I don't remember how I got here.
One minute, I was screaming at Elias, telling him he was sick, twisted, obsessed.
The next… silence.
No exits. No windows. Just velvet drapes that didn't shift with any wind. A locked door. A room too elegant to be a prison, but far too quiet to be free.
He didn't hit me. He didn't even yell. He simply stood there, watching me fall apart — like a man admiring the collapse of a building he designed.
And now, here I was. Somewhere in the mansion. Somewhere hidden.
A warm robe hung on the back of the chair. My phone was gone. My clothes too. Replaced by a silk dress that clung to my skin and made me feel like porcelain — a doll dressed up for someone else's fantasy.
I should've run. I should've screamed until my throat bled.
But I didn't.
Because on the desk in front of me… was me.
Hundreds of versions of me — lined in glossy prints and yellowed paper. Pinned with notes. Time stamps. Arrows and obsessive details.
It started innocently enough — I recognized the bookstore where I used to study. A blurred image of me through the window, sipping coffee.
Then my first apartment. The library. The alley behind campus where I once cried after my father's death.
I couldn't breathe.
There were dates scrawled in handwriting I'd now recognize in the dark.
There were headlines of crimes in my city, circled in red ink, and on the margin, "She almost walked that street that night."
He had been watching me. Protecting me — if you twisted the word hard enough.
Then the final blow:
A black folder.
Inside: A photo of me as a freshman. Carrying too many books. My braid undone. Laughing at something Lila said.
And just behind me, blurred — a boy with a hood, staring at the camera.
Elias.
He had always been there.
The boy I bumped into once and never gave a second thought. The pair of eyes I'd forgotten, now haunting every moment I thought was mine alone.
I staggered backward, the folder slipping from my hands.
That's when the door creaked open.
He walked in slowly, dressed in black, as if mourning something — maybe my sanity. Or my freedom.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't scream.
Elias crossed the room with terrifying calm.
"I didn't want you to find it like this," he said softly. "I wanted to tell you myself."
"You stalked me," I whispered.
"No," he said, almost tenderly. "I loved you. Long before you knew I existed."
I looked away, unable to meet the hunger in his gaze.
"You remember the boy from Bio Ethics?" he asked. "Third row. Black hoodie. Never spoke."
My heart pounded.
"That was you."
He nodded. "You said sorry once when you bumped into me. I've lived off that word for years."
My stomach turned. I wanted to scream again — but he stepped closer.
"And now, you're here. You're safe. No more running. No more lies."
I shook my head. "I didn't agree to this."
He reached into his pocket and slid out a velvet box. Inside was a thin gold ring — and a paper slip.
"You left your fingerprint on the champagne glass," he said simply. "That was all I needed. The rest was just paperwork. You're mine now, Luna."
I backed away. "No. No, this isn't—"
"I married you this morning," he said, his voice warm, terrifying. "Just the two of us. No one else matters. Not anymore."
Tears burned down my cheeks.
No one knew where I was.
No one would ever find me.
"Luna," he said gently, reaching out, cupping my face, "you don't belong to the world anymore."
His lips brushed mine, and I knew with a horrible certainty...
He meant it.
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