Chapter 2: Meant to Die
1348 Words
Lucian POV
"Who ordered her transfer?"
“I ordered her isolated. I did not order her moved there.”
The words echoed through the corridor, sharp and unforgiving.
No one answered.
That was when I knew something was wrong.
The west wing doors had already sealed, swallowing the other captives into a maze of locked rooms and armed patrols. Procedures had been followed there—clean, efficient, unquestionable. But the east wing… the east wing was different.
No one went there without my approval.
I turned slowly, my gaze sweeping over the guards stationed along the corridor. Trained men. Loyal men. Men who knew exactly what silence like this meant.
“I will ask one more time,” I said, my voice calm enough to be lethal. “Who decided she belonged in the restricted wing?”
A bead of sweat slid down one guard’s temple.
“Sir,” he began carefully, “we thought it was safer—”
“Safer for who?” I interrupted.
“For you.”
That made me smile.
Not because it amused me—but because it annoyed me.
“My safety,” I said, stepping closer, “has never depended on guessing.”
The guard straightened. “She wasn’t reacting normally. No resistance. No hysteria. She was watching everything. Routes. Cameras. Timings.”
Good instincts.
Bad execution.
“You don’t isolate a variable without informing me,” I said quietly. “You observe it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I moved past them without another word. The east wing lights activated one by one as I approached, illuminating a corridor few ever walked. This part of the mansion wasn’t designed for prisoners. It was designed for assets. For problems that required precision, not brute force.
And somehow, Isla had landed here.
The door to the interrogation suite stood at the end of the hall.
Unlocked.
That alone set my nerves on edge.
I placed my palm against the scanner. The door slid open silently.
She sat inside.
Not restrained.
Not panicking.
Waiting.
The room was minimal—steel table, single chair, reinforced walls. No windows. No comfort.
Designed to strip people down to truth.
Isla sat upright, hands folded loosely in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle. Her posture was composed, almost defiant. She looked up as I entered, her expression unreadable.
Most people broke in this room within minutes.
She looked like she’d been here her whole life.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, folding my arms.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.
She tilted her head slightly. “Neither should I be anywhere in this house."
Fair answer.
I crossed the room slowly, deliberately. “You were separated from the others.”
“I noticed.”
“You weren’t afraid.”
“I was,” she said calmly. “I just didn’t scream.”
I stopped in front of her.
“Why?”
She looked up at me, eyes steady. “Because screaming tells the wrong people too much.”
Something sharp flickered through me.
“You think you know how this works?” I asked.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that fear is a language. And not everyone deserves to hear it.”
Interesting.
Dangerous.
I circled her once, watching closely. Her pulse was fast—she wasn’t fearless. Just controlled.
That was worse.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked.
“A room designed to make people talk.”
“And yet you’re quiet.”
“I’m listening.”
I stopped behind her chair. “To what?”
“To you,” she said.
Silence stretched between us.
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the back of her chair, close enough that she could feel my presence.
“You stood out,” I said. “That’s a mistake in my world.”
“Then why am I still breathing?”
Because you interest me, I thought.
But I didn’t say that.
“Because,” I replied, “I haven’t decided what you are yet.”
She swallowed once.
“What are my options?”
“Threat,” I said. “Or leverage.”
She exhaled slowly. “And which one survives longer?”
“Depends,” I said. “On who you belong to.”
Her fingers tightened in her lap.
“There it is,” I murmured. “You don’t belong to no one, do you?”
She hesitated.
A fraction of a second too long.
I stepped away and moved to the console on the wall, tapping the screen awake.
“I ran your name,” I said casually.
Her breathing shifted.
“Isla,” I continued, watching her reflection in the dark screen. “No last name worth tracking. No stable address past three years. No digital footprint deep enough to matter.”
I turned.
“That doesn’t happen by accident.”
She met my gaze. “Maybe I’m just unimportant.”
I laughed—short, humorless.
“No one ends up in my house by being unimportant.”
I walked back toward her. “People disappear from records for two reasons: protection… or training.”
She said nothing.
That told me everything.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
“I was taken,” she replied. “Just like the others.”
“Lies,” I said calmly. “You were taken, yes. But someone expected you to be.”
Her jaw tightened.
I crouched in front of her, forcing her to look at me.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “I don’t need your whole story. I just need to know if you’re a knife aimed at my back.”
Her eyes darkened. “If I were, you’d already be bleeding.”
A dangerous thing to say.
A braver thing to believe.
Before I could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
I stood. “Speak.”
A guard’s voice came through the comm. “Sir, we intercepted an encrypted transmission.”
My spine stiffened.
“Source?”
“External. High-level encryption. Someone breached the perimeter network.”
That didn’t happen.
Ever.
“What did it say?” I demanded.
A pause.
“They asked… if the girl arrived safely.”
Slowly, I turned back to Isla.
Her face had gone still.
Not shocked.
Not confused.
Resigned.
The kind of expression someone wears when a secret finally catches up with them.
I smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
“So,” I said quietly, “you weren’t just kidnapped.”
She didn’t answer.
I straightened and activated the internal communication
“Lock down the mansion. Full perimeter. No exits. No external contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked back at her.
“You’re not a coincidence,” I said. “You’re a message.”
Her voice was soft. “And you’re the recipient.”
I studied her for a long moment.
Then I made a decision.
“You stay here,” I said. “Under my watch. No contact. No privileges.”
“And the others?”she said.
“They’re irrelevant.” I replied staring at her eyes.
Her eyes flickered—concern, guilt, something human.
I turned away.
That reaction alone told me she wasn’t just a weapon.
But weapons didn’t always know what they were.
As I left the room, I added, “If your sender wanted my attention…”
I paused at the door.
“They have it.”
The door sealed shut behind me.
In the corridor, my head of security approached quickly. “Sir, what are your orders?”
I looked at the reinforced door once more.
“Find out who breached my system,” I said. “And prepare for war.”
Because whoever sent Isla into my house hadn’t just crossed a line.
They had declared one.
Lucian receives partial decryption of the message.
It contains only one line:
“She was never meant to survive this long.”
And Lucian realizes—
Isla wasn’t sent to spy.
She was sent to die.
- Writer
