Five days.
For five days, eline had been served the same meal — disguised, rearranged, presented differently each time.
Breakfast was always a dark, red soup. It looked disturbingly like blood, though it was thicker. Richer. Metallic at the back of his throat.
Dinner was worse.
It never resembled food at all.
Sometimes it came chilled, poured into a crystal glass like wine. Other times it was thick and steaming in porcelain bowls. It felt less like a meal and more like a potion — something brewed rather than cooked.
No matter the form, it tasted the same.
Sharp. Sweet. Unnatural.
Five days.
And no one came.
No visits.
No explanations.
Not even footsteps lingering outside his door.
The silence was deliberate.
At first, he had paced the room, testing the windows, the walls, the handle of the door.
Locked.
Not visibly. Not mechanically.
But locked.
He felt it in the air — something unseen that pressed back whenever he tried.
By the third day, he stopped trying.
By the fourth, he stopped knocking.
On the fifth day, a maid finally entered.
She moved quietly, eyes lowered, her expression unreadable.
In her hands was a folded set of clothes — dark, formal, carefully pressed.
She placed them on the edge of the bed.
"You will prepare yourself," she said softly. "Two attendants will return within the hour to assist you."
Eline stared at her.
"For what?"
She hesitated only briefly.
"For tonight's meeting with Mr. Carlson."
She turned to leave.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
And for the first time in five days—
Eline felt something worse than fear.
Less than an hour later, two maids entered without knocking.
They moved in silence, efficient and composed, as though this were routine.
Eline didn't resist.
He didn't have the energy left to.
In the bathing chamber, steam curled softly against marble walls. The tub had already been filled. Before guiding him in, one of the maids uncorked a small glass vial and poured a thick purple liquid into the water.
The color spread slowly, blooming like ink.
"What is that?" Eline asked.
Neither answered.
He stepped into the bath.
The moment the water reached his skin, his body betrayed him.
Warmth sank deep into his muscles. The tightness in his shoulders dissolved. The constant tension coiled in his chest loosened, unwinding against his will.
It wasn't normal relaxation.
It was deeper than that.
Manufactured.
One maid gently washed his arms, slow strokes down to his wrists, then over his shoulders. Clinical. Detached. Not intimate — just careful.
After a few minutes, they stepped away.
"You may soak," one of them said.
They left him alone for twenty minutes.
The silence returned, but this time it felt heavier.
When he finally stepped out of the water, he felt… lighter.
Clearer.
His skin carried a faint scent — sweet, intoxicating, almost dizzying. Not floral. Not herbal.
Something darker.
Something that lingered in the air like forbidden perfume.
It made his stomach twist.
The maids returned.
They dried him carefully and brought the garments laid out for him.
Silk.
Soft beyond reason.
The fabric slipped over his skin like liquid, cool at first, then warming instantly against his body. It wasn't overtly feminine — the cut was straight, tailored — but there were delicate ruffles at the neckline, subtle curves framing his collarbones.
The collar dipped slightly, exposing just enough skin to feel intentional.
It looked ceremonial.
Not practical.
Not casual.
It looked like something made for display.
Eline's throat tightened.
"This is unnecessary," he muttered.
The silk fell loosely around him, flowing rather than fitted.
It wasn't armor.
It wasn't protection.
It was vulnerability disguised as elegance.
Heat rose to his face — not from shyness, but from humiliation.
He understood what tonight implied.
He understood what they expected.
But why make it look like this?
Why the softness? The fragrance? The ritual of it?
It felt staged.
Romanticized.
As though this were some sacred union instead of what it truly was.
His hands clenched at his sides.
"I couldn't even ran away," he whispered under his breath.
The thought settled like poison.
This wasn't choice.
It wasn't trust.
It wasn't connection.
It was control — wrapped in silk and scented like temptation.
And that made it worse.
Much worse.