Duca was smiling, leaning against the cold wall, right next to the bathroom door I'd taken refuge behind just minutes earlier. I'd wiped my tears away in a hurry, but my chest was still trembling, my breathing coming out in ragged bursts, as if the crying refused to leave me alone.
"Are you planning on staying in there all night?" he asked calmly, his voice low, almost lazy.
I lifted my gaze to him. He was tall, resting casually against the wall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the space without trying. His dark hair fell carelessly over his forehead, and his eyes—dark, piercing—watched me with an attention that made me feel seen too clearly. His smile wasn't ironic. Nor was it cruel. It was unexpectedly gentle, and the contrast between that expression and the dangerous way he looked unsettled me more than Asan's anger ever had.
"None of your business," I murmured.
"It kind of is," he said, taking a step closer. "If you hide in there much longer, I'll start thinking you're running from me."
"Maybe I am."
The corner of his mouth curved into a slow smile.
"You don't look like the type who runs. You look like the type who fights—even when she's tired."
Before I could respond, he caught my hands between his palms. They were cold. Mine. He rubbed them gently, slowly, with a patience that completely disarmed me. The gesture was intimate, unexpected, and his warmth seeped under my skin.
"Relax," he murmured. "Breathe."
I wanted to pull my hands away, but I didn't. His fingers massaged my wrists with slow, deliberate movements, as if he knew exactly how much pressure to use.
"That's it," he continued. "Better."
His gaze lifted to my face. With a gentle motion, he brushed my tear-damp hair aside, away from my eyes. His fingers grazed my cheek, barely there.
"A girl as beautiful as you shouldn't ever cry," he said softly. "And she shouldn't hide her face."
My throat tightened.
"You don't know anything about me."
"Enough to know you didn't want to get on that stage earlier."
I blinked.
"Why did you get up there?" he asked. "Why did you dance?"
I took a deep breath.
Even though my tongue burned to tell him the truth—to scream it from the depths of my lungs—fear hit me suddenly, paralyzing. If I told him I'd been forced, I'd land in far worse trouble than I was already in. I couldn't afford to anger Asan. I didn't have that luxury.
Because that would mean the street.
For me. For Elena.
"Because I needed to feel like something was still mine," I said. "Like I couldn't be controlled all the time."
His gaze darkened.
"Did you feel free?"
"For a few minutes."
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't like it."
"I didn't ask for your approval," I told him.
"I know," he said calmly. "That doesn't change anything."
"Then why are you angry?"
A short, dangerous smile crossed his lips.
"Because it made me jealous."
The air left my lungs.
"And possessive," he added, unapologetic. "I didn't like seeing you up there. Being watched by everyone. Letting them think they could have access to you."
"You're not in a position to feel that."
"I am," he said. "Exactly in that position."
He squeezed my hands one last time, then let go. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders with a simple, natural gesture. The fabric was warm, and the scent—smoke, leather, and something deeply masculine—wrapped around me instantly.
"You'll get cold," he said quietly.
The door slammed violently against the wall.
"ALLA!"
Asan's voice sliced through the air like a blade. I flinched. His face was twisted with rage, the veins in his neck bulging, his fists clenched as if he were ready to hit someone.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" he shouted.
His gaze dropped to Duca's hand, calmly wrapped around my wrist.
The color drained from his face instantly.
"You… you—what are you doing here?" he stammered, swallowing hard.
Duca didn't even blink. He simply shifted his weight onto his other foot.
"Relax, Asan. You're going to blow a vein."
"With all due respect I have for you, Duca," Asan said through clenched teeth, "I'd appreciate it if you let me handle the issue with my employee."
My stomach twisted painfully.
"Former employee," Duca corrected calmly. "She isn't anymore."
"What does that mean?" I whispered, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.
Duca didn't look at me when he spoke.
"It means that from now on, you belong to me."
The words fell over me—heavy, final, like a sentence being passed.
"You can't do that!" Asan exploded. "She brings me in too much money for me to let her go that easily. Duca, understand… this is business."
Duca smiled, but this time there was nothing gentle in his expression. He lifted one hand slightly, stopping him before he could say another word. The gesture was calm, almost elegant.
"I want us to talk like serious men. In your office. About business."
The word dropped heavily between them.
For a second, Asan looked like he wanted to protest. Then he remembered who he was speaking to. His gaze flicked briefly to Duca's face, and something in his expression cracked. It wasn't respect.
It was fear.
"Fine," he said at last. "Let's talk."
I froze.
The air caught painfully in my throat when Duca turned toward me. He didn't ask for my consent. He didn't explain anything. He took my hand—his fingers closing firmly around my palm—and before I could react, he pulled me after him.
The contact shook me.
The fact that he was holding my hand gave me strength. It anchored me to reality, to the idea that I wasn't completely alone. And at the same time, it terrified me.
Because I didn't know where he was taking me—or what was about to be discussed.
My life.
Asan's office was cold—too large, too brightly lit. The door closed behind us with a sharp, final sound. I felt Duca's fingers tighten slightly, as if he'd sensed the tremor running through me.
Asan walked around the desk, trying to reclaim the posture of a man who controlled things.
"Let's negotiate," he said. "I'm willing to listen."
His voice was calm, but I could see the truth behind it. The rigid shoulders. The slightly too-fast breathing. He knew who Duca was. He knew that a single wrong move could cost him his life.
Duca remained standing beside me, never letting go of my hand.
"We're not negotiating," he said evenly. "You're listening."
Asan swallowed hard. The anger was completely gone. Only fear remained.
"Alright."
"It's simple," Duca continued, his tone stripped of emotion. "You take the money. I take the girl."
He named the figure without blinking. An obscene sum. Unreal. The kind of money you don't discuss—you whisper it, if it's ever discussed at all.
Asan went silent.
I watched him swallow, saw his jaw tighten, saw every prepared argument die on his lips. For the first time since I'd known him, he had nothing to say.
"For that money," Duca went on, "you never look for her again."
One step.
"For that money, you never even speak her name."
Another step.
"For that money, as far as you're concerned, she ceases to exist. And if you break your word, I'll slit your throat from one side to the other without blinking."
Silence fell over the room like a physical weight—dense, suffocating—pressing down on all of us with the promise of something irreversible.
Asan blinked once. Then again. As if he were trying to wake up from a nightmare that refused to break apart.
He knew.
He knew he couldn't refuse. That there was no version of this conversation where he walked away whole.
And most of all, he knew that saying no wouldn't just cost him the money—it would cost him far more than he was willing to lose.
With visible effort, Asan straightened his back, as though trying to gather the last scraps of his dignity.
"I accept," he said at last, his voice low. "I've always respected you, Duca."
He paused briefly, just long enough to weigh his next words.
"And I hope… I hope you're not angry with me."
The words sounded foreign. Forced. Like a plea in disguise.
Duca didn't answer. He turned to me, and when he tightened his grip on my hand, he did it more firmly, as if that single gesture was enough to tell me everything he refused to say out loud: the decision had been made—final, absolute, without appeal.
"Come," he said quietly.
"I don't want to…" I whispered, my voice breaking before I could stop it.
"I know."
The word wasn't a comfort. It was a statement of fact. And even though he knew, he didn't stop.
He pulled me after him. My footsteps echoed hollowly across the floor—too loud, too clear—like a countdown. The fear didn't fade with every meter we crossed.
On the contrary.
It grew. It gathered beneath my skin, tightened around my chest, because at last I was beginning to understand the truth I'd refused to look at until now.
Some cages are more beautiful.
And that is precisely why they are infinitely more dangerous.