I pause. The sound is coming from the next hallway, just beyond the archway that opens into the west wing.
It’s none of my business, but then—
“David Chang,” one of the voices mutters.
The name freezes me where I stand.
I press my back against the wall, heart hammering, and tilt my head just enough to listen.
“They’re assembling in Manhattan,” one of the guards says. His voice is rough, nervous. “I heard it from the tech room. Half of David’s crew’s already landed.”
“How close?” the other asks.
“Close enough to taste blood.”
The words sink like ice down my spine.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat, but it’s useless. Every muscle in me tenses. They’re coming. They’re here.
Roman said he’d kill anyone who tried to take me. But what if he can’t stop them all? What if my father gets to him first?
I step away from the wall, shaking, the edges of panic clawing at my ribs. The walls of this estate that once felt like a fortress now feel like a cage.
I rush into the library, slamming the doors behind me before collapsing onto the chaise by the window. My chest heaves. The sunlight spilling across the floor feels too bright, too normal for the panic clawing through me.
Tears burn my eyes as I curl into myself, trembling. The thought of my father—his voice, his orders, his fury—doesn’t bring relief. It brings terror. For the first time, I realize I don’t want to go back to him.
I don’t want to go home.
I want to stay here.
With Roman.
The thought alone makes my heart twist. He terrifies me. He infuriates me. But underneath the anger and fear is something else—something dark and aching that I can’t name.
I bury my face in my hands as tears spill down my cheeks. I’m not afraid of being his prisoner anymore.
I’m afraid of what I’m starting to feel for him.
I stay in the library all day, jumping at every little sound that filters in from beyond the heavy doors—the creak of wood, the murmur of guards outside, even the faint echo of footsteps in the hall. Every noise feels like a threat. Like they’ve finally come for me.
Roman isn’t here. That’s what makes it worse.
Should I go find him? The thought crosses my mind again and again, sharp as a whisper I can’t silence. But no, he’ll only think I’m weak. I can already see the look in his eyes if I show up at his door trembling like this.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. My fingers tighten as I snatch a book off the shelf—something heavy and old, the kind of book that smells like dust and time. I don’t even look at the title. I just drop into the armchair and open it, pretending I can read when all I’m doing is trying not to fall apart.
I try to read for a while, eyes tracing the same sentence over and over until the words blur together. Nothing sticks. My mind refuses to stay still.
With a frustrated sigh, I drop the book onto the table and stand. Maybe painting will help. It usually does.
I walk to the easel in the corner, the one I haven’t touched since the last time I painted him. Roman. That painting is hidden behind the shelf now, buried beneath old books where no one will ever find it. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away—but I couldn’t stand to look at it either.
Now I just stand there, staring at the blank canvas. I don’t know what to paint. I don’t want to know. I just grab the brushes, the colors, anything I can reach, and start.
The strokes are wild, desperate. Reds and blacks, streaks of white that cut through like light struggling to breathe. I don’t think. I just feel. Every drag of the brush is anger, fear, confusion. The ache of wanting him. The terror of losing everything. The helplessness of being caught between two monsters—one who made me, and one who might just unmake me.
I’ve been painting for a long time and don’t know how much time has passed. I’m not hungry or thirsty. I just paint,letting every emotion spill onto the canvas. Then I hear a loud explosion that makes my ears ring and my heart slam into my ribs.