The morning light comes through the window, cutting across the bed in a clean line. Elena wakes to the emptiness first. The space beside her is cool, the sheets ruffled and disturbed where Liam had been. She sits up. The room is silent, hollowed out by his absence.
She looks around. Their clothes from last night are gone. She looks for Liam. The room is empty, nothing adrift from the usual aside from the tangled up sheets. And something on the nightstand. On it, a small square note card. Picking it up, she finds under it a flat, rectangular pack of pills, sealed in silver foil.
She picks up the pack first. It’s light. Cold. Twenty-eight small blisters arranged in neat rows. The pharmaceutical name means nothing to her, but the purpose clicks into place. These looked like what she heard was called the Mini-Pills. 28 pills. She’d never had this before, but she knew what it was. Birth control.
Her hand doesn’t tremble. It just goes cold. She sets the pack down and picks up the note.
His handwriting is black ink, stark and angular. No greeting. No signature. Just a command;
This is Today's Command: You will start taking these every day.
She read it once.
Then Again.
She reads it three times—slower. The words don’t change. The silence in the room amplifies them, makes them echo off the high ceiling. Every day…
Her mind tries to rationalise it, grasping for something practical.
It would make things easier. Safer. No constant thought of condoms, of failure, of risk. Liam… he would think ahead like that.
Her thoughts falter briefly, catching on the memory of him. The size of him. The thought of a condom breaking. Maybe that was part of it.
She exhales, slow, unsteady, trying to clear the terrifying thought from her mind.
She looks at the pack again.
She could put it back. Close the drawer. Say no.
She isn’t naïve. There would be consequences—of course there would be.
What if she told him she wasn’t comfortable with taking them? Would he stop wanting me?
Quickly shaking the dreadful thought from her head, she swings her legs out of bed. She walks to the window to look outside, the note crumpling slightly in her fist. Outside, the grounds are perfectly still. He’d left this note and left her. Vanishing without a sign.
But there was a sign. Her body feels strange. Aching in specific places—the inside of her thighs, a tenderness low in her belly—that were from him last night. And now this pack on the nightstand, claiming her future. His control didn’t end when he left the bed. It was just beginning its next phase.
She returns to the nightstand. Picks up the pack again. Peels back the foil covering the first pill. It’s a tiny, pale disc.
The weight is nothing. The thought of the choice weighed more. She rolls it between her fingers and thumb. It’s smooth. Hard. A manufactured thing that will dissolve into her blood, whispering to her ovaries. His command made chemical.
It shouldn’t feel like obedience. But it does. And Worse—Some part of her… likes it.
No. It’s her choice. It has to be…
To take it is to confirm the behaviour she showed last night. It is to acknowledge that his claim isn’t temporary, isn’t confined to the hours he spends between her legs. It is administrative. It is foresight. He is planning for a future where he might want her again, and again, without the inconvenience of life-altering consequences. This pill is his signature on a deed to block her fertility and to be able to claim her.
Her mouth is dry. She goes to the bathroom. Turns on the tap. Filling the glass cup. She looked up at herself in the mirror. Her hair is a wild tangle from his hands. There’s a faint red mark on her shoulder; she remembers it was left on her from his mouth. Evidence of possession.
She brings the pill to her lips. The air in the room feels thinner. This is the gate. On one side, the woman who owned her own body, her own business, her own potential futures. On the other hand, the woman who belongs to Liam Thorn. She breathes in. She had to make a choice…
She made her decision…
She places the pill on her tongue. It sits there for only a moment before her throat works it down, letting it disappear into her stomach.
She knew he wouldn’t hear, but she decided to say it anyway.
“Yes, Sir.”
It’s done. The simple act of making a monumental shift. She feels the pill disappear down her throat, a small, the thought of a cold stone sinking into her stomach.
She sets the glass down. Look at the remaining twenty-seven pills in their neat grid. A calendar of compliance. She walks to the bath and starts running hot water. Letting it fill up, she pours in some bubble bath solution.
She then walks into the bedroom and grabs the remaining pack of pills, placing them in the nightstand drawer. Her phone sits nearby on the nightstand, next to Liam’s note. She picks it up, the small green screen lighting her face. Three new messages. Two from her mother. One from Marco.
Her mom’s texts are a familiar rhythm. How’s my girl? We haven’t heard from you in a few days. Everything okay with the internship? The reminder of her lie fills her with guilt.
She types, thumbs moving fast. Everything’s great, Mom. Really busy. Learning so much. It’s been intense but really good. She hesitates, then adds, Love you. Sends it.
Marco’s message is shorter. Hey. You alive? No mention of his debt. No mention of Liam. Just her little brother checking in. The lie tastes like ash. I’m alive, you brat, she types. Internship is keeping me on my toes and helping me figure stuff out. It’s not a lie, not really. She is figuring stuff out. She just can’t tell him everything. She hits send and closes the phone, placing it down on the wood. The screen goes dark.
Returning to the bathroom, she finds the bath water is almost to the rim, with frothing white bubbles and a jasmine scent. She turns off the tap and grabs a hair tie, throwing her hair up into a bun to keep it out of the water.
She steps into the water. It’s almost scalding, a sharp bite that makes her gasp. She sinks anyway, letting the heat swallow her legs, her hips, her stomach. It burns the ache out of her muscles, removing any ghost his hands left her.
She leans back. The bubbles cover her to the collarbones. She closes her eyes. Tries to find the woman who would one day own her own gallery. The one with a business plan and a future she charted herself. The image shifted and became waterlogged, blurred. All she sees are images of her out on the open water. His hands on the wheel.
The heat sears through the cold knot of tension between her shoulder blades, forcing her muscles to unclench. Her skin turns a blotchy, angry pink under the water. She focuses on the sting and enjoys its effects.
She sinks deeper until the waterline touches her chin. The bubbles pop against her throat with tiny, damp explosions. The jasmine scent is cloying now, too sweet, sticking in the back of her throat. She breathes through her mouth, the air cooler.
Her mind wanders as she soaks in the tub. She starts to think of the underwater reef, its beauty. She thinks of the conch shell… but then her mind shifts to the reminder of almost drowning, the pain and heaviness she felt as water filled her chest.
She tries the gallery again. Working to clear her mind of the fearsome thought. The clean white walls. The track lighting. The smell of coffee and paint on canvas. But the image warps. The white walls become the dark room of the beachhouse. The smell of paint becomes the smell of him. Her chest tightens, a different kind of ache.
A faint, traitorous pulse starts between her legs. A memory of fullness. Of him stretching her. It’s a phantom sensation, slick and hot, and it makes her shift in the water. The movement sends a small wave sloshing against the porcelain. The sound is loud in the quiet room.
Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the quiet click of the bedroom door opening, then shutting. Footsteps. Not some maid’s soft shuffle, or Presley’s voice calling for her. These are deliberate, measured. Leather soles on the marble floor. Her heart kicks against her ribs. She doesn’t move. The bathroom archway hides nothing, steam curling through the gap.
The footsteps stop just beyond the archway. Elena doesn’t lift her head from where it rests against the porcelain. Through the veil of steam, she sees him. Liam. A dark silhouette framed by the doorway, his blue eyes finding her instantly through the haze. Behind him, two young women in crisp black-and-white maid uniforms glide past, their arms laden with piles of fabric in almost every variety of colours. She hears the soft rustle and thump as they deposit the clothing onto the massive bed in the other room.
“Sort it,” Liam says, his voice carrying without effort. “Hanging items in the wardrobe. Folded pieces in the top three drawers of the armoire.”
“Yes, Sir,” she hears them say. Something pulls tight in her chest. Sharp. Immediate. She doesn’t like how easily they say it. How naturally it comes. As if the word belongs to anyone.
She hears the maids set to work, the sounds of hangers sliding and drawers opening, a quiet counterpoint to the pounding of Elena’s heart. Liam’s figure then appears in the archway between her bathroom and bedroom. His gaze quickly locked on the bath, on the shape of her obscured by bubbles. She sinks a fraction lower, the waterline touching her bottom lip. She keeps her nose just above the surface, breathing shallowly, hiding. A hot flush of embarrassment wars with a sharper, darker curl of excitement low in her belly.
He steps through the archway. The bathroom feels smaller. He doesn’t stop at the threshold. He walks right up to the edge of the deep tub, his leather shoes lightly tapping on the marble tile. Elena remains statue-still, her green eyes wide, watching him over the mountain of froth.
Liam crouches down. The expensive wool of his suit jacket brushes the rim. His breath is warm against the damp shell of her ear, a stark contrast to the steamy air. “I loved last night,” he whispers, the words a rough, private confession. “Every sound you made. Every shudder. Did you follow my order this morning?”
Elena’s lips part. She lifts her mouth just clear of the water. Her voice almost a whisper. “Yes, Sir.”
He doesn’t straighten up. With his other hand, he begins to methodically unfasten the cufflink of his left sleeve. He sets it on the ledge of the tub with a soft *click*. He rolls the crisp white fabric back, once, twice, exposing his forearm. The skin is pale, the veins pronounced, the muscles and tendons shifting under the surface.
Without ceremony, he plunges his bare hand and arm into the water, through the blanket of bubbles. He doesn’t react to the heat. His fingers find the smooth skin of her inner thigh, just above her knee. His grip is instant, possessive, and hard. Not painful, but unquestionably firm. His palm was almost cool against her heated skin underwater. He squeezes once, a deliberate pulse of pressure, his fingers digging into the soft muscle.
Elena gasps, a bubble of air escaping her lips. Her body jolts in the water, causing a small wave that almost sloshes over the edge. He holds the grip, his blue eyes watching her face, reading every flicker of reaction.
“I’m sorry I had to leave you this morning,” he says, his voice still low. “I have business to handle.” I’m leaving the estate today. I won’t be back until late Tuesday evening.”
The words land like stones in the water around her. Tuesday… It was only Saturday. He would be gone for three days. The sudden, yawning prospect of hours—Days and more—stretches out in her mind, empty and terrifying. Not able to spend it around him. The dependency is a cold shock.
“Can I come with you?”
The question hangs in the steam. Liam’s expression doesn’t change. His thumb stops its slow, circling press against her outer thigh. “No.”
The word hits harder than it should. Not anger. Something sharper. Rejection.
He releases her thigh. His hand withdraws from the water, dripping. Grabbing a nearby towel, he dries his arm and straightens, looking down at her as he unrolls his sleeves. “Presley will see to your needs. The maids are outfitting you with more clothing. The clothes are yours. Wear what you like while I am gone.”
He turns, as if to leave, then pauses. He glances back at her, a final, sweeping assessment. “Remember. The pills are a command, Elena. Not a suggestion. You will take one every morning. I’ll be sure to punish you if you don’t.”
Then he is walking away, through the archway, past the maids who are meticulously sorting outfits. Elena hears a brief, murmured exchange, the maids’ deferential “Yes, Mr Thorn,” and then the heavier sound of the main bedroom door opening and clicking shut.
Silence floods back in after a moment as the maids leave. She can feel the ache between her legs; the phantom fullness is gone, replaced by a hollow, empty throb. The imprint of his hand on her thigh feels branded hotter into her skin than the water.
She sits up slowly, water streaming from her shoulders. The bubbles have begun to dissipate, revealing the pale, pink-blotched landscape of her body. She looks over the rim of the tub. The bedroom is empty now.
Elena stands, water sluicing off her in a torrent. She steps out onto the bath mat, her body steaming in the cooler air. She doesn’t reach for a towel. She walks, dripping, into the bedroom. The air chills her skin, pebbling her nipples into tight peaks. On the bed, a single item remains: a slip of black silk, laid out with deliberate care. She stops beside the bed, looking down at the silk. It was a new black dress. Similar to the last one, with a softer bustier top and short, flowing silk skirt.
She turns from the bed and walks to the large wardrobe. She pulls one of the doors open. Inside, A lot of new clothes—a few simple jeans, soft cotton blouses, and new skirts. Hanging in perfect, spaced order is a new wardrobe. Sheath dresses in shades that complement her colouring. Other styles of outfits. Everything fits the aesthetic of the Manor. Looking at them, every outfit looked perfectly tailored to fit her form. Almost all accentuates her female form.
In the drawers, she finds them full of new underwear. All types of sexy ones, with a few bras to match some sets. Pyjamas that were more like Lingere…
She stood there, stunned—a naked, still water-soaked before the new clothing. The chill snapped her out of her daze. She closes the wardrobe door.
She finally goes back to grab a towel from the bathroom and wraps it around herself, tucking it tightly above her breasts.
She starts to think of what to wear. Thinking of all the options. Her first thought: What would Liam like most? Then she remembers… He won’t be here today.
She sinks onto the edge of the bed, the towel clinging to her damp skin. The black silk dress was still beside her. She picks it up. Bring it to her face. She takes it to the wardrobe and hangs it up.
Outside, through the tall windows, she hears the distinctive, powerful purr of an engine turning over. A car. *His* car. She thinks about him leaving as she stays on the bed. What is she going to do now?
When silence reigns again, she lies back on the covers. The towel comes undone, baring her body to the empty room. The hollow ache returns, deeper now.
She misses him.
After spending over an hour taking time to re-read some of Amara’s few journal entries. The silence starts to get to her. She can’t stay here anymore.
She gets up and dresses. Choosing and slipping on a new pair of clothes. She finds simple black leggings and a soft grey short-sleeved shirt that clings to her frame. It’s cute. Casual. Nothing like the silk he left for her. She liked how much she could move around in it.
The manor feels empty, almost still, without life. Her footsteps on the floor come in louder than they should. She decides to go and enter the billiard room, with its familiar dark wood and green felt table in the centre of the room. The air is still. She racks the balls, the clack of ivory sharp in the quiet. She breaks. The balls scatter, a satisfying crack, but the game is just geometry. There’s no offer, no challenge, or play to win in this game. She sinks three stripes before missing an easy shot. The silence swallows the sound of the cue ball rolling to a stop. Boredom continues to linger with her. Finally pushing away the rest of the balls back into the pockets without finishing, she leaves the room to find something else to do.
The library is worse. The usual smell of leather and old paper usually comforts her. Now it feels like a museum. She pulls a random volume from a shelf—a dense history of maritime trade—and sinks into a wingback chair by the cold fireplace. She stares at the same paragraph for ten minutes. The words are just black marks. All she can think of is Liam’s presence around her.
Giving up on trying to read, she walks. Traversing through hallways lined with an occasional plant on small tables, past sunlit parlours no one uses. She sees a maid dusting a vase, her head bowed and silent as she works. Another vacuuming of a distant corridor. They don’t look at her. She might as well be a ghost in Liam’s manor.
The need to feel air, real air, not this perfumed stillness, drives her outside. The rear patio is a vast stone overlooking the bay. The salt wind hits her, cold and bracing. It tangles her long brown hair. She grips the railing, her knuckles white. The water is grey, choppy. Empty. She spends some time just enjoying the breeze and view till a noise interrupts the calm.
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, sound on the patio stones behind her. She turns.
The man is huge. Not just tall, but broad, his shoulders straining the fabric of a simple black tactical shirt. Victor. She remembers the name from before. Head of security. His face is all hard planes, his gaze scanning the tree line, the shore, before it lands on her. Assessing. Not hostile. Professional.
“Miss Rossi.” His voice is a low rumble. “Everything alright?”
Elena doesn’t know what makes her say it. Maybe the coiled energy in her gut. Maybe the feeling of being a decoration in a gilded cage. “Victor, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What exactly do you do for Mr. Thorn?”
One dark brow lifts slightly. “I keep him alive. I keep his assets secure.” His eyes flick over her, and a soft grin covers his mouth. His eyes are always keeping a security scan of what’s around him. “Of course, that includes guests like yourself. If you need anything, you come to me.”
The thought of Amara’s journal flashed in her head. The risks and dangers of the world she was in made her feel the need to prepare. The idea forms, sudden and bright. A way to turn the ache into something else. “Could you train me?”
His expression doesn’t change, but the stillness deepens. “Train you?”
“In hand-to-hand combat. The basics.”
He looks at her—really looks. At her slender frame in the soft clothes, at her green eyes, which are probably too wide, too earnest. “Why?” He asks curiously.
“I guess I just don’t always want to feel helpless and weak around people.” She admits to not only him, but herself.
A long moment passes. The wind whips between them. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible shrug rolls through his massive shoulders. “I’ve got spare time. Why not. Sounds entertaining. Follow me.”
He disappears into the house. Elena follows, her heart beating a strange, hopeful rhythm against her ribs. He takes her through the servants' corridor and down an unknown stairway around the corner from the end of the hall. Descending a level, she walks into a large open garage. The garage spanned the entire length of the manor. One large room with a few different cars parked silently inside. Each polished to perfection.
She sees one of the security vehicles with its black tint. Looks just like the one she and Liam went to for dinner, and when he picked her up from her apartment. Further back, she saw three more vehicles.
“What cars are these?” She asks Victor.
He looks at her curiously. “These are Mr. Thor’s personal vehicle collection. This first one.” He directs the silver car, a convertible with its top down. “This one is a 1971 Plymouth Hemi ‘Cuda. This one was his father’s. He always ensures that it is maintained and treated well. Rarely uses.”
He directs to the second one. “This one is his personal pick. A 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454.” This car was blue, with two black lines stretching down the middle from front to back. Both cars looked to be about the same era. “This one his father got him, and the two restore.”
“The last one,” A black vehicle stood spotless and shining off every overhead light. Is a Lamborghini Aventador. Liam’s latest addition. Though he rarely takes it out.”
“Wow. I’m amazed. They’re all so beautiful.” She looks them over.
“I’m sure he would be happy to hear you say that. Though these days we only tend to take the security cars… Now. You asked for training. Is that still what you want?” He says as he approaches a back area. Gym equipment and a training mat on the floor.
“I had no idea this was down here." She pauses to look over the different equipment. “Yes, I still want that.”
“Know that I will do my best not to harm you, but injury may occur. Do you accept?”
“Yes.” She says the conviction is heard in her voice.
“Good, we start with escapes,” he says, his tone shifting into instructor mode. Flat. Direct. “Most attacks, someone’s gonna grab you. Wrist. Arm. From behind. Your goal isn’t to win a fight. It’s to break contact and run. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Give me your wrist.”
She extends her right arm. His hand envelops her forearm, his fingers like iron bands. The contact is startling. Not like Liam’s touch. This is impersonal, clinical. But solid. Real.
“Feel where my thumb is. The weakest point of the grip is right there, in the web between my thumb and finger. You don’t pull against my strength. You’re not strong enough. You rotate.” He guides her hand, his grip unyielding. “Turn your wrist into the weakness. A sharp, sudden motion. Like turning a key. Try.”
She tries. She pulls. His hand doesn’t budge.
“You’re thinking. Don’t think. Your body knows. It’s a twist. Fast.” He releases her. “Again.”
This time, she focuses on the pivot of her bone, the snap of her joint. She twists her wrist sharply inward, driving it toward the gap in his grip. His thumb gives. Her arm slips free.
“Better.”
They move to a rear bear hug. He stands behind her, his arms like steel cables locking around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. His chest is a wall against her back. The position is instantly, overwhelmingly claustrophobic. It steals her breath. For a dizzying second, it’s not Victor. It’s the memory of Liam’s possession, his body enveloping hers, the lack of air.
“Panic is your enemy,” Victor’s voice is in her ear, calm. “You have air. Use it. Drop your weight. Now.”
She lets her knees buckle, a dead drop. His grip shifts to hold her up. “Good. Now, stomp my instep. Hard.”
She brings her heel down on his boot. It’s a solid impact, felt up her leg.
“Simultaneously, drive your elbow back into my gut. Then, the moment I loosen, you turn and run. Don’t look back. Don’t go for a second shot. Run.”
They drill it. Again and again. The stomp, the elbow strike, the twist and break. Her body learns the sequence. The hollow ache in her belly is gone, replaced by a burning in her muscles, a sheen of sweat on her skin despite the cold air. It feels good. It feels like purpose.
He teaches her a basic block against a wild punch, using her forearm to deflect, then a sharp palm-heel strike to the nose. “Target the soft parts. Eyes, nose, throat, groin. There is no fighting fair. There is only survival.”
She is panting, strands of hair stuck to her temples. Her hands are starting to sting. She has never been physical like this. Her world was business plans and brush strokes. This is something else. This is the body he wanted to control, learning to fight.
Victor calls a halt after an hour. He isn’t even breathing heavily. “Enough for today. You’ll be sore tomorrow.”
Elena stands on the mat, her legs trembling slightly. The wind cools the sweat on her neck. She feels raw. Used. Alive. “Thank you, Victor.”
He gives a single nod, rolling up the mat. “We’ll do this again, if you want. Same time tomorrow. It’s a good distraction.” His eyes meet hers, and for a second, the professional mask slips, revealing something like understanding. “For both of us.”
He walks back upstairs, leaving her on the mat. The ache is different now. It’s the pleasant burn of worked muscle, the imprint of his instruction on her mind. She had never been an active person before. Sometimes went swimming, but never into any sports or activities. But for a couple of hours, she wasn’t just waiting. She was learning how to survive. If she had to live in his world. She wanted to be ready.