Chained By Faith

CHAPTER THREE - TESTING BOUNDARIES

Isabella's POV !

Day two of captivity and I refuse breakfast.

Mare Chen, the house manager, had a blank look on her face and set the tray on the table by the window like always. Poached eggs, fresh fruit, coffee that smells like it costs more per cup than my hourly wage. She doesn't comment on yesterday's untouched dinner still sitting on the desk.

"I'm not eating," I tell her, crossing my arms, raising my chin. "Not until Damien Blackwood lets me go."

Marie's expression doesn't change. "I'll let Mr. Blackwood know."

She leaves with both trays, and I feel the small spark of victory. It's pathetic, really-this tiny act of defiance in a prison yard -but it's all I have. They can lock me in, drug me, steal my life, but they can't make me cooperate.

The victory is short lived, until lunch when Marie returns with soup and sandwiches.

"Still not eating," I say

"I understand, Miss Moreno."

Dinner comes and goes. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. I've gone longer without food during double shifts in the hospital. I can survive. I will survive. By the time the sun sets over the Pacific, as my “prison” reflected in its elegance, I'm actually feeling proud of myself. One full day. I can do this. I can make them see that I'm not going to just accept—

The door opens at nine PM.

Damien enters, and I straighten in the armchair where I've been pretending to read, ready for another confrontation. But he doesn't look angry. He looks. tired. Like I'm a problem he's solving, not a person he's imprisoning.

"Marie tells me you haven't eaten today," he says in a cold voice

"That's right."

"May I ask why?

"Because I want to go home." My voice is steady, strong.

He nods slowly, as if I've confirmed something he already knew. Then he sits in the chair across from mine, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Those ice-blue eyes hold mine with that same unsettling intensity.

"I admire your conviction, Isabella. Truly. But I need you to understand something." His voice is quiet, almost gentle. "If you continue refusing food, I will have a medical team set up an IV. You'll be fed intravenously, with round-the-clock monitoring to ensure you don't harm yourself."

A chill ran down my spine. "You can't—"

"I can. And I will." No anger, no threat. "You saved Adrian's life using your medical knowledge. You understand better than most what the human body needs to survive. I will provide those things, with or without your cooperation."

"That's-that's assault."

"It's protection." He stands, looking down at me with something that might be sympathy. "I will not let you hurt yourself, Isabella. Not even in protest. Your hunger strike ends tonight, one way or another. The choice of how is yours."

He's gone before I can say a word, and I slump there, shaking with anger and humiliation and the horrible knowledge that he means every word. An hour later, Marie brings me a bowl of warm soup and bread, and I eat every last drop, hating myself for doing so.

That's when it hits me: Damien Blackwood doesn't lose.

Day four, I try a different tack.

"Marie," I say as she delivers breakfast, "how long have you worked here?"

She pauses, seeming surprised I'm speaking to her casually "Fifteen years, Miss Moreno."

"That's a long time. You must know Mr. Blackwood well."

"I know my job." Her voice was cold

"Does your job include keeping innocent people prisoner?" I let desperation bleed into my voice-not all of it is an act. "Please. I'm a doctor. I help people. I don't belong here."

Something flickers across her face, sympathy, maybe. For a moment, I think I've reached her.

"Mr. Blackwood is protecting you," she says quietly. "I know it doesn't feel that way, but he is. The repercussions would be much worse." Then she's gone, and I'm alone again with my breakfast

I try the same approach with others: the young woman who brings fresh towels, Sofia, who won't meet my eyes; the older man who tends the grounds, Marcus, who pretends not to hear my questions; even the guards I glimpse through windows, professional and distant.

They're all loyal--utterly, completely loyal.

Whatever hold Damien has on them-money, fear, genuine devotion-it's unbreakable.

Day six, Gabriel takes me outside for the first time.

"Mr. Blackwood thought you might enjoy some fresh air," he says, standing in my doorway like a well-dressed wall. He is probably forty, built like someone who's seen combat, with sharp eyes that catalog everything.

"How generous." I looked at him with a sarcastic look "Will I need a leash?"

His expression doesn't change. "Just stay within sight. That's the only rule."

The grounds are beautiful-acres of manicured lawn, flowering trees, stone paths that twist between rose bushes and fountains. The ocean pounds against the cliffs beyond the estate walls, and the air smells of salt and jasmine. It would be paradise, under any other circumstances.

I walk, and Gabriel follows at a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't speak unless I speak first, doesn't rush me. It would almost be pleasant if he wasn't my jailer.

"How high are those walls?" I ask, gesturing toward the perimeter.

"Twelve feet."

"Cameras?"

"Every twenty feet."

"Guards?"

"Sufficient number." A pause. "You won't find a gap in security, Miss Moreno. The estate is designed to keep threats out. But it works just as well for keeping people in."

I stop and turn to him. "You know this is wrong."

"I know my job is to keep you safe."

"Safe or imprisoned?

"Both." He meets my gaze squarely. "There are people who would kill you just to send a message to Mr. Blackwood. My job is to make sure that doesn't happen."

"What if I don't want your protection?"

"That's not your choice to make anymore."

The casual surety in his tone tightens my chest. "Do you always follow orders without question?"

"I follow Mr. Blackwood's orders because he's never steered me wrong." Gabriel's tone softens somewhat. "I understand your frustration. But this isn't a prison, Miss Moreno. It's a sanctuary. You just can't see that yet."

We walk in silence after that, and I count cameras, measure distances, note the pattern of guards changing shifts at the east gate. I noticed every detail like I'm preparing for surgery—methodical, precise, looking for the vulnerability I can exploit.

By the time we return to my room, I have a map in my mind of the entire visible estate. Forty acres, Gabriel confirmed when I asked. Walls on all sides. One main gate, two service entrances, all monitored. Guards rotating every four hours. Cameras with overlapping sight lines that leave no blind spots.