Chapter three
The silence in the mansion wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating.
Not the kind of quiet that soothed your nerves or stilled your thoughts — this was the kind that made you feel watched even when no one was there. It lingered in the corners, heavy and waiting, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Aveline sat on the edge of her bed, the silk nightgown clinging to her skin. It felt too soft, too thin like the clothes had been chosen deliberately to strip her of armor.
She hadn't slept. She didn't dare.
Not after the way he looked at her yesterday like he already knew what she feared, what she wanted, what she could survive.
And what she couldn't.
---
Morning arrived without a knock on her door.
No one called for her. No food. No water. Not even the girl from the day before.
Just silence.
Aveline paced the room like a caged animal, her stomach tight with hunger, but her pride bigger. She wouldn't beg. Not yet.
Another hour passed.
The door wasn't locked.
She stared at the handle like it was bait.
Eventually, she opened it.
---
She wandered the halls until she found a sunlit corridor lined with glass a greenhouse. Plants grew in precise rows, white roses and orchids blooming in still air. It was too perfect. Even the leaves looked staged.
Then she saw him.
Dominic stood near the center, shears in hand, trimming thorns with casual precision. He wasn't dressed like a man who lived in chaos dark slacks, buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, each movement calculated.
He didn't acknowledge her.
She stood there for too long, unsure if she was allowed to speak. The rules were unwritten, but she could feel them tightening around her throat.
"I'm hungry," she said at last.
Still, he didn't look up. "You weren't given permission to leave your room."
"No one came."
"You assumed that meant you could do as you pleased?"
She stepped forward. "I thought maybe I was forgotten."
Dominic glanced at her then, slowly, eyes flicking over her bare feet, the way her nightgown clung to her legs. "You're not the kind of person anyone forgets."
He went back to clipping.
"Then why ignore me?"
"You disobeyed," he said simply. "You don't get rewarded for that."
"I was hungry," she repeated.
"There are consequences for breaking the rules," he murmured, "even when you're starving."
She clenched her fists. "You think withholding food makes you powerful?"
"I don't need to think it." He looked at her again, this time without warmth. "I know it does."
---
They stood in silence. Her stomach growled loudly.
He smiled faintly. Not kindly.
"You're proud," he said. "I like that. It makes what comes next... more interesting."
"I don't care what you like."
His smile disappeared.
A beat of silence passed. Then he stepped forward, slow and precise, until there was barely an inch between them. She forced herself not to move.
"You will," he said. "Eventually, you'll care very much."
Her heart pounded, but she refused to let it show.
He reached out not to touch her but to take the sheer ribbon that hung from her neckline. He ran it between his fingers once before letting it drop.
"You don't know how fragile you are yet," he murmured. "But you will."
---
Later, in the dining room, she was forced to sit at a long table while he watched from the other end. The food was placed in front of her, untouched. She didn't eat at first.
She waited until he spoke.
"You may eat," he said, as though granting permission to a dog.
She picked up her fork. Each bite tasted like sawdust.
Dominic never looked away. He wasn't eating,just drinking something dark from a crystal glass, eyes fixed on her like she was a puzzle he was bored of solving.
"You think this is punishment," she said finally.
He tilted his head.
"It's not," she continued, her voice cold. "You can't punish someone who's already lost everything."
Dominic rose from his seat.
Her breath caught.
He walked around the table, slow and silent, stopping behind her. She tensed.
"You believe your suffering makes you untouchable," he said quietly. "That surviving makes you strong."
"It does," she whispered.
He leaned close to her ear. "You're confusing endurance with power. You've learned how to bleed quietly. That's not strength. That's habit."
She stood abruptly, turning to face him. "And what about you? Is this strength? Hurting someone who can't fight back?"
His eyes narrowed.
"I'm not afraid of you," she lied.
Dominic stepped forward. "Say that again."
"I'm not afraid of you."
He struck her.
Across the face grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to the wall in a single, brutal motion. The breath rushed out of her lungs.
The pain was immediate, hot and sharp.
"You think pain makes you powerful?" he said, voice calm, controlled. "Let me remind you what it feels like when someone else is in control."
Her cheek scraped the wall. Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry out.
"Do you want to test how far I'll go?" he asked.
"No."she whimpered
"Then you'll stop pretending you're something more than what you are."
He released her.
She stumbled back, cradling her wrist. Her pulse throbbed in her ears, but she kept her chin up.
Dominic didn't apologize. He didn't even look guilty.
He simply turned away and said, "You'll spend the night in the basement. Maybe the cold will remind you who's in charge."
---
The basement wasn't dirty. That would've been too merciful.
It was spotless. Sterile. A room with no windows, no warmth. Just stone walls and a thin blanket on a concrete floor.
The door locked behind her with a soft click.
She sat in the corner, shivering, wrist throbbing.
She hated him.
But more than that, she hated how part of her had expected it. Like she'd known something like this was coming, and still walked into his house anyway.
Maybe that made her weak.
Or maybe just… honest.
---
The hours dragged.
She thought of her father the proud man who once stood tall in courtrooms and crumbled in silence at home. She thought of her mother, whose hands shook when pouring tea, who slept with the lights on, and who always told Aveline to smile and obey.
"Be good, Aveline."
"Be quiet."
"Don't make enemies."
And yet here she was. Locked underground by the very man who'd destroyed them.
Dominic Cross hadn't just taken her future.
Now he was rewriting her present.
---
When the door finally opened, she blinked against the sudden light.
It was morning.
Dominic stood there, perfectly dressed, holding a coat.
"Put this on."
She didn't move.
He stepped forward and threw the coat at her. "Now."
She pulled it around her shoulders, struggling not to wince.
He looked at her wrist already swollen and said nothing.
No apology. No regret. Just cold, perfect indifference.
---
They walked in silence back to her room. The guards along the hall turned their faces away.
When they arrived, he opened the door but didn't let her pass.
Instead, he looked down at her and said, "Next time you speak out of turn, I won't just remind you who's in charge. I'll make you beg to forget."
Then he walked away, leaving her in the doorway cold, bruised, and breathless
---
She didn't leave the room.
Not out of obedience.
Out of fear.
Her wrist ached.
Her shoulder throbbed.
But the worst pain was in her chest a tight, trembling weight that made her feel like she was suffocating under invisible hands.
She didn't know how long she stood there. The light in the hallway never changed. The air never moved.
Hours, maybe.
Then the lock turned.
Not from the hallway.
From inside.
Another door in the room.
The one she hadn't seen.
It clicked open just an inch.
Then silence.
She stared.
It didn't move further.
Didn't creak.
Didn't beckon.
But she could feel it.
Something waited beyond that door.
Something worse.
She backed away.
Her heart pounding.
---
That night, she curled into a corner of the bed.
Not to sleep.
To stay small.
To vanish.
She didn't cry.
But she wanted to.
Because her body remembered the pressure of his grip.
Her ears remembered his voice.
And her mind remembered something far more dangerous than pain:
The way part of her had almost believed him.
---
The next morning, there was food on a tray.
Not brought by hand.
Just there.
On the nightstand.
Bread. Eggs. Water.
No footsteps.
No face.
She didn't touch it at first.
But hunger had no pride.
She ate.
Quietly.
Slowly.
Like it was poisoned.
Because maybe it was.
Not with death.
But with debt.
---
She sat on the edge of the bed again, fingers digging into the blankets, eyes fixed on the mirror.
She didn't recognize herself.
Not the dark circles under her eyes.
Not the bruises along her wrist.
Not the silence she'd learned to keep like a weapon she didn't want to use.
Then she saw it.
A single item placed beneath the mirror.
A collar.
Thin.
Black.
No buckle.
Just a delicate silver ring at the center.
She didn't touch it.
Didn't move.
Just stared.
Because now she knew the truth.
He wasn't taming her.
He was branding her.