Chapter Six: The Island
597 Words
The jet window burned cold against Aria's palm as clouds parted beneath them. The Aegean stretched out in every direction, endless blue swallowing the horizon. Then, land. A single island emerged, green and white against the sea, growing larger as they descended. Her stomach twisted.
Across the cabin, Damon Vasilis turned a page in his notebook. Ice clinked in his glass. He hadn't spoken since takeoff. Hadn't even looked at her. The silence between them felt heavier than the jet's engines.
Heat hit Aria's face the moment the cabin door opened. Mediterranean air, thick with salt and something floral. No airport. Just a dirt runway, a lone hangar, and two stone-faced guards waiting beside a black SUV.
One of them reached for her bag.
"I've got it," Aria said, clutching the strap tighter.
The guard didn't react. Just opened the car door.
The Vasilis estate appeared like a mirage, white marble gleaming against the cliffs, all sharp angles and black gates. The car slowed at the entrance, and Aria caught her reflection in the tinted window. Small, pale. Dressed in clothes that weren't hers. A doll in a gilded cage.
Marble floors echoed underfoot in the foyer. A butler bowed and vanished. Damon stepped forward, pressing a silver tablet into Aria's hands.
A schedule glowed onscreen.
9:00 - Breakfast
11:00 - Gym
14:00 - Rest
18:00 - Dinner*
Every hour accounted for. No room for choice. Aria opened her mouth to speak but Damon was already walking away.
….
The seamstress's hands were cold.
"Master Vasilis has selected your wardrobe," Lydia said, measuring tape looping around Aria's waist. Racks of designer clothes lined the white room—silks, linens, all in muted colors and picked for her.
Aria stood still, arms raised, staring at the wall. The bedroom was bigger than her entire apartment back home.
Aria sat on the edge of the bed, fingers sinking into the duvet softer than anything she'd ever touched. Then she saw it, a folded note on the nightstand.
“Stay out of the East Wing.” D.V.
Dinner was served on a table long enough to seat twenty.
Aria sat at one end. Damon at the other. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight between them. Silver lids covered each dish.
She picked up her fork. Damon watched.
"Eat," he said. The fork clinked against the plate.
"Why me?" Aria asked.
Damon's knife paused mid-cut. "Because your sister didn't want to be owned." The words hit like a slap.
Damon stood, napkin discarded, and left without another word.
Aria wandered the halls the next day. Every door opened to her, libraries, sunrooms, a pool that mirrored the sky. Except one.
The East Wing door stood firm under her hand. Locked.
A statue of Artemis watched from the atrium, arrow drawn. Aria stood beneath it, the goddess's stone gaze heavier than any camera following her movements.
From her balcony, Aria saw him. Damon was in the courtyard, shirtless, fists wrapped in bloodied tape. His punches landed hard against the sandbag, each hit precise. He was a control freak and a brutal brute.
She should have looked away but she didn't.
At midnight already. She felt the silk dress she wore whispering against her thighs as she walked down the hallway.
The East Wing hallway was colder than the rest of the house. Aria pressed her palm to the locked door and leaned in.
She heard a sound from within.
“What was that”?
“Boom!”, it got even louder. She moved even closer, pressing her ears against the door.
- Writer
