The first thing she felt was sunlight.
Not heat—but *light*. Clean. Blinding. Warm.
Amelia—no, **Mia** now—blinked against the brightness as a coastal breeze stirred white curtains beside her.
Outside, gulls cried and waves lapped gently against the harbor. No guards. No locked doors. Just salt, sky, and possibility.
She sat up, startled to find no cuff on her ankle, no velvet-tied chains, no hidden cameras.
Freedom had a sound, she realized: **silence**.
---
Lucien stood on the cottage's wraparound porch, coffee in hand, hair slightly tousled by the breeze. He looked up as she stepped out, wrapped in a soft robe.
“Morning," he said.
She hesitated. “Is this... real?"
He nodded, offering her the second mug. “Try the coffee. Reality's in the bitterness."
She took it. Sipped. Wince
