Chapter 22
The morning after left bruises she didn't want to hide.
Vanessa stared at herself in Camille's mirror. The faint impressions of Negan's mouth along her neck bloomed like wicked flowers. Her thighs ached. Her wrists were red where he'd bound them in silk, each knot a lesson in obedience and rebellion.
But it wasn't the pain that left her trembling.
It was how much she'd liked it.
She was supposed to be playing him. Drawing him deeper into a false sense of control. But somehow, she'd started drowning in the same velvet web.
You're losing yourself, Nessa.
Miles' message echoed in her skull. But maybe it wasn't a loss. Maybe it was a trade.
One kind of control… for another.
Miles' Warning
She met Miles in secret that afternoon—beneath the city library, in one of the old boiler rooms only he knew how to access. The moment she stepped in, he didn't hug her. Didn't smile.
He just handed her a manila envelope.
Inside were blueprints. Photos. Ledgers.
And a map of the estate.
The lower levels. The ones no one ever spoke about.
"Negan's father bought the land from a Cold War arms dealer," Miles said. "He kept the original structure intact. You know what that means?"
Vanessa flipped through the documents. Bomb shelters. Torture rooms. Observation tunnels. A full subterranean chamber beneath the entire house.
It wasn't just wealth or obsession anymore.
It was design.
"Negan didn't build this," she whispered. "He inherited it."
"And he's using it," Miles said. "Or will. Camille knew. That's why she tried to warn you."
Vanessa looked up, breath shallow. "She didn't try hard enough."
"She's still in the house," Miles said. "You might be her only shot out."
Vanessa clenched her jaw.
"I'm not sure I want her out."
That Night: Back in the Lion's Den
Negan greeted her in the library, where firelight danced over velvet furniture and books older than memory. He stood in front of the fireplace with a glass of scotch, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at power restrained.
"You've been quiet today," he said, voice smooth but coiled. "Did I break you?"
Vanessa walked in slowly, the same way a hunter approaches a sleeping wolf.
"No," she said. "You woke something up."
He smirked. But it faltered.
Because she wasn't trembling anymore.
She crossed the room and took his glass from his hand, sipped it, and then stepped even closer.
"Let me show you who I was before you ever touched me."
He let her push him back into the velvet chair. Let her straddle him. But his hands didn't stay idle. They found her hips, her thighs, her breasts like they remembered every inch of her skin—and owned it.
"You're trying to control me," he murmured against her throat.
"No," she whispered. "I'm trying to teach you how much it hurts when someone wins."
Her teeth grazed his jaw. Her nails carved slow circles into his shoulders.
And then she whispered a name.
"Julian."
Negan went still beneath her.
Vanessa smiled. Victory in her eyes, arousal still radiating off her skin.
"I know what you're hiding. What you built under that estate. What you've turned that legacy into."
Negan's voice was a low growl. "You don't understand—"
"I understand everything," she said. "I understand you were never after my love. You were after my obedience. My loyalty. My bloodline."
"You're wrong," he said, hands tightening.
"I'm not scared of you anymore."
But she was. Just not in the way he wanted.
She climbed off him, slowly. Watched him wrestle his control back behind those cold eyes.
"Dinner's at 8," he said. "Wear red."
She turned back toward the door.
"I'll wear white," she said, "and I'll bring my own knife."
In the shadows of the estate, Camille counted the steps between her room and the basement hatch. Her legs shook. But she moved.
In the walls, Julian moved too. Silent. Watching. Waiting.