The applause still echoed faintly behind the doors when Leona slipped away.
She didn't say a word to anyone. Didn't ask permission. Just stepped off the marble floor and walked calmly down the velvet-draped corridor, heels silent on thick rugs, heart still pounding with the echo of Lucien's breath at her ear.
I'd make you beg me to finish the job.
She pushed open the door marked PRIVATE, and stepped into a room that belonged in a palace.
Polished marble counters. Gold-rimmed mirrors. Soft amber light glowing from antique sconces. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
She walked to the sink. Stared at her reflection.
The red dress clung to her like lacquered armor. Her lips still perfect. Her hair untouched. But something in her eyes betrayed her sharp, glassy, too alert.
She turned on the faucet. Let cold water rush over her wrists.
And then
The door behind her clicked shut.
She froze.
In the mirror, a figure moved.
Not Lucien.
Not a guard.
Someone else.
Tall. Trim. A sharp suit that didn't match the evening's decor. A faint scar down his right cheek. He stood beside the chaise at the far wall like he'd been waiting.
Leona didn't move. Didn't turn.
Her voice was low. "I'm guessing you're not here for the hors d'oeuvres."
The man didn't smile. "You shouldn't be alone in this house."
Her fingers curled slightly against the counter. "Funny. I was told I'm never alone here."
He stepped closer, but not enough to trigger panic.
"I don't work for Lucien," he said. "Or his father. I work for the truth. And right now, it's locked behind their lies."
"That's poetic," she muttered, "but dangerously vague."
He reached into his jacket. Not fast. Not threatening. Just calm.
From inside, he pulled a small, unmarked flash drive and set it gently on the marble beside her.
"This won't get past the estate's network," he said. "You'll have to view it offline. Alone."
Her eyes didn't leave his reflection. "And if I scream right now?"
"You'll only prove you've got something to hide." He took a step back. "And I'm not the thing you should be hiding from."
Leona turned then.
But he was already gone.
The door clicked behind him.
She blinked.
Opened it.
Empty hallway.
No guards. No trace. No shadow.
She looked down at the flash drive.
Small. Silent. Dangerous.
Just like Lucien.
PART2: WHAT MONSTERS LEAVE BEHIND
The room greeted her like it always did—flawless, quiet, controlled.
She didn't even try the door.
Lucien had locked it behind her while she was still downstairs, she was sure of it. It was his way. He didn't punish in front of witnesses. He preferred to shut doors when no one was watching.
Leona tossed the flash drive onto the bed and crossed the room, dragging the vanity chair to her nightstand where the tablet waited.
No estate connection. No network. Just local storage.
Safe.
She plugged it in.
The file had no title.
No timestamp.
Just one video.
She pressed play.
The screen lit up. Dim room. A man pacing in front of a window. Back to the camera. And then
Lucien.
Younger. Maybe two years. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled, same posture, same impossible stillness. He was seated at a desk.
And then he spoke.
"If she refuses, we send the finger."
Leona's blood stopped.
He didn't look away from the man he was speaking to just calmly flipped a document on the desk and continued.
"Matteo's left hand. She's sentimental. That'll push her over. She'll sign."
The video paused there frozen on Lucien's face. Unbothered. Calculating.
The kind of expression worn by someone born without empathy.
She closed the tablet slowly, carefully, like it might burn her fingers.
Her reflection in the black screen looked different.
Not shocked.
Not even afraid.
Just… clear.
He hadn't just accepted the terms of the marriage.
He'd built the threat behind it.
And never told her.
PART 3: PAYMENT IN SILENCE
The tablet still sat on her lap when the lock clicked.
Not softly this time.
Deliberate.
Lucien stepped in like a shadow called home. Same dark shirt. Same sleeves. Same look that didn't blink, didn't ask.
He closed the door behind him with two fingers.
Locked it again.
Leona didn't move from the edge of the bed. Didn't speak.
Lucien's eyes dropped to the tablet. Saw the flash drive. Didn't comment.
"I assume you found something," he said.
Her voice was flat. "Is that what you're calling it?"
He didn't answer. He crossed the room, not close enough to reach her—just enough to tower.
"I didn't want you to find out like this."
"No," she said, rising, voice low and steady. "You didn't want me to find out at all."
He studied her face. Not searching for guilt. But for strategy.
"I made a decision," he said. "That decision saved your brother's life."
"You made a calculation," she snapped. "You called for a piece of him to be mailed to me. A finger, Lucien."
"You never got the finger, did you?"
"Oh, forgive me," she said sharply. "I must've missed the part where planning it doesn't count."
He stepped forward.
She didn't back away.
"You think this is cruelty," he said quietly, "but it's control. I used the language your father understands. Fear."
"Try using honesty next time."
"No one in this house survives with honesty."
She stared at him.
"I'm not in this house to survive," she whispered. "I'm here to make sure you regret underestimating me."
Lucien watched her.
Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped twice.
She heard the ping before the words registered.
Her account.
Frozen.
Again.
He tucked the phone away.
"Weekly allowance, reduced to half," he said coolly. "You want to act alone? You'll live alone."
Leona laughed once cold, empty.
"Don't you get tired of playing god?"
"I don't play." He stepped toward the door. "I build rules. And I keep them."
"And when I break them?"
He looked back over his shoulder.
"I lock the cage tighter."
Then he left.
The click of the lock behind him wasn't loud.
But it felt louder than a gunshot.
The door had barely closed before she turned to the nearest camera.
She could feel its gaze cold, constant, unblinking.
The red dot in the corner of the smoke detector glowed faintly. Watching. Recording. Always.
She walked to the center of the room, heels clicking sharp against the marble, and tilted her chin toward the ceiling.
"Half my allowance?" she said, her voice soft, conversational. "You really are petty."
She reached behind her and unzipped the gown.
Let it fall.
Not for modesty. Not for seduction. But because she knew exactly how to strike him where it hurt.
Control.
She changed into the same oversized T-shirt she wore her first night no silk. No lace. Nothing he chose.
Then she crossed the room, unplugged the tablet, snapped the flash drive in half with both hands, and dropped the pieces on the floor like broken promises.
Still staring into the camera.
"Punishment only works when I care about the prize, Lucien," she murmured.
She picked up her hairbrush. Calmly dragged it through her curls, slow strokes, precise.
Her reflection in the mirror was pale. Composed.
She didn't look like a woman unraveling.
Because she wasn't.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
She was adjusting.
Learning the edges of the walls.
Memorizing the game board.
And beneath that calm exterior, her mind was turning.
He thought he'd closed her in.
But he hadn't realized something yet.
She wasn't just the hostage.
She was the witness.
And soon she'd become the weapon.
The room was still lit.
Leona hadn't turned the lights off. She lay on top of the covers again, fully dressed, eyes open, heart quiet in her chest like a beast waiting to bite.
The door unlocked at 2:14 a.m.
She didn't sit up.
Lucien stepped inside, silent as always. No weapon. No phone. Just a chair in his hand.
He dragged it across the marble slow, unhurried and set it in the corner.
Then he sat.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He just… watched her.
Leona turned her head on the pillow. Met his eyes across the room.
"I'm not going to cry," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to apologize."
"I didn't ask you to."
She stared at him for a moment, searching for some trace of emotion.
There was none.
Only ice.
Only calculation.
"I should hate you," she said quietly.
He blinked. Just once. "You already do."
The silence stretched.
Then he asked it.
Not a command.
Not a threat.
Just a single question.
"Do you want out?"
Her breath caught.
Not because she didn't know the answer.
But because she didn't trust his reason for asking.
He watched her carefully.
"Say yes," he said, voice unreadable, "and I'll let you go. Tomorrow."
Leona sat up slowly, pushing her hair off her face.
"You're bluffing."
He didn't flinch. "Am I?"
Her fingers curled in her lap.
He waited.
She stared at him.
And then said, low and certain: "No."
Lucien didn't move.
Didn't nod.
Didn't smile.
He just stood.
Turned.
Walked to the door.
Before he opened it, he looked back once.
Not at her face.
At the broken flash drive on the floor.
Then he left.
The lock slid shut again behind him.
But this time, Leona didn't feel trapped.
She felt chosen.
And that was more dangerous than anything he could've done.