Chapter 2: Zolandria's POV

When I wake, everything feels different. Feels like yesterday never happened. My life has gone from being organized to having no clue what I have ahead of me.

A sharp knock disrupts my thoughts. I grip the blankets tightly to myself, and before I can answer, the door swings wide open, and a heavily built man in all black steps in.

"I didn't ask you to come in", I exclaim.

How could anyone lack simple courtesy? He ignores me and walks straight towards the windows, spreading the curtains wide open. My eyes shut. The light is blinding.

"Good day—"

"What time is it?" I cut him off.

"It's two p.m...", he answers bluntly.

"It's two?!" I exclaim while standing up too fast, which makes me wobble on my feet. He reaches out to study me.

"Don't touch me." I hiss. He steps back, keeping a distance between us. How did I sleep through the whole morning? I finally get the time to take in my surroundings. Everything was dark and so out of order yesterday. I'm in a big room decorated with beige colors. The room gives off minimalistic aesthetics. There's a huge bed, a huge wardrobe, a portion of the room has couches and a television, and it's an ensuite. I need to take a bath.

I notice the man is still in my room. "Why are you here?"

"I was asked to." He shrugs.

"You can leave." He's rooted to the spot as if I didn't ask him to leave.

"Seriously?" He stares blankly at me.

"I want to take a bath. Are you going to stand there while I change?"

He takes a seat on the couch with his back facing me. I can't believe this is happening. I make my way to the bathroom, strip myself naked while trying my best not to look in the mirror. I really don't think I can face myself right now. The shower cabinet is filled with my favorite shower products, and for once in these past hours, I feel grateful. I turn on the shower, and as soon as it hits me, everything comes rushing back.

The wedding hall. Xena's smirk. My Dad's slap. Damien's rejection.

Damien's betrayal cuts the deepest. He knew me since college, knew how much I despised my family, knew every crack in my armor—and still, he chose to break me. Is there something he’s not telling me? Damien can’t do this to me. No. There must be a reason. Tears spill before I can stop them.

Just when I thought I was on the brink of freedom, life had to pull a UNO reverse.

I step out after my shower, and he’s still here. Why is he here? To spy or protect? Protect? What a joke.

The Mafia Lord wouldn't care if I died or lived.

"What do I change into? I have no clothes.”

"Check the wardrobe," he mutters without turning.

I walk to it, pull it open, and my breath catches—every piece in here fits my size.

My skin prickles. My heart races. My palms feel clammy, and I don't know what to make of this situation.

Everything lines out too perfectly... like my arrival was anticipated.

There's a tray of food on the center table when I step out after changing in the bathroom. Mr.—wait, I don't even know his name. I approach him and take a seat on one of the couches.

"What's your name?" I try to make small talk. Perhaps I can explore where I am and what's happening.

He stares straight ahead. Rude.

"Am I not allowed to know your name, too?" I try again.

He pushes the tray of food towards me. "That's your food. Please eat." I burst out laughing, and he looks at me like I've just lost my head.

"I get kidnapped, confined to a room while being watched, get clothes that are my fit, which cannot be a coincidence, and now you want me to eat the food you offer? You're kidding, right?”

"I'm not, you've been asked to eat."

"I am tired of everybody telling me what to do! I am grown enough to make my own decisions, and I'm not eating that food."

He stares at me. My emotions are all over the place, and I don't like it.

"I don't mean to be harsh. I'm sorry,” I take in shallow breaths. “But I'm not eating that food." I apologize, after all, he's not the cause of my predicament. He's just following instructions.

There's an awkward silence. Any hopes of getting answers are quashed. Minutes pass, and his phone pings.

"He's ready to meet you, ma'am."

My heart drops.

I'm definitely not in the mood to meet him yet. There are a whole lot of things I need to wrap my head around before I see him. There are questions I need answers to, yet my thoughts aren't organized.

I need to get my shit together. I'm still an Azaeres.

"Ma'am?" he signals when I've still not made a move.

"Okay, let's go.”

The hallway stretches endlessly, longer than anything in my father's mansion. Silent. Empty. No paintings. No photographs. No proof that life exists here. It feels like walking through an abandoned hospital— only without the sharp smell of antiseptic. Just emptiness. Why would anyone live like this? A life so vast yet empty? Mr. Bodyguard keeps going.

"Why are there no paintings on the walls?" I'm met with silence.

"And where's everybody?" No response.

"Where are we heading exactly?"

"His office on this floor", he states, still walking ahead.

His office? On this floor? How many floors are there? What's this building like? I really need to look around and find some exit points. He stops abruptly, and I walk into him.

"Ouch. Sorry", I mutter. I raise my head, and we're standing in front of a huge oak door with two men positioned at the entrance. Unlike the one I came with, these men are in suits.

"He's been expecting you for the past 5 minutes", one mutters while he proceeds to open the door.

We walk into one of the biggest personal offices I've ever seen. What does he need all this space for? The scent of a cigar hits my nose, and I try my best not to cough.

The office looks as minimalistic as the room I was in. Except, almost everything in here is dark brown. The office desk is at the far end of the room, and the swivel chair faces the window.

"She's here, boss."

"You can leave," a voice bellows from behind the desk.

The guy I came with steps out.

I'm left with the devil.

Minutes drag by before the chair finally turns. And there he is. Not a man to joke with.

Thirties, broad-shouldered, tanned skin, sharp and precise hair. A dark grey suit clings to him like armor.

But it's his eyes—piercing, unyielding—that pin me in place, stripping me bare without a word.

"Well, well, well... Ms. Azaeres. Let's discuss what you owe me."

My heart drops.

I have actually made a deal with the devil himself