"Get ready."
That was all he said.
No explanation.
No softness.
Just control.
Two women entered the room minutes later. Silent. Professional. They avoided my eyes like I was something fragile or dangerous. I couldn't tell which.
They brought clothes.
Not cheap ones.
A black silk dress. Simple. Elegant. Dangerous.
I looked at him. "Am I being displayed again?"
His eyes didn't move from his phone. "You'll understand soon."
I hated how calm he was.
I let them change me. I didn't fight it. I needed to see what he was planning.
The dress hugged my body in a way that made me feel exposed and powerful at the same time. My hair was brushed. My face cleaned. No heavy makeup.
Just enough.
Like he wanted me to look like myself.
That unsettled me more than anything.
When the women left, he finally looked at me fully.
His gaze slowed.
Not greedy.
Not rushed.
Measured.
"You clean up well," he said.
"I wasn't dirty."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"Come."
He didn't touch me.
He didn't need to.
I followed.
The elevator took us down, not up this time. Basement level.
The doors opened to a private garage filled with cars that could buy entire neighborhoods. Sleek. Black. Silent.
He opened the passenger door himself.
That surprised me.
I got in.
The drive was quiet. The city lights passed like streaks of gold against the window. My heart was calm, but my thoughts were racing.
Was he taking me somewhere to finish what he started with my father?
Or somewhere worse?
After twenty minutes, the car slowed.
We weren't at a warehouse.
We weren't at another auction.
We stopped in front of a mansion.
No.
Not a mansion.
An estate.
White stone. Tall gates. Security cameras. Guards.
This wasn't chaos.
This was power.
The gates opened automatically.
I turned to him slowly.
"You live here?"
"Yes."
"You bring all your purchases home?"
His jaw tightened slightly.
"You're not a purchase."
I stared at him.
"You paid for me."
His eyes flicked to mine briefly.
"I secured you."
The way he said it didn't sound like ownership.
It sounded like protection.
That confused me more.
The car stopped. He stepped out and walked around to open my door again.
The night air was cool.
I stepped onto polished stone floors and looked up at the towering house.
It didn't feel like a prison.
It felt like something else.
Something calculated.
Inside, the house was quiet. Minimalist. Clean lines. Expensive art. No clutter.
No warmth either.
He walked ahead, expecting me to follow.
I did.
We stopped in front of a large bedroom door.
He opened it.
"This is yours."
I blinked.
The room was bigger than my entire apartment back home. Large windows. Soft lighting. A king-sized bed. A balcony overlooking the city.
No locks.
No chains.
I turned slowly to face him.
"You expect me to believe this is kindness?"
He stepped closer.
Not threatening.
Not gentle.
Controlled.
"You are here because there are people who want you dead."
The words hit harder than anything he'd said before.
"What?"
He studied my reaction carefully.
"You were never the target," he continued quietly. "Your father was. And he wasn't as innocent as you think."
My stomach twisted.
"No."
"You can hate me," he said calmly. "But you are safer here than anywhere else."
Safe.
In the house of the man who admitted he was there the night my father died.
I stepped closer to him this time.
If he thought I would be scared into submission, he didn't know me.
"If this is protection," I whispered, "then why does it feel like a cage?"
His hand lifted slowly.
This time, he did touch me.
Just one finger under my chin.
Tilting my face up slightly.
"Because," he said softly, "you don't know who the real enemy is yet."
My heart pounded again.
Not from fear.
From the feeling that my life had just become far more complicated than revenge.