CHAPTER 3 — The East Wing
1464 Words
They didn’t drag Amara, but they didn’t guide her gently either. The guards walked in front and behind, silent and stiff, as if any sudden movement from her might trigger a reaction she didn’t want to see.
The Moretti estate — if she could even call it that — was enormous. Too large. Too polished. Too cold. Every step echoed against marble floors. Every corridor looked the same: white stone, tall ceilings, thick wooden doors that probably held a hundred secrets behind them.
Amara kept her chin lifted even though her muscles were trembling. She wasn’t going to let these men see her break.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked the closest guard.
Silence.
“You can at least answer me,” she snapped, frustration cracking through fear.
Still nothing.
Amara let out an angry breath. “Brilliant. kidn*pped and babysat by statues. Amazing day, honestly.”
A guard glanced at her for half a second. Not amused. Not bothered. Just… blank.
They turned a corner into another long hallway. She noticed something new — a thin, burned-in scent lingering in the air. Like gunpowder. Or old smoke trapped in the walls.
How many violent nights had this place seen?
The guard at the front finally pushed open a door at the very end of the corridor.
Inside was a large bedroom — bigger than her entire flat in Leicester — with high windows, pale curtains, a fireplace, and a heavy wooden bed. Beautiful. Expensive.
A prison.
Amara’s stomach tightened.
“You’re staying here,” the guard said, speaking for the first time.
She blinked. “Oh, so you do talk.”
He ignored the comment. “Bathroom is through there. Clothes are in the wardrobe. The windows don’t open.”
“Of course they don’t,” she muttered under her breath.
“Dinner will be brought to you later. You are not permitted to leave this room unless escorted.”
“Escorted?” she echoed harshly. “I’m not a dog.”
The guard’s expression didn’t shift even a millimetre.
“No,” he said. “Dogs have more freedom.”
Her jaw dropped. “You didn’t just—”
The man stepped out and closed the door behind them. A small metallic sound clicked immediately after.
Locked.
Of course.
Amara inhaled sharply, forcing herself not to panic. Not to cry. Not to scream.
She walked straight to the door and grabbed the handle. It didn’t budge. She shoved harder. Nothing. She rattled the handle until her wrist hurt.
Still nothing.
She rested her forehead against the door, breathing heavily.
“My God… what is happening?” she whispered to no one.
Her chest tightened painfully. The reality of it all slammed into her too hard — the k********g, the blindfold, the file on Lucien’s desk, the text message sent to her sister. Her entire life ripped away in a single night.
Her hands trembled as she turned away from the door, pacing across the room. In. Out. In. Out.
She needed a plan.
She couldn’t stay here.
Couldn’t.
Amara pressed her fingers against her temples. “Think. Think, think, think, think…”
She scanned the room. No phone. No sharp objects. Windows reinforced with metal latches. Curtains so heavy they could hide her entire body but still not help her break free. The wardrobe was filled with clothes that weren’t hers — clearly chosen for her. Simple. Soft. Easily foldable.
Nothing dangerous.
Everything controlled.
She forced herself to breathe. Slowly. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
She wasn’t going to give up.
Not now.
Not ever.
Her eyes landed on the bathroom door. She opened it quickly — modern, polished, spotless. A sink. A mirror. A shower. Towels neatly folded. Everything pristine.
When she looked into the mirror, she barely recognised her reflection.
Her curls were messy, frizzed from the blindfold. Her jacket torn at the sleeve. Her eyes wide and red, not from crying — she refused to cry — but from panic sitting in the deepest parts of her.
“This is not how my story goes,” she whispered to her reflection. “I don’t get kidn*pped. I don’t get trapped. I don’t…”
Her voice faltered.
“I don’t belong here.”
Her throat tightened again, but she pushed the tears back violently. She splashed cold water on her face, letting the shock pull her mind back into place.
She grabbed the edge of the sink.
“Okay, Amara. New reality. You’re smart. You’re strong. You have survived things worse than fear.”
She stared at herself a little longer.
Then she nodded.
She stepped back into the bedroom.
A knock at the door startled her.
She froze.
The door unlocked — different from before, softer click — and opened slightly.
Lucien walked in.
Amara’s entire body tensed. He didn’t look different from earlier, but somehow the room felt smaller with him in it. Like the walls leaned in a little.
He shut the door and scanned the room. His eyes came back to her.
“You’re awake,” he said.
Amara crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I didn’t exactly have the most relaxing journey here.”
Lucien ignored the sarcasm.
“You’re being monitored,” he said. “Every guard in this wing has direct orders to protect you.”
“Imprison me,” she corrected.
Lucien’s expression didn’t move. “Protection looks different depending on who wants you.”
“I didn’t ask for your protection.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you need it.”
Amara glared at him. “You keep saying that. Show me one reason why I should believe you.”
Lucien stepped further inside. Slowly. Measured. Like every movement he made had a purpose.
“You think I took you because I enjoy taking strangers off the street?”
“Yes,” she shot back.
For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. Barely there. It wasn’t warm — it was something colder. Amused in the wrong way.
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “And you misunderstand your father far more.”
“What do you know about my father?” she demanded.
Lucien’s eyes hardened.
“Everything.”
Her breath faltered.
Lucien walked past her, stopping near the window. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next.
“He stole from the Moretti family twelve years ago. He continued stealing from others after that. And when they discovered what he did…” Lucien turned his head slightly. “They came looking.”
Amara’s hands curled into fists.
“He’s not— he’s not like that. Whatever you think he did—”
“He abandoned you,” Lucien said quietly. “Your loyalty to him is wasted.”
Amara stepped forward, anger flaring through her chest. “You don’t get to talk about my family.”
Lucien finally faced her fully.
“You are alive,” he said, “because I intervened first.”
A beat of silence.
Then:
“Your father’s enemies would kill you to send a message. They don’t care about your innocence.”
Her breath hitched.
“You expect me to thank you?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward the desk in the corner, placing the same file from earlier onto the surface.
“This,” he said, tapping it once, “is everything your father did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He nodded once, as if expecting that.
“You will.”
Amara’s pulse hammered through her ears. He was too calm. Too certain. It terrified her more than if he’d screamed.
“You’re staying here,” Lucien continued, “until I decide it’s safe for you to leave.”
“You mean never,” she shot.
His eyes flickered — a faint reaction, too quick to read.
“You should rest,” he said instead. “You’ll need a clear mind tomorrow.”
“Why?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
He simply walked toward the door, hands slipping into his coat pockets.
But before he left, he paused — just for a second.
“Do not attempt to escape,” he said softly. “You’re intelligent enough to know what would happen if you tried.”
The door closed behind him.
Locked again.
Amara stared at the door, her heartbeat loud and painful.
Her new reality was sinking deeper with every breath.
Tomorrow.
Something was happening tomorrow.
And whatever it was, she wasn’t ready.
But she would be.
She had to be.
Because Amara Adebayo refused to be anyone’s prisoner.
Not even Lucien Moretti’s.
- Writer
