The Price of Safety

The elevator doors whispered open to a cavern of glass and light.

The penthouse was an open sweep of black marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spilling out in glittering rivers beneath them. Liora stepped in cautiously, her heels clicking too loudly in the silence.

It was too quiet.

A small army of staff stood at intervals — all in black, hands folded, eyes down. They didn’t greet her. They didn’t greet Varian either, only melting aside as he passed, like he was a storm front they’d learned not to get wet in.

Her gaze swept over everything — a wall of glass panels that seemed to float, white leather furniture set with military precision, and a dining table long enough to seat a boardroom. The air smelt faintly of cedar and something sharper, maybe steel.

She caught a flash of gold on a side table — a stack of thick cards, embossed in curling script. She glanced down.

House Rules.

Printed in gold.

Rule One: All guests must remain within designated floors.

Rule Two: No unapproved visitors.

Rule Three: Curfew at 10:00 p.m. sharp.

Rule Four: Security personnel may search all belongings at any time.

Rule Five: All disputes are settled by Mr Kole’s final decision.

She stopped reading. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Varian didn’t look back. “It’s easier than it looks.”

“This isn’t easier, it’s a prison with better furniture.”

He kept walking, straight toward a glass-walled study at the far end. Inside, a fire glowed low in a modern steel hearth, throwing amber light across his face as he shut the door behind them.

“Sit,” he said.

She didn’t. “You said I’d be safe here. You didn’t say I’d be signing away my life.”

“You’ll be safe,” he said, shrugging out of his coat, “because I control this space down to the last breath in it. That means rules.”

Her chin lifted. “And what else does it mean?”

He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folding. “It means protection comes with conditions.”

Her pulse skipped. “And those conditions are?”

His eyes caught hers and held. “You’ll be mine.”

The word landed like a slap.

“Yours?” she echoed.

“My mistress,” he clarified, as if the term were a business title. “Exclusive. No one touches you but me. You live here, you follow the rules, and you stop making my security detail chase you through the streets.”

She laughed once, sharp and bitter. “That’s not protection. That’s purchase.”

His mouth didn’t move. “Call it whatever you like. It’s still the price.”

She crossed her arms. “You think you can name your price, and I’ll just—what—sign the dotted line?”

“You think I make offers twice?”

The fire popped behind him, sending a lick of heat into the cold air between them.

Liora shook her head slowly. “If you want me here, fine. But there will be terms.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Terms.”

“Own room,” she said immediately. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

“Noted.” His tone made it sound like a temporary concession.

“No touching without my consent.”

Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to read. Then his mouth curved. “Consent. Always a charming word. Fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” His voice was soft now, which somehow made it more dangerous.

Her jaw tightened. “And I keep my job. I’m not some caged bird you feed in exchange for tricks.”

“You keep your job,” he said, “but you keep a bodyguard too. Everywhere.”

“That’s not negotiable?”

“Not if you want to see your next birthday.”

Her lips pressed together.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She looked him square in the eye. “Yeah. If I decide I’m done, I walk. No arguments.”

His smirk deepened, slow and almost amused. “If you decide you’re done, Liora… you’ll still have to walk past me to get out.”

They stared at each other, the firelight crackling like a third presence in the room.

Finally, he straightened, pushing off the desk. “You get your room. You get your consent clause. And you get to stay alive. Those are the only promises you’ll get from me.”

She opened her mouth, but a sharp knock at the glass wall cut her off. One of the staff stood outside, posture so rigid it looked painful.

“What?” Varian asked without turning.

The man’s voice was low but urgent. “Sir, we’ve found something in her bag.”

Liora’s stomach lurched.

Varian’s gaze slid to her. “Let them bring it in.”

A moment later, the man stepped inside with a small, battered lunchbox — pale pink, scuffed, and decorated with faded stickers of cartoon owls.

Liora’s breath caught.

Varian turned it over in his hands. “Yours?”

“No,” she said quickly, reaching for it.

He didn’t give it to her. “Then whose?”

Her throat went dry. “It’s just—”

He popped the clasp. Inside, nestled between a worn napkin and a tiny plastic fork, was a drawing — bent at the edges from handling.

Two stick figures, one big with dark straight hair and another smaller one with dark curls holding hands.

Varian looked at it for a long, heavy moment.

Then his voice came low, quieter than she’d ever heard it. “This is a child’s drawing. Whose is it, Liora?”