Under His Terms

Chapter three

‎They didn’t give me much time.

‎immediately after the call ended,

‎Aunt Marissa sent me upstairs with only one instruction.

‎“Pack.”

‎So the next morning, I started packing before anyone even told me to. There wasn’t much to take anyway. Just a few gowns, some skirts, and blouses that had faded from too many washes. I folded them carefully and placed them inside the small suitcase that had been sitting in the back of my closet for years.

‎The zipper stuck halfway when I tried to close it. I forced it shut.

‎Aunt Marissa stood by the doorway watching me.

‎“Make sure you take some clothes from Isabella's closet,” she said. “i don't want you going there looking all tattered.”

‎I nodded without looking at her.

‎She stepped further into the room, her eyes moving slowly across the walls like she was inspecting the space for the last time.

‎“Things will be different there,” she continued. “You won’t embarrass us.”

‎I stayed silent.

‎She crossed her arms.

‎“And remember,” she added, “you’re not Nora anymore.”

‎My hands stopped folding the dress in front of me.

‎“You will answer to Isabella.”

‎The name felt strange in my ears.

‎“She must not be mentioned,” Aunt Marissa said firmly. “From this moment on, you are her.”

‎She studied my face, her gaze sharp.

‎“If anyone asks questions, you will answer carefully. Our family reputation depends on it.”

‎I nodded again.

‎“What happens if they find out?” I asked quietly.

‎Her expression hardened slightly.

‎“They won’t.”

‎Then she turned and left the room.

‎The car arrived just before noon.

‎A black sedan waited in front of the house, its windows dark enough that I couldn’t see who was inside. One of the same men from yesterday stepped out when he saw me approaching with my suitcase.

‎He didn’t greet me, he simply opened the back door.

‎The ride was long, i spent most of it staring out the window while the city slowly gave way to quiet roads and large private estates hidden behind tall gates.

‎Eventually the car slowed. A large iron gate slid open silently as we approached.

‎Beyond it stood a house so large it barely looked real. Tall windows, clean stone walls with perfectly trimmed gardens. Everything about it looked breathtaking.

‎The car stopped near the front entrance. Another man opened the door.

‎“Follow me,” he said.

‎Inside, the house was even bigger than it looked from outside, every piece of furniture seemed carefully placed, not a single thing was out of order.

‎He led me through several hallways before stopping beside a door.

‎“This will be your room,” he said.

‎Inside was a large bedroom with soft lighting and furniture that looked more expensive than anything I had ever touched before.

‎“You may rest,” he added. “The boss will see you later.”

‎Then he left.

‎A knock on the door woke me up hours later. I rubbed my eyes and looked outside the window, it was already dark. I must have fallen asleep without realizing it.

‎The knock came again.

‎I stood up quickly, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress before opening the door.

‎The same man from earlier stood there.

‎“He’ll see you now,” he said and starting walking

‎I stepped into the hallway, but instead of taking the main staircase, he led me down a corridor I hadn’t noticed before. The lighting grew dimmer the farther we walked.

‎Eventually the carpet disappeared, replaced by cold concrete.

‎At the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly open. Beyond it were stairs leading downward.

‎The air grew colder as we descended.

‎Halfway down, I heard something.

‎A dull impact...then another.

‎Thud.

‎Thud.

‎Thud.

‎At the bottom of the stairs stood a thick steel door. Two guards waited beside it.

‎The man beside me nodded once, and one of them pulled the door open.

‎The sound filled the corridor immediately.

‎Thud.

‎Thud.

‎Thud.

‎The room beyond was large and mostly empty. In the center hung a heavy punching bag suspended from chains.

‎A man stood in front of it with his back to me. He was shirtless, wearing dark training pants, his shoulders moved with every strike. His fists slammed into the bag again and again, each hit landing in the same place.

‎Three guards stood at a distance watching him. None of them dared interrupt.

‎I remained near the door.

‎The man didn’t turn, but somehow I knew he was aware I was there.

‎Finally one of the men stepped forward and murmured something quietly near his shoulder.

‎The man punched the bag three more times, harder.

‎Then he stopped, he slowly unwrapped the cloth from one of his hands and handed it to a guard.

‎Only then did he turn.

‎His eyes moved over me slowly.

‎“So,” he said. “You’re Isabella.”

‎It didn’t sound like a question.

‎I lowered my gaze instinctively.

‎“When I speak to you,” he said calmly, “you look at me.”

‎I lifted my head.

‎His eyes were darker than I expected.

‎He stepped closer until only a small space separated us. Then he studied my face carefully.

‎Behind him, the punching bag shifted slightly. It shouldn’t have,the air in the room was still.

‎My eyes moved toward it, the bag swayed again, slowly.

‎There was weight inside it.

‎He noticed where I was looking.

‎A faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.

‎“Oh.”

‎He tilted his head slightly.

‎“Open it.”

‎Two guards stepped forward. One held the bag steady while the other pulled down a zipper along the side.

‎The bag split open and a man fell out.

‎He hit the concrete hard. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut. Dried blood covered his collar, his chest rose slowly. He was alive, barely.

‎My eyes widened, I pressed my lips together tightly to stop myself from screaming.

‎Ethan didn’t look at the man, he watched me.

‎“Does that disturb you?” he asked.

‎His tone didn’t change.

‎The guards dragged the injured man away through a side door. When it closed, the room looked empty again.

‎Ethan picked up a towel and wiped his hands slowly.

‎“I am Ethan Roth.”

‎He folded the towel neatly before setting it down.

‎“Your family owes me money.”

‎He stepped closer.

‎“That debt is now my concern.”

‎He circled me slowly.

‎“How old are you?”

‎“Twenty-one.”

‎“Do you understand why you’re here?”

‎“Yes.”

‎“And will you create complications for me?”

‎“No.”

‎He studied me for a moment.

‎“You learn quickly,” he said.

‎His fingers lifted my chin slightly, examining my face.

‎“You look fragile.”

‎His thumb brushed my jaw once.

‎“We’ll see if that’s true.”

‎Then he stepped back.

‎“Until I decide what use you are to me,” he said calmly, “you will remain here.”

‎He turned and walked away. The guards straightened as he passed, the door shut behind him with a heavy sound.

‎Only then did my legs begin to shake.

‎I looked at the punching bag again. A small drop of blood still fell slowly onto the concrete floor.

‎I stared at the floor thinking to myself

‎'What exactly have I gotten myself into?'

‎