The car ride to Adrian Blake's mansion was long and unbearably silent. Amara sat stiffly in the leather seat, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, staring out at the sprawling city that blurred past the tinted windows. Beside her, Adrian remained a stoic figure, his gaze fixed ahead as if she wasn't even there.
When the car finally slowed and turned onto a long, private driveway, Amara's heart sank. Before her loomed a massive estate — a palace of cold stone and sharp angles, surrounded by endless iron gates and immaculately trimmed hedges. It was breathtaking, but it wasn't a home. It looked like a fortress, designed to keep people out — or trap them inside.
The car stopped. The driver opened her door, and Amara stepped out, feeling the weight of the mansion's gaze settle on her shoulders.
The front door swung open, revealing a line of servants standing stiffly, heads bowed. A tall, thin man in a crisp black suit — clearly the head butler — stepped forward.
"Welcome, Miss De Luca," he said in a voice devoid of warmth. "The Master is expecting you."
Amara flinched slightly at the title. Master — the word sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Adrian didn't wait for her. He was already ascending the marble steps, his long strides impatient. Swallowing her nerves, Amara hurried after him, her footsteps echoing loudly in the hollow entrance hall.
The mansion was breathtaking inside — chandeliers dripping crystals, walls lined with expensive paintings, polished floors that reflected the gold light like a mirror. But despite all its splendor, it felt unbearably cold.
---
They came to a stop in a grand sitting room. Without looking at her, Adrian spoke, his voice sharp and businesslike.
"These are the house rules," he began. "You will stay in the east wing. You will not enter my office, my bedroom, or any locked rooms. Meals are served at seven, twelve, and seven again. If you are not there on time, you eat alone."
Amara's hands twisted the hem of her sweater. She wanted to scream, to tell him she wasn't a prisoner, but she bit her tongue.
"You will not interfere with my work. You will not ask questions about my life or my business. You are here to fulfill the terms of our agreement. Nothing more."
His cold, final words struck her like a slap. Amara's chest ached, but she kept her face blank, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
"Understood," she whispered.
Adrian gave a small, dismissive nod. "Good."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the cavernous room.
---
Dinner was no better.
They sat at a table so long she felt like they were in different time zones. Silver platters and steaming dishes were laid out before them, but the air was thick with tension. Amara barely touched her food. Every movement, every clink of silverware against porcelain, echoed unnervingly.
Adrian ate in silence, his movements precise and mechanical. Occasionally, his gaze would lift to her, cold and unreadable, before returning to his plate.
She hated it — the silence, the distance, the feeling of being watched like an inconvenience. She missed the noisy dinners with her father, the laughter, the simple warmth of home.
She forced a few bites down, knowing she needed her strength, but the food tasted like ash in her mouth.
---
When dinner ended, Amara rose stiffly, eager to retreat to the small corner of the mansion she could call her own.
As she turned to leave the dining room, her foot caught on the edge of the ornate rug. She stumbled forward with a gasp, heart leaping into her throat.
Strong hands caught her arms just before she could hit the ground.
For a moment — just a heartbeat — she stared up into Adrian's face, shocked. His hands were firm but careful, steadying her easily. His eyes, dark and piercing, flickered with something almost human — a brief flash of concern.
Then, just as quickly, his expression shuttered. He released her roughly, stepping back as if she had burned him.
"Be careful," he said, his voice clipped.
Amara straightened, cheeks burning with humiliation and confusion. She opened her mouth to say something — anything — but he was already turning away.
She watched him disappear down the hallway, feeling more lost than ever.
---
Her room was beautiful in a cold, impersonal way — a massive bed, silk sheets, a fireplace that crackled quietly. But no matter how much gold and velvet dressed it up, it still felt like a prison cell.
Amara sat by the window, hugging her knees to her chest. Outside, the night stretched endlessly, a sea of black.
She thought about her father, about the promise she made to save him, no matter the cost. A lump formed in her throat, but she blinked the tears away fiercely.
She wouldn't cry.
She wouldn't break.
Not here. Not now.
If Adrian Blake thought he had purchased a meek, broken doll, he was wrong.
Deep inside, where even the cold couldn't reach, Amara's spirit burned brighter than ever.
I will survive this, she vowed silently. I will find my freedom again.
Even if it meant playing the silent storms of this mansion's twisted game.