The door clicked shut behind her.
Jean stood still in the middle of the room. Martha's voice still echoed in her ears "This is your room now… yours and Mr. Thorne's."
Your room.
His and yours.
Like it meant something.
Like she hadn't been dragged into this with her soul cracking under her ribs.
She sat at the corner of the bed. Not because she wanted to but because her legs wouldn't hold her anymore. Her eyes moved around the room. Clean, expensive, masculine. Sharp edges. Cold marble. Blue drapes.
Nothing in this space belonged to her.
Not the walls.
Not the air.
Not even her name felt like hers anymore.
Then the door opened again.
She didn't look up.
She knew it was him.
His footsteps were too sure, too calm.
Zane.
He walked in, slow like time didn't matter, a tray of food in his hands and something almost… gentle on his face. He placed the tray down on the table near her and crouched in front of her like she was something fragile. Something breakable.
Like she hadn't already been broken.
"I brought you breakfast," he said, voice soft, too soft for who he really was. "You didn't eat last night. Martha said you barely moved."
She didn't answer.
He sat on his knees in front of her. Just looking. He saw her face like she was a painting he had memorized and still couldn't get enough of.
"You know why I chose the blue dress?"
Silence.
He reached up brushing her hair back behind her ear like he had the right.
"The first time I saw you, you were in blue. Standing outside that damn shop soaked in the rain looking like a total mess. And even then even when you didn't know me you had my full attention. My entire damn mind."
Jean blinked slowly. Her body frozen but her chest hurt.
His fingers trailed down to her chin lifting it just enough for her eyes to meet his.
And then she finally spoke.
The first words she'd said in hours.
"What now? Am I supposed to thank you for ruining me so softly?"
Her voice was barely there, but it cut.
Right through him.
Zane's jaw tightened but his eyes didn't leave hers.
"I never wanted to do it like this" he said voice low. "But I had no choice, Jean. I swear, I had no damn choice."
She pulled her face away from his hand turning it toward the floor.
"Don't say my name like you love me" she whispered.
Zane's breath hitched.
But he didn't back away.
Instead, he leaned in just a little closer.
"I do love you," he said, steady now. "In ways you'll never understand. In ways that terrify even me."
Jean closed her eyes.
And he just watched her.
His lifeline.
His obsession.
His bluebird who didn't even know her own wings were broken.
And yet… she still looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever ruined.
Zane slowly closed the door behind him and walked fast each step louder than the last.
He got in the car. Silence. Then he punched the steering wheel, once. Twice.
If James hadn't shown up…
He wouldn't have married her like that.
She wouldn't have looked at him like a stranger.
Like a monster.
She would've loved him.
He drove like the road owed him something.
Warehouse.
Dark.
James tied up, bleeding, still breathing.
Zane didn't speak.
He walked straight to the table, picked up the drill, clicked it on.
James begged.
Zane didn't hear.
He grabbed his hand and pressed the drill through skin, bone, muscle.
James screamed.
Zane didn't flinch.
Another hole. Another scream.
The pain in James's voice should've satisfied him.
It didn't.
Because nothing could fix the fact that Jean hated him now. Nothing could change that her silence was the only thing louder than James's screams.
Only she could calm him.
Only she ever could.
And now, because of James, she never would.
So he kept drilling.
And didn't stop.
Zane's bedroom:
Jean sat on the edge of the bed still wearing the blue dress. Her back was too straight. Her hands were clenched too tightly.
The door opened softly. Martha entered, holding a stack of expensive dresses that didn't belong in this room. They didn't belong to her.
Behind her two more staff wheeled in racks gowns, coats, soft knit cardigans, heels, flats, purses. Comfy, party, casual every kind. Every color. All her size.
Jean's eyes widened.
She stood slowly walking over to the closet as Martha began hanging the dresses carefully.
Everything looked perfect. Ironed. Neatly tagged. Clean.
And so... unfamiliar.
It hit her suddenly. A harsh ache that clamped in her chest. She remembered her small cramped closet. Her old, worn jeans. Her faded black hoodie she wore too often. The mustard yellow shirt with the coffee stain she never got rid of.
Her things. Hers.
She swallowed. "I want to go to my apartment" she whispered.
Martha paused, glancing over.
"I'm sorry" she said gently. "Mr. Thorne hasn't permitted us to take you anywhere."
Jean's heart dropped. Something inside her curled up again.
She didn't say anything after that.
There was no point.
Zane's penthouse:
Zane parked his car slowly jaw tight and chest still heavy from the hours at the warehouse.
The blood on his hands had dried but the fire in his chest hadn't.
He took a deep breath. His bluebird was inside.
He needed to be calm for her.
Martha met him just before the staircase. "Sir… Jean asked to go to her apartment."
He froze for half a second. Then… smiled.
Jean. Asking to go somewhere. His staff talking about her. As if she was a part of this world now. Their world.
She was.
She is.
He nodded once and walked upstairs.
She was sitting in the room — their room — still in that blue dress. Staring at nothing.
"You didn't change?" he asked gently. "Didn't the new dresses reach you?"
Jean didn't move. "They didn't bring back my dress."
Zane blinked. "It was torn. They disposed it. The ones in the closet… they're yours now."
She shook her head, eyes still hollow. "I want to go to my apartment."
He stepped closer. "Why?"
She looked up for the first time. "I want something that's mine."
Zane smiled, soft and slow. "One of those things is standing in front of you."
She didn't blink. "I want the things I bought. The ones I chose. With my own hands. My own joy."
"And I'm not one of them?" he asked, voice quieter.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
It cut somewhere he wouldn't show her.
He exhaled, nodding. "Fine. You can go."
Her head snapped toward him.
"But you go with me. And you come back with me. And change the dress before going. It's beautiful. But we don't want the neighbors whispering, do we?"
She didn't smile.
But she didn't argue.
As she walked toward the closet without a word, Zane stayed still, eyes tracing every step she took.
And then, quietly, like a vow only he was meant to hear...
"Let her fly in your sky, Zane… Let her breathe. Then maybe… just maybe, she'll love you willingly. Then maybe she'll be yours but this time willingly."