Time, Rossie discovered, was a weapon.
In the sunless, clockless penthouse, time did not pass. It simply... was. It accumulated. It was a thick, suffocating medium, like water, and she was trapped at the bottom of it.
Her rage had long since burned itself out, leaving nothing but cold, brittle ash. She had moved into a new phase of her existence: a grey, numb, and silent routine.
She existed. She slept in the liquid-silk sheets, ate the perfect, tasteless food that appeared in the cold kitchen, and wandered the vast, dead rooms. She read books from the library—histories of empires that never existed, written in languages she shouldn't have been able to understand, but somehow could.
She was a ghost, haunting a cage that was already a tomb.
The only punctuation in this endless, grey sentence was Maher Xander.
He would appear and disappear without warning, using the same impossible, non-existent "door" he had on the first day. He would sit at his massive desk for hours, reviewing stacks of thick, cream-colored parchment, making notes with an old-fashioned fountain pen.
He never spoke to her. But he demanded her presence.
This was the new rule. This was the new "bad treatment."
She was no longer allowed to hide in her room or the library. When he was in the main lounge, she was required to be there as well.
He forced her to sit on the dark chaise lounge across from his desk, like a piece of art he had positioned for optimal viewing. He would work, the only sound the scratch of his pen on the parchment, and she would be forced to sit, silent, watching him.
It was, she knew, a systematic dismantling of her will. It was the training of an animal. She was not a person to him; she was an accessory to his room. This was her function now. To be there. To be seen by no one but him. To be a living, breathing, suffering testament to his ownership.
Her suffering was his background noise.
Today, something was different.
She had been sitting on the chaise for an hours-long eternity, her muscles aching from the forced stillness, her mind polished smooth by the agonizing silence.
Maher finally looked up from his work.
His silver eyes, as clear and cold as glacial water, fixed on her. It wasn't a glance. It was an inventory.
"We have guests," he said.
The sound of his voice, after so long, made her flinch.
"Guests?" Her own voice was a dry, unused croak. Hope, terrifying and stupid, flickered in her chest. Someone else? Someone from outside?
"Business associates," he clarified, and the flicker of hope died, smothered in its cradle. "They will be here in five minutes."
He stood, his tall, imposing frame unfolding from the desk. He walked toward her. Rossie instinctively pressed herself into the cushions, her heart beginning its frantic, bird-wing panic. He never approached her.
He stopped, looking down at her. She was wearing a simple set of black silk trousers and a matching blouse—the uniform of her imprisonment.
He assessed her. His gaze was critical, like a man inspecting a horse.
"Unacceptable," he murmured.
He turned and walked, not to his desk, but to one of the dark, unfamiliar archways. He disappeared into it. Rossie was left breathing heavily, her mind racing. What did he mean? What was unacceptable?
He returned a moment later, holding something dark. It was a dress.
He did not hand it to her. He threw it.
The bundle of dark green velvet, so deep it was almost black, landed in her lap. The fabric was heavy, cold, and achingly soft.
"Put it on," he commanded.
She stared at the dress, then at him. "What?"
"You will be present. You will be silent. And you will look the part of a Queen, not a scullery maid." His voice was flat. "Put it on. Now. In here."
The humiliation was a physical, burning heat that flooded her cheeks. He wasn't asking her to change. He was demanding she undress. In front of him.
"No," she whispered.
"No?" He almost sounded amused. "Rossie, you seem to misunderstand the basic mechanics of our relationship. Your will is not a factor. Your consent is not required. You are my property."
He sat down in one of the heavy armchairs, crossing his legs. He was preparing to watch.
"I will not," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "ask again."
The tears came, hot and immediate, blurring her vision. They were tears of pure, undiluted shame. She was trapped. She looked at his cold, patient, waiting face. She looked at the dress.
Slowly, her hands shaking so badly she could barely function, Rossie stood. She kept her back to him, a small, pathetic, and utterly useless act of defiance.
She stripped off the silk blouse, her skin crawling. She could feel his gaze on her, a physical weight, cold and analytical. She fumbled with the velvet dress, pulling the heavy, cold fabric over her head, desperate to be covered again.
The dress slid on, fitting her as if it had been tailored for her body. It was floor-length, with long, tight sleeves, and a neckline that was scandalously low. It was a dress designed to be displayed.
"Turn around," he commanded.
She obeyed. The tears streamed silently down her face.
He studied her, his head tilted. "Better. The color highligh*ts* the despair. It's... fitting." He stood. "Now, the rules."
He walked to the void-wall, looking out at the static, nighttime city.
"You will sit on the chaise lounge. You will not speak. You will not move. You will not look our guests in the eye unless I instruct you to. You are, for the duration of this meeting, a portrait. A beautiful, silent, and obedient piece of my collection. Do you understand?"
"I... I understand," she choked out.
"Good."
As if summoned by his word, a new sound entered the room. A low, resonant gong that seemed to shake the very air.
Rossie looked around, panicked.
"They are here," Maher said.
He walked to the center of the room and simply... waited.
An archway Rossie had never seen open, a dark space opposite Maher's desk, shimmered. The air warped, like heat-haze. Two figures stepped through it.
They stepped out of thin air and into the penthouse.
They were not monsters. They were not demons. They were, to Rossie's horror, men she knew.
Or, knew of.
One was a massively influential politician, a man whose face was plastered all over the news, known for his "family values" and "traditional" stances. The other was a young, sharp-looking tycoon, the heir to one of the largest conglomerates in Southeast Asia, a rival to her own family.
They looked... nervous. Their expensive, tailored suits were rumpled. They clutched briefcases. They were sweating in the cold, dry air of the penthouse.
Then, they saw Maher. And they bowed.
Not a nod. A deep, subservient, scraping bow.
"Patron," the politician said, his voice trembling.
"Patron," the tycoon echoed, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Minister. Tuan Hartono," Maher greeted them. His voice was no longer the flat tone he used with Rossie. It was rich, smooth, and full of a dark, terrible charisma. "Please. Be seated."
The men scrambled to the two high-backed chairs that faced Maher's desk.
Only then, as they settled, did they seem to notice Rossie.
She was sitting on the chaise lounge, her hands clenched in the velvet of her dress, her tears drying in cold tracks on her face.
The politician's eyes widened. He recognized her. "That... that's Rossie Aurora," he whispered, his voice thick with confusion and fear. "The Aurora heiress. She... she's the one who vanished..."
"She is a guest," Maher's voice snapped like a whip. The charisma was gone, replaced by arctic-cold command. "And she is irrelevant to our business. You will not look at her. You will not speak of her. Or this meeting is concluded. Permanently."
The politician recoiled as if struck. "Forgive me, Patron. Of course." He and the tycoon snapped their heads forward, staring at Maher, their faces pale.
Maher sat at his desk. "Now. Your reports."
And Rossie, in her new role as "portrait," was forced to sit, and listen, and suffer.
The men were here for favors.
The politician was being hounded by a competitor. "He's too popular, Patron. He's... clean. The press loves him. He's going to ruin the... project... we discussed."
Maher steepled his fingers. "And what would you have me do, Minister?"
"Stop him. I don't care how. A... a scandal. An accident. Make him... go away."
Maher was silent for a long moment. "That is... expensive. The cost will be high."
"Anything," the politician breathed.
Maher smiled. "The 'anything' I have in mind, Minister, is your youngest son. His talent. He is quite the pianist, I hear."
The politician's face went white. "My... my son? But... he's... he's brilliant..."
"He was," Maher corrected. "When he sits to play at his conservatory recital next week, his mind will be empty. The music will be gone. In exchange, your rival will find himself admitting to... very creative*... tax discrepancies. Your 'project' will be safe."
The politician wobbled. He was trading his son's future, his joy, his soul... for a political victory.
Rossie wanted to be sick.
"Done," the politician whispered.
Maher nodded. "Tuan Hartono. Your problem?"
The young tycoon was shaking. "The port deal, Patron. My competitor. His luck. It's unnatural. He wins every bid. I need... I need you to... turn it."
"You want me to ruin him," Maher stated.
"I want to win," Hartono said, a new, ugly greed in his eyes.
"Very well." Maher leaned back. "The price for that is... memory. Your father. He is old, yes? You love him?"
"He... he is my father."
"When you visit him this evening," Maher said, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr, "he will not know you. His memory of you, his only son, will be gone. He will look at you as a stranger, and will die that way. In exchange, your competitor's largest shipping vessel will run aground in a... most unfortunate... 'accident' in the strait. The port deal will be yours."
Rossie's hands were clenched so tightly her fingernails drew blood from her palms.
She was watching these men—these pillars of Jakarta society, the same society she had belonged to—willingly, eagerly, trade away pieces of human souls. Their own families. Their love.
And for what? For power. For money.
For kemakmuran.
The same... exact... thing... her ancestor had done.
This wasn't just business. This was the engine that ran her world. This filth was the price of her graduation, her apartment, her comfortable life. Her Gilded Void was paid for by the stolen music of a young boy and the stolen memories of an old man.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow.
She made a sound. A small, strangled gasp.
Both men flinched, but they didn't dare look at her.
Maher's head snapped toward her. His silver eyes were not angry. They were furious. She had broken the rule. She had spoken.
He said nothing. He simply... watched her.
The meeting concluded. The men left, bowing and scraping, vanishing back through the shimmering, hateful mirage.
They were alone again.
The silence in the room was vast. It was heavy. It was full of her failure.
Rossie was shaking. "You... you monster..."
Maher stood up from his desk. He walked toward her, not with anger, but with a slow, deliberate, terrifying calm. He stopped directly in front of her.
"I," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "am a patron. I am a creditor. I am a reflection."
He knelt, bringing his face level with hers. She was trapped on the chaise, his sheer size blocking out the (fake) city lights.
"I am not the monster, Rossie."
He reached out and, with one gloved finger, brushed a tear from her cheek. His touch was cold, even through the leather.
"They are. You are. That..." he gestured to the empty chairs, "...that is the 'prosperity' you were so desperate to return to. The world you miss. It is a world of hollow men who would trade their children's souls for a fraction more power."
He stood up, looking down at her, his contempt a tangible thing.
"You are not a person. You are not a bride. You are a debt. And this is the world that created you. You will sit here. You will watch. And you will learn what you are."
He turned his back on her, walking toward his desk, his lesson delivered.
Rossie was left in her velvet dress, shaking. She wasn't suffering because she was a prisoner. She was suffering because, for the first time, he had forced her to see that the cage he had built for her... was no different from the one she had been in all her life.