My hands flex. Then still.
I turn back to the men.
Tonight… they start talking.
The room is beautiful. That’s the first thing I notice, and it feels wrong that my brain latches onto something like that after everything that’s happened.
The bed is too big, draped in soft white sheets that look like they’ve never been touched by anything messy or real. The walls are warm, painted in a muted tone that should feel calming. There’s a fireplace across the room, dark for now, with stonework so clean it looks decorative instead of functional. A chandelier hangs overhead, not gaudy, just expensive in a way I don’t have a word for.
There are flowers on the table near the window. Fresh. Alive. The air smells like something light and expensive, not chemicals, not fear, not the damp rot of the place they kept me before.
Everything about this room says safe.
Everything about it is a lie.
I stand just inside the doorway, barefoot, still in the lingerie they put me in, my skin prickling under the weight of it, the collar cold and present against my throat. My body feels like it doesn’t belong to me yet. Every movement reminds me of hands, restraints, the way my limbs stopped feeling like my own.
The man who brought me here doesn’t speak. He steps back into the hall, and the door closes behind him with a soft click. Locked. Silence settles in immediately. Not the loud kind from before, filled with voices and footsteps and the constant reminder that I wasn’t alone. This is quiet in a way that presses in on my ears, like the room is holding its breath.
I take a step forward.The carpet sinks slightly under my feet, soft enough that it almost feels unreal. My legs protest the movement, muscles still tight, still sore, still recovering from being held in one position too long. I don’t rush it. I don’t push. Small movements. Controlled. Stay present. I move toward the bed and stop just short of it. I could sit. I don’t. Not yet. Sitting feels like giving in to the comfort of a place that doesn’t deserve to feel comfortable.
My eyes move around the room instead. A dresser along the wall, polished wood without a single scratch. A mirror above it, large enough to show my entire reflection. I don’t look at it. Not yet. A door to the right, probably a bathroom. Another to the left, likely a closet. Everything here is neat. Organized. Intentional. Nothing like the chaos I expected from the kind of man who would buy a woman.
My chest tightens.
I’d take the clubhouse over this any day.
The thought comes fast. Clear. No hesitation.
I’d take the noise. The chaos. The kids running through the room. The women arguing and laughing and moving like they belong. The men watching everything without making it feel like a cage. I’d take Cobra’s room. Small. Rough. His.
Over this. Over the quiet. Over the way this place looks like safety but feels like something else entirely.
I wrap my arms around myself without thinking, fingers pressing into my skin like I need the contact to remind me I’m still here. Still in my body. Still alive.
The silence stretches. Seconds. Minutes.
I don’t know.
Time feels different here. Less urgent. More suffocating.
I move toward the window, drawn by the faint glow of light outside. Heavy curtains frame it, but they’re pulled back enough to show the grounds. The estate stretches out farther than I expected. Lights line the driveway. Trees stand tall and trimmed, shadows cast in perfect shapes. There’s no movement I can see. No guards pacing. No obvious threat. That makes it worse. Because it means the threat is hidden. Organized. Controlled. A soft sound behind me pulls me from the window.
The door opens.
I turn immediately, body going still, every muscle tightening as I prepare for whatever comes next.
A man steps inside. He closes the door behind him without looking away from me. He’s not what I expected. That thought hits almost as hard as everything else tonight.
He’s dressed well. Not flashy. Not overdone. Just clean lines, tailored in a way that speaks of money without needing to announce it. Dark hair, slightly longer on top, pushed back. His face is calm. Not cold. Not warm. Controlled. His eyes move over me. Not like the others. Not lingering. Not hungry. Assessing. That’s the word that fits. Like he’s looking at a situation, not a body. “Olivia,” he says.
My name. Not lot number. Not inventory.It hits me harder than it should. I don’t answer right away.
He doesn’t rush me. He steps farther into the room, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberate. Not predatory. Not careless. Controlled. “I’m Matteo Vittorio,” he adds. The name settles into place. Buyer. The man who owns this house. The man who bought me.
I swallow. “Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He studies me for a moment. Not offended. Not surprised. Like he expected that question. “Because you were available,” he says.
