Chapter 2
1209 Words
Chapter Two: Gilded Cages
The morning light was too soft, too kind.
Lena woke in a bed that wasn’t hers, wrapped in sheets she didn’t recognize, in a silence she hadn’t experienced in years. Not the dead kind of silence from hotel rooms or private jets, but the real kind—where even the walls didn’t dare to breathe too loudly.
She blinked at the vaulted ceiling, the dusky gray light slanting across it in soft angles. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then it came rushing back.
The alley. The blood. The man with the eyes like obsidian fire.
Nikolai Duran.
Her heart kicked up. She sat upright too fast and winced at the sharp pull in her ankle. The cut still throbbed faintly, but it had been cleaned and bandaged. Her dress was gone, replaced by a soft silk robe in pearl-white hanging loosely off her shoulders.
She hadn’t undressed herself. She knew that. But the robe was tied, and she didn’t feel violated. Just… seen.
The balcony doors were open, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of salt and stone and roses. Somewhere outside, waves crashed against cliffs far below.
She got up, padded across the marble floor, and stepped outside.
And froze.
The view was like something out of a painting.
Sea and sky tangled together on the horizon, blurring into endless silver-blue. Cypress trees lined the slope down to a private dock. The villa itself, carved from golden stone, stood like a relic of a forgotten era—timeless, elegant, and utterly hidden from the world.
Where the hell am I?
“You’re awake.”
The voice came from behind her. Calm. Controlled. Velvet-wrapped steel.
Lena turned slowly.
Nikolai leaned against the doorway, dressed in a dark gray sweater and black slacks, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There was something absurdly intimate about seeing him out of a suit. Like seeing a wild animal without its claws, though still no less dangerous.
“How long was I asleep?” she asked.
“Fourteen hours.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were running on fumes. Your body shut down the moment you were safe.”
Safe.
Was that what this was?
Lena crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t say I was staying.”
He stepped onto the balcony, not too close. “And I didn’t say you had to.”
The breeze pulled at her hair as she studied him. “Why me?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at her like he was still deciding how much truth she could handle.
Finally, he said, “Because I’ve built everything—everything—on things I could control. Code. Systems. Empires. But the first time I saw you, I realized there are some things even control can’t contain.”
Her stomach twisted. “That sounds a lot like obsession.”
“It is.”
There was no shame in his voice. No hesitation.
She stared. “You’re not even pretending otherwise?”
“Why should I?” he said. “You’ve spent your whole life being admired by people who didn’t see you. I see you, Lena. The woman, not the image.”
Lena turned her back on the sea and leaned against the balcony railing, gripping the stone.
“You think you know me.”
“I know enough.”
She let out a breath. “So what now? You trap me in your villa until you’re done with your little fantasy?”
“I don’t want a fantasy. I want you.”
“You don’t even know who I am when the cameras are off.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve watched you disappear behind your own beauty. I’ve seen it in your eyes. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The ache to belong to no one.”
Her throat tightened.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
But that didn’t mean she was his to claim.
“I’m not some painting you can hang in your private gallery,” she snapped. “You don’t get to collect me.”
“I don’t want to hang you on a wall,” he said softly. “I want to protect you.”
She laughed bitterly. “Why does every powerful man think that’s the same as love?”
He stepped forward now, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“I’ve never claimed to love you, Lena.”
That stung more than she expected.
“I don’t believe in love,” he added.
“Of course you don’t,” she muttered.
“But I believe in devotion. In obsession. In possession.”
She turned her head sharply toward him.
“And that’s better?” she asked.
“I’ll never lie to you,” he said. “That’s better.”
They stared at each other for a long, loaded moment.
Then she said, “I want my dress back. And my phone.”
“You’ll get both,” he replied, not flinching. “After breakfast.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he said quietly. “But you are exhausted. And hunted. And, for once, I’d like you to feel what it’s like to be in a place where no one wants to take from you.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded once.
---
The dining room overlooked the sea, walls lined with antique books and minimalist sculptures. The long table was set for one. Fresh fruit, croissants, strong espresso. Lena ate in silence while Nikolai stood near the window, back turned, giving her space.
But his presence never stopped pressing in.
It was like being near a storm that hadn’t broken yet—quiet, electric, full of danger.
After breakfast, he handed her a phone.
Clean. New. No social media. No press alerts. Just a single contact.
Him.
“I’m not cutting you off,” he said. “I’m giving you a chance to breathe.”
Lena didn’t thank him.
Didn’t know how.
Instead, she said, “I want to see your gallery.”
He looked up. Surprised. “Now?”
“Now.”
---
The gallery was underground. Of course it was.
Cold stone walls. Silent corridors. Hidden lights illuminating canvases hung with reverence.
And every single painting was her.
Not exact likenesses. Not copied magazine shots.
But her essence.
Moments she didn’t know anyone had seen—smiling on a rooftop, crying in the rain during a forgotten shoot in Prague, staring into nothing in the mirror of a makeup trailer.
He hadn’t painted Lena the model.
He’d painted Lena the person.
She turned slowly in the center of the room, heart pounding.
He watched her from the doorway.
“You don’t sleep,” she whispered.
“No.”
“You don’t date.”
“No.”
“You just… paint me.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him, something sharp and terrifying blooming in her chest.
“And if I told you to stop?”
His jaw flexed.
“I’d stop,” he said.
She walked over, slow and deliberate, until she stood in front of him.
Close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw. The pulse ticking in his neck.
“Then don’t,” she said.
- Writer
