Chapter 7: Still

Thalia's POV

I remained curled on the cold, soaked mattress while my body trembled. Everything hurt...my arms where he’d gripped me, my back from where I’d hit the dresser, and my chest from all the accusations I have received from him and from everything I’d lost in a single, brutal moment.

Still, I pushed myself upright.

I didn’t even know why. Maybe because some desperate part of me still hoped Kael would see the truth if I just endured long enough. Maybe because I knew giving up now wouldn’t change anything. Or maybe… maybe I was already too numb to feel the difference.

The cold floor bit into my bare feet as I staggered toward the bathroom. My soaked clothes clung to me like second skin, heavy and suffocating, and peeling them off felt like tearing at my own flesh. I stepped under the shower.

The water ran warm yet I barely noticed.

I stood there, staring blankly at the tiled wall as it streamed down my face and shoulders, washing away the remnants of his hatred...but not the ache beneath my skin. Not the bruises beneath my ribs.

“Alina…” I whispered, the name catching in my throat.

The grief twisted inside me, sharp and sudden.

They buried her yesterday. But it was a casket with no body. A memorial of flowers and hollow words.

And I wasn’t allowed to attend.

To them, I was the villain.

I have been imprisoned in his mansion for what seemed like a week and I couldn't find a way to escape. Kael made sure of that.

I didn’t know how long I stayed in the shower, letting the water soak through the silence. But eventually, I stepped out, dried off, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

I didn’t recognize her.

The girl in the glass had hollow eyes and pale lips. A faint bruise marked her wrist showing where Kael’s fingers have been. Another darkened her shoulder like a question she couldn’t answer.

She looked like someone who had lost everything.

Because she had.

I pulled on the clean clothes left for me in the drawer. They smelled like the mansion cold and distant. I didn’t bother with makeup. There was no one here to see me.

Only the man who despised me.

And I hated that some part of me still hoped he’d believe me.

I stepped out of the room and into the hallway. The entire house seemed frozen in time, grand and lifeless. Gilded frames lined the walls. The marble beneath my feet felt colder than before. The air itself was too still.

The mansion wasn’t a home. It was a cage.

I made my way to the main room.

Kael sat at the head of the long table, reading the morning paper like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t poured ice water over me hours ago. He didn’t look up.

“Good,” he muttered. “You remembered.”

I said nothing. I stood there, unsure what came next.

Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, Kael slowly stood. The chair scraped softly against the polished floor as he turned and began walking with slow and deliberate steps toward the grand staircase.

I didn’t have to ask where he was going.

I already knew.

He was heading back to the room where I’d been “serving” him since the day I was dragged into this twisted prison. That room had become my silent battlefield where love, hatred, and grief coiled into something I no longer recognized.

Halfway up the stairs, he spoke. The command was sharp, low, and devoid of emotion.

“Strip.”

One word but it was sharp as a blade. It sliced through the stillness and sank deep into my chest.

My body locked in place.

For a long second, I couldn’t breathe.

My hands trembled at my sides and began curling into fists. My throat burned with the scream I refused to let out. The humiliation was its own kind of violence, quieter than a slap, but no less brutal.

But I moved.

Because I had no choice. If I didn't, I'd end up getting hurt more than this.

Because resisting meant nothing anymore.

With fingers that barely felt like my own, I began to undress slowly, as if removing each layer stripped away more than just fabric. Each piece fell to the floor with a soft rustle, like leaves surrendering to winter.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t have to. He never desired my body like he desired Alina's with love.

I stood there, bare and exposed...not just in body, but in every aching, broken part of me. I wasn’t sure if I hated him more for what he was doing… or hated myself more for still feeling something every time he said my name.

Because deep down, somewhere inside the wreckage, part of me still loved him.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

That I still love him.