized room, they belonged in a hotel catalog or a mansion from a glossy magazine—not in her life. Certainly not in her story.
The room stretched around her like a stage. The chandelier above—an explosion of frozen crystal—hung too high, too glittering, like it was mocking her. The pale gold wallpaper glinted faintly in the moonlight seeping through tall, spotless windows. There was a vanity across the room, carved with delicate roses, and a walk-in closet behind mirrored double doors she hadn’t dared open. A faint floral perfume clung to the air, but it wasn’t hers.
Nothing here was hers.
She was just a guest in a dollhouse.
A knock shattered the tension like glass.
She jumped.
Her spine stiffened, and her eyes flicked to the door. “Come in,” she called, hating how her voice sounded—brittle, defensive.
A woman entered. Older, stern, dressed in a pressed black uniform that screamed discipline. Her hair was slicked back into a severe bun, her face devoid of warmth.
“Mr. Moreau sent this for you.”
The tray she carried looked absurdly formal, like something from a five-star suite. Silver domes. Crystal glass of water. A neatly folded napkin.
Xochi blinked. Her stomach curled. “I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not a request.” The woman’s voice was flat, almost robotic.
For a moment, Xochi just stared at her, tempted to argue. To scream. But what good would it do?
She stood up, forcing composure into her limbs, and accepted the tray without another word.
“Anything else?” she asked, her tone clipped.
The woman nodded slightly. “He asked me to inform you that your personal items have been removed from your old home. You won’t be returning.”
Her heart dropped.
“My sisters?” The question came out sharper than she intended.
“They’re being provided for. Generously.”
Provided for.
Like they were charity cases.
Like they didn’t belong to her.
The woman left without waiting for a reply, the door clicking shut with an ominous finality.
Xochi stared at the tray, its silver dome reflecting the ceiling light in warped swirls. She set it carefully on the small table beside the window and uncovered the food—rich, steaming soup, warm bread, roasted chicken glazed with something sweet. It smelled incredible.
She wanted to throw it all against the wall.
But her body betrayed her. Her stomach twisted, reminding her it had been hours—maybe longer—since she’d last eaten.
So she took a spoon, dipped it into the soup, and forced it down. The warmth spread through her, calming and nauseating all at once. She chewed on a piece of bread slowly, imagining it turning to ash on her tongue.
Chris hadn’t even seen her tonight, and somehow he still controlled her—her meals, her room, her future. It was as if the paper she signed had bound her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
His name surfaced in her mind again.
Chris.
Even thinking it made her jaw clench.
She hated the way he watched her. Not like a man interested in a woman, but like someone assessing a piece of art they now owned. His gaze didn’t search—he didn’t need to. He looked at her like he already knew everything about her. Like he’d memorized her flaws and still decided she was worth caging.
It wasn’t lust.
It was possession.
A second knock broke her thoughts—this one softer, slower, like whoever stood behind the door wasn’t in a hurry.
Her chest tightened. “Who is it?”
Silence.
Her heartbeat climbed.
The doorknob turned.
She stood before she even realized it, muscles coiled. The door opened slowly, and Chris stepped in.
Gone was the tailored suit from earlier. Now he wore a simple black T-shirt and joggers, his feet bare. Somehow, that made it worse—less polished, more real. More dangerous. The kind of dangerous that wasn’t for show.
His eyes scanned the room lazily before settling on her.
“Do you like it?” he asked, voice light, almost teasing.
“It’s fine,” she replied, trying to sound unaffected.
Chris walked in fully, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
“You ate.”
“I forced myself.”
He tilted his head. “Shame. I had it prepared just for you.”
Xochi narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”
Chris shrugged. “Because I can be.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Is this how it’s going to be? You appearing whenever you want, treating me like a possession, expecting me to just… obey?”
He stepped closer.
“No,” he said, voice like velvet and steel. “I don’t expect you to obey.”
She flinched at the intensity in his gaze.
“I expect you to resist,” he added. “It’s more fun that way.”
He was moving again, slow, measured. Like a predator testing its prey. She could have backed away. She should have. But something held her in place. Some part of her refused to retreat.
“You’re angry,” he murmured.
“I’m human,” she snapped.
Chris leaned in, his mouth inches from her ear. “And you’re mine.”
Her skin turned to ice.
“I’m not yours,” she hissed. “I was never yours.”
“But you signed the contract,” he said. “You let them bring you here. You chose me.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He touched her chin, tilting her face to meet his.
“You did,” he said gently. “You just didn’t like the other options.”
She wanted to slap him. To scream. But the words lodged in her throat, tangled in fear and fury.
“You’re disgusting.”
Chris’s smile widened. “You’ll change your mind.”
He brushed her bottom lip with his thumb, then dropped his hand.
“Tomorrow, we start our new routine. Breakfast at eight. You’ll accompany me to a charity event next week. Until further notice, you remain on the estate. No calls. No visitors. No exceptions.”
She stepped forward, defiant. “You can’t isolate me.”
“I can,” he said, soft as a secret. “And I will.”
“Why?”
His answer was immediate.
“Because I don’t trust you.”
Her breath caught. “I haven’t done anything—”
“Not yet,” he cut in. “But you will.”
Then he turned away, moving toward the door.
He paused with his hand on the knob and glanced back. “Don’t make me lock the windows too.”
And then he was gone.
Xochi stood frozen. The air in the room pressed down on her like a weight. She stumbled back to the bed and sank onto it, her limbs trembling.
She wanted to scream. To punch a hole in the perfect walls. To rip the silk sheets to shreds.
But instead she sat there, her breath sharp, her eyes stinging.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside?
Inside, the storm had only just begun.
- Writer
