Chapter Three

"What are you doing!" Rhea exclaimed, bending over defensively.

"What? Don't you like it anymore? You were all over me last night... begging that I should kiss you, touch you, not letting me go. Now you don't want it?" he asked, trailing his fingers over the hickey on her right shoulder. Obviously taunting her.

Even though Rhea felt flustered, she said nothing but furrowed her brow.

Did I do that because I was drunk? That's unlike me. I'll never do that, certainly not to a stranger! Rhea reasoned. I can't even see any of my belongings.

Then she questioned, "Where is my stuff? And where am I?" Glancing over his shoulder, looking for her clothes and her bag.

He placed her phone on the nightstand then turned to her. "You are at my house." He answered, but continued, "Do you want me to check for myself to confirm my concerns?" His gaze fell between her legs again, moving close to her.

"NO!" Rhea's voice ripped through the air, sharp and choked with revulsion. She recoiled, pressing herself further into the headboard, clutching the sheet tighter, as if the very air around him was tainted.

Why'd I allow you to do that. Her thoughts rallied.

"I'm okay." She replied.

"Okay? You can't be okay, not from what we did last night. Rather, you should be awfully sore and swollen. Then I guess I'll have to check myself." He held the bedsheet, pulling it off her gently and slowly.

"Wait. Wait!" Rhea held his hand. "Okay, I do feel pains and uncomfortable down there, so you don't have to do that. Okay." A forced smile pulled at her lips, making her jaw ache. Her shoulders were hunched, betraying her unease.

What do you mean check for yourself? Not happening! And why can't I remember anything? I can't even remember his name, how I met him, and how I got here. Was I that drunk? She asked herself.

"Is that so?" he asked, cutting her from her thoughts.

Suddenly, he scooped her from the bed.

He laughed when she flinched from his touch—not cruelly, not even mockingly but the sound felt strained, like something caught behind it.

His gaze lingered on her with an intensity that almost softened, as if he were studying a memory rather than a stranger. Rhea stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly.

She caught the strange shift in his expression—like disappointment, or grief, maybe.

But she quickly dismissed it. What right did he have to look like that? She was the one waking up in a palace-sized coffin with a shirtless stranger and no idea how she got there, she thought.

"What are you doing? Put me down!" she demanded, in a high-pitched voice, her face a contour of bright red as she tried to hold onto the falling bedsheet, exposing her naked body.

Oh God, I'll never drink again, she promised herself. Placing her palms over her face.

"You don't have to be shy. I saw and touched everything all through the night, last night." he said as he carried her deep into the right corner of the room, past an entrance into a bathroom.

Rhea gasped, not because of what he said, but from the sight that hit her.

The bathroom was huge, all shiny black stone and bright gold, looking like something from a movie, or maybe an old palace.

This man, whoever he is… he's filthy wealthy.

The transition from the already overwhelming bedroom to this bathroom wasn't a relief; it was an escalation for her.

The first breath she took in this space felt different—the air was cool and clean, yet with a faint, expensive aroma she couldn't quite place, like polished stone and rare woods.

Her eyes widened, trying to process the sheer visual assault. This wasn't just a bathroom; it was a mausoleum of wealth, a shrine to extreme luxury.

Burnished, gleaming gold exploded in intricate, swirling patterns across the wall panels, forming elaborate arches that seemed to lead to nowhere and everywhere at once.

Two arched alcoves, almost like church windows, were set into one wall, backlit by a warm, golden glow. Below them, two vast, sleek black sinks sat embedded in a counter that stretched endlessly.

The faucets, too, were gleaming gold, heavy and ornate, reflecting slivers of light.

To her right, a large, deep bathtub, almost like a miniature pool, set into another alcove, framed by more golden patterns. Above it, a colossal round mirror, its frame a sunburst of intricate gold, reflected the room's impossible grandeur.

Even the floor beneath his bare feet was covered in thick, dark rugs shot through with bold, complex gold and cream patterns. It was the kind of rug you'd find in a palace, not a bathroom.

Her heart began to thump, a frantically against her ribs.

This place was undeniably beautiful, breathtaking in its lavishness, but it felt... wrong.

It was too perfect, too grand, too silent. It felt less like a functional room and more like a carefully constructed set. It was cold, not just in temperature, but in its impersonal, almost arrogant display of wealth.

It felt less like a sanctuary for personal hygiene and more like a gilded cage.

The heavy, dark drapes had no windows, no view of the outside world, reinforcing a horrifying sense of being cut off.

Who is this guy? What kind of person built a bathroom like this? What kind of person is he?

And more terrifyingly, why was I here, a law student with a month to live, in a place that reeked of ancient, unfathomable wealth and secrets?

The luxurious details, instead of comforting, made her feel even more vulnerable, a tiny, exposed speck in a world clearly not meant for her.

It was beautiful, yes, but overwhelmingly, intimidatingly beautiful, and it made the dread in her stomach knot even tighter.

He lowered her into the vast tub, and the hot water enveloped her, a stark contrast to the icy terror coiling in her gut.

It should have been soothing, cleansing, but every warm tendril that touched her skin felt like another layer of invasion.

She instinctively tensed, her muscles screaming in silent protest, but she was too sore, too exposed, too utterly helpless to truly fight the movement.

"You don't have to do this," she managed. "I can do it myself."

"Stay still," he commanded.

She kept quiet, taken aback by the authority in his tone. Her breath hitched. This was happening. He was bathing her, like a child, like a pet, like... like she was his property.

Then came the scrub, gentle against her skin, followed by the cloying, unfamiliar scent of body wash. His hands were firm, deliberate, moving over her with an unnerving gentleness, washing her arms, her neck, her breasts. Each stroke was a fresh wave of humiliation, a confirmation of her utter lack of control.

Humiliation burned through her, hotter than the water, scalding her from the inside out. Every stroke of the scrub, every brush of his hands on her skin, felt like an invasion, even as the warmth of the water tried to trick her body into relaxing.

How could this be happening? Her mind screamed. This isn't just a one-night stand. This isn't normal. He's... he's bathing me. Like a child. Like a possession. A burning shame flared through her, heating her cheeks even more than the water. She wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the rising steam, to be anywhere but here, under his touch, under his gaze.

She wanted to scream, to push him away, but his eyes, his voice... they promised a consequence she didn't want to discover. She felt utterly exposed, utterly helpless.

She tried to close off, to retreat somewhere deep inside herself, to pretend she wasn't here, that his hands weren't on her. But her senses were hyper-aware. She could feel the soft rasp of the scrub, the slick slide of the soap, the warmth of the water, the unsettling pressure of his fingers tracing paths across her skin. It wasn't rough or aggressive, but that almost made it worse. It felt too intimate, too possessive, stripped of any consent or desire on her part.

I don't know this man. I don't know his name. And he's... washing me. The absurdity of it warred with the stark, terrifying reality. A helpless fury boiled inside her, thick and suffocating. She couldn't fight, couldn't scream, not really, not when she was this vulnerable. Every muscle throbbed from the night before, and the intimate contact made her painfully aware of how sore and violated she already felt between her legs.

This wasn't an act of care; it was an act of dominance. It was a clear, undeniable statement: You are mine. I own this moment. I own you.

What did he want? Why was he doing this? It was too much, too intimate, too terrifying. All she could do was tremble and pray he would finish.

As she looked forward, she was slapped in the face by her reflection from the full-length mirror before her. She turned red when she noticed her entire body was covered in bite marks—from her neck, her arms, and ears, with evidence of how intense the night was all over her body.

Her jaw clenched so hard it ached. All she could do was stare at the water, or at his face, searching for some flicker of explanation, some hint of a normal human being behind that calm, predatory gaze. But there was nothing. Only that unnerving quietness.

After he was done, he dried her hair, helped her into his shirt, and carried her back to the room, placing her gently on the bed.

When they got inside, Rhea noticed the bed was already arranged.

She didn't hear anything when they were in the bathroom, she pondered.

"Where are my clothes?" Rhea asked.

"In the laundry," he answered.

"What about my bag?" she asked again.

"Safe," he answered, squatting down to her level.

What does he want now? She shifted back a little.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Going somewhere?"

Well, yeah! I need to get the hell out of here. I can't demand too strongly, because I feel like he's not going to let me go if I push too much. Because I know no sane person would treat a possible one-night stand as he's been treating me. Only a serial killer, a psychopath, or an organ harvester.

"Yes, I actually have an appointment today. That's why I'm asking," she lied.

"Oh really? Well, it's still morning," he replied, as if he was aware she was lying, while bringing out his buzzing phone from his pocket, still in his squatting position.

What? That's not how you tell time! she thought.

"Okay, I've to be on my way now. Thanks for taking care of me. I'd need my clothes now," she said, trying to get off the large bed.

He scooped her up in his arms, opened the bedroom door, and walked out of the room.

Rhea gasped. OMG! What is this? Is he a prince or something? Or does a king lives here? she thought, looking at him.