The lock on the guest suite door clicked with a satisfying, solid sound. April leaned against the polished wood, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Safe. For now. She scanned the room. It was a mirror of the living area, sleek, modern, and impersonal. A large bed with crisp white linens, another wall of glass showcasing the city, and a door leading to an ensuite bathroom. No phone. No landline. The windows, when she tested them, were sealed shut.
Her reflection in the dark glass looked pale and haunted. Fiancée. The word echoed in the silence. What kind of man kept a prisoner while planning a wedding? A monster. A sociopath. A man who thought the world was his to rearrange as he saw fit.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. She didn't answer.
"Miss April?" It was Marcus's voice, low and even. "I've left a change of clothes and some toiletries outside the door. Breakfast is at eight. Mr. Alistair expects you to join him."
She waited until his footsteps faded before cracking the door open. A stack of folded, expensive-looking casual wear sat on the floor. The normality of it was jarring. As if she were a hotel guest, not a captive. She snatched the clothes and relocked the door, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He expected her to join him. As if they were old friends. The sheer audacity was so annoying.. She wouldn't do it. Let him drag her out. She would be damned if she made this easy.
At five past eight, her stomach growled, betraying her. She had eaten nothing since a granola bar the previous afternoon. The scent of coffee and bacon had been seeping under the door for an hour, a delicious torture.
Prudence warred with pride. Prudence and a healthy dose of fear won. She needed to keep her strength up. She needed to understand her enemy. She changed into the clothes he had provided, which were soft grey trousers and a simple black top that fit her far too well. Her curves were well accentuated and enticing. It was unsettling. She was a bit uncomfortable. She didn't want his eyes roving all over her.
She found him in a sun-drenched dining area, seated at a long glass table, reading a financial tablet. He looked up as she entered. His gaze was a quick, assessing sweep. "You're late."
" Am here now, aren't l?" She retorted, averting her eyes.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Sit."
A uniformed staff member emerged from a hidden kitchen, placing a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast before her, along with a pot of coffee. The domesticity of the scene was surreal.
"What's the plan, Mr Alastair?" She refused to use an informal title. "You keep me here like a pet until you get bored? What happens when your fiancée decides to drop by?"
He set his tablet down ".Damian," He insisted, " and Rowena is not your concern."
"She is if I am your dirty little secret."
"You are many things, sweetheart. A secret, yes. But there is nothing little nor dirty about you." He took a sip of his coffee. "You will have the run of the penthouse. There's a library, a gym, and a screening room. You will join me for meals. And you will paint. Other things too", he said meaningfully
She froze, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. She refused to pay attention to his suggestive undertones. "Paint?"
"I had an easel and supplies set up for you in the sunroom. I want to see the talent that made you risk so much."
It felt like a violation. Her art was the one pure thing she had left, and he was trying to co-opt it, to own it like he owned everything else. "I am not performing for you."
"Then sit and stare at the blank canvas. I don't care. But the materials are there if you change your mind." He stood, his meal finished. "I have meetings. Do not attempt to contact the outside world. I am aware of the non-existence of close relatives to you. As a loner that you seem to be, do not test my patience. The consequences would be... significantly... dire." He stressed.
He left her there, the food turning to ash in her mouth. He wasn't just holding her body captive. He was trying to own her creativity, her spirit. And he had just laid a fresh canvas at her feet, a challenge she was afraid to accept.
The sunroom was a breathtaking space, all glass and light, filled with lush, green plants. And there, in the center of it, stood a brand-new easel, a pristine canvas waiting, and a trolley stocked with every high-quality paint, brush, and tool an artist could dream of. It was an enticing sight to behold. A beautiful temptation for every artist..
Her fingers itched to touch the brushes, to squeeze a dollop of titanium white onto the fresh palette. This was better equipment than she had ever owned. It was a siren's call.
"No," she whispered to herself. She turned her back on it, choosing instead to stare out at the city. She was not his trained monkey. She would not paint on command.
Hours dragged by. She explored the library, its books all first editions and leather-bound classics; they all seemed untouched. She paced the length of the gym, her energy with no outlet. The silence of the penthouse was oppressive, broken only by the occasional hushed step of a staff member who refused to meet her eyes.
Boredom and frustration began to curdle into a reckless kind of anger. He thought he had her cowed. He thought his gilded cage would break her. He had taken her freedom, her choices, her future. But he couldn't take the fight in her. Not yet.
An idea, dangerous and stupid, began to form. He wanted to see her talent? Fine. She would give him a show he wouldn't forget. She marched back into the sunroom, a grim smile on her face. She picked up a piece of charcoal, her grip tight. She wouldn't paint a pretty picture. She would paint her rage. She would paint the truth of him.
The charcoal felt like a weapon in her hand. She attacked the canvas, her movements sharp and furious. She didn't plan. She let her anger guide her. Dark, slashing lines formed a figure of a man, but not a man. A king on a throne of twisted metal and glass. The city was at his feet, but it was on fire. His face was a mask of cold arrogance, his eyes empty voids. And at his feet, small and almost forgotten, was the silhouette of a bird in a gilded cage, its beak open in a silent scream.
It was raw. It was ugly. This was her silent venting. She liked the feeling and freedom of it.
She was so absorbed, she didn't hear him approach. She only felt the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. And the wisp of his perfume.
"Fascinating."
She whirled around, clutching the charcoal like a child caught in the act of rebellion. Damien stood behind her, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable as he studied the dark, violent image.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. She had gone too far. He would be furious. He would…
"You see me as a monster," he stated, his voice calm.
"Isn't that what you are?" Then he fell silent, watching him warily.
He stepped closer, his gaze still locked on the canvas. "A monster would burn this. A monster would punish you for it." He finally looked at her, his blue eyes capturing hers. "I am not a monster, April. I am a collector. And this…" He gestured to the raging artwork. "…this is exceptional. It has more life in it than anything I saw at that gallery."
He wasn't angry. He was impressed. The realization was more frightening than his rage would have been. He saw her defiance not as an insult, but as a feature. He was appreciating the very thing he was trying to tame.
He reached out, not towards her, but towards the canvas. He stopped just short of touching the wet charcoal, his fingers hovering over the angry lines of the throne.
"You have a gift," he said, his voice low. "A fire. Most people spend their lives trying to hide what they truly are. You…" He finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over her smudged face, her heaving chest, the charcoal still held tight in her fist. "…you cannot help but show it. It is why you're here. The other is something that would happen sooner than you think."
He was so close she could see the dark fringe of his lashes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The air crackled, thick with tension that was no longer just about anger or fear. There was a pull, a dangerous, magnetic attraction that made her want to step forward and slap him all at once.
Her breath hitched. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips. "Don't appreciate the very thing I brought you here for?"
Before she could answer, before she could move, the sharp, clear sound of the front door opening echoed through the penthouse. A woman's voice, cool and cultured, called out.
"Damien? Darling, I'm here. The planner is with me. We need to finalize the floral arrangements for the ballroom."
April froze. Rowena. She was here.
Damien's expression didn't change, but his body went still. His eyes held April's for a heartbeat longer, a silent, unreadable message, before he slowly turned to face the approaching footsteps. He didn't step away from April. He left her standing there, covered in the evidence of her rebellion, directly in the path of his fiancée.