Chapter 3

The morning after being sold didn’t feel like a tragedy.

It felt like a performance.

Seraphina Vale woke to the scent of honeyed jasmine, the rustle of distant silk curtains, and the softness of a bed too expensive for someone who no longer had a name.

She didn’t stretch. Didn’t sigh.

She lay still, eyes open, watching the gold-leaf ceiling above her glow under the gentle touch of dawn.

Somewhere beneath the luxury, she could feel the weight of invisible chains coiled around her spine.

She would never be free here.

But she could pretend.

Pretending, after all, was what had kept her alive this long.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.

She sat up, letting the silk sheets fall around her. Her black velvet nightdress clung to her skin — someone had changed her clothes after she fell asleep. She didn’t remember how or when. That thought alone stirred something ugly in her stomach.

Another knock.

“Enter,” she said, voice steady.

The door opened slowly, revealing a woman in her late fifties, maybe early sixties. She was tall, thin, and dressed in charcoal gray. Her silver hair was pinned in a clean knot, and her expression carried no judgment — only a kind of weary knowledge.

“You’re awake,” the woman said. “Good. I’m Raina. I manage the household.”

Seraphina nodded. “How many prisoners do you manage?”

Raina’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite a reprimand.

“I don’t manage prisoners,” she replied. “I serve the Marchesi family. And they don’t keep prisoners. They keep investments.”

Seraphina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Nice euphemism.”

“It’s not a euphemism,” Raina said softly, stepping into the room with a tray. “It’s survival. You’ll learn the difference.”

She placed the tray on the table by the window. On it was fresh fruit, toasted brioche, and a delicate glass pot of steaming tea.

“You’re expected downstairs at nine.”

“Expected for what?”

“Breakfast. With Mr. Marchesi.”

Seraphina’s fingers curled into the blanket. “Does he usually dine with his... acquisitions?”

Raina didn’t blink. “Only the dangerous ones.”

The dining room was too quiet.

Massive arched windows framed the sea beyond the cliffs. A black marble table stretched at least twelve feet. Only two places were set. 

Lucien Marchesi sat at the head.

He didn’t rise when she entered.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Seraphina walked the length of the table and sat opposite him, spine straight, chin high. She didn’t reach for the silverware. Didn’t touch the coffee.

Let him wonder.

Lucien sipped from a white porcelain cup, then set it down with a soft click.

“Did you sleep?”

“Do you care?”

“Only about the outcome,” he said. “I’ve found exhausted people tend to break faster.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Then you’ll be disappointed.”

His eyes lingered on her face. “Not yet.”

A tense silence filled the room like fog.

The longer he said nothing, the more she felt herself calculating. Testing him. Testing herself. Could she provoke him? Could she peel back whatever mask he wore and find something human underneath?

“Tell me the rules,” she said finally.

Lucien raised a brow.

“You assume you’ll follow them?”

“I assume I should know what I’m planning to break.”

Another pause.

Then — unexpectedly — he smiled.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cruel.

It was something much worse: interested.

“Rule one,” he said, “don’t lie to me.”

She tilted her head. “That’s hypocritical.”

“Rule two,” he continued, ignoring her, “don’t touch anything unless you’re told you can.”

“Sounds like a toddler’s manual.”

“Rule three,” his voice lowered, “don’t run.”

Seraphina smirked. “You think I’m stupid enough to try?”

“No,” Lucien said. “But I think you’re proud enough to want me to think you might.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

The tour of the estate was given by Raina.

Lucien disappeared shortly after breakfast, leaving Seraphina with questions he had no intention of answering.

The estate was vast — four stories, countless corridors, and rooms that belonged more in a Renaissance palace than in the hands of a criminal. Marble staircases. Oil paintings. A library with more books than most universities. She half-expected to see a moat.

And yet... no cameras.

No visible guards.

No locks on the doors.

“You’ll notice the absence of surveillance,” Raina said quietly as they walked. “Mr. Marchesi believes in trust. Or rather, in the illusion of it.”

“He thinks I’ll trap myself faster than he could?”

“Yes.”

“Smart,” Seraphina admitted.

Raina didn’t respond.

They stopped outside a set of double doors carved with vines and thorns.

“This is the west wing,” Raina said. “Private. You don’t enter unless invited.”

“His quarters?”

Raina nodded.

“Who else lives here?” Seraphina asked.

“Only those loyal to him.”

“And those he owns?”

Raina turned her eyes to Seraphina. Sharp. Sad.

“Sometimes,” she said, “the line between loyalty and ownership is thinner than you think.”

That evening, Seraphina stood on the balcony outside her room.

The ocean wind was cold but bracing. Salt clung to her skin. The stars above were unobstructed by city lights — infinite and unreachable.

She gripped the iron railing and tried to feel something. Anger. Fear. Betrayal.

But all she felt was distance.

From who she used to be.

From the girl who thought Julian’s touch was safe, Gabe’s laughter was brotherly, and love was a shield.

Now she had nothing.

No one.

Except the man who hadn’t laid a hand on her… but owned her all the same.

Lucien Marchesi.

He terrified her.

Not because of what he had done.

But because of what he hadn’t.

No threats. No force. No violence.

Only stillness.

Only silence.

He was a man who didn’t raise his voice because the world already listened when he whispered.

She should’ve known better than to speak to him at breakfast. But she’d wanted to.

Needed to. Because if he remained a shadow, she couldn’t fight him.

She needed to see his face.

His edges.

His weaknesses.

She would find them.

Eventually.

And when she did, she’d bury them.

That night, she dreamed of fire.

She was back at the auction, standing on the platform beneath the spotlights. Her wrists were tied, her hair pinned up. Faces stared at her with cold hunger.

Julian’s voice called her name.

Lucien’s eyes found her.

She wanted to scream. To run.

But her body didn’t move.

And when she looked down...

The collar was gone.

Her throat was bare.

But her chest had a scar — a single line, red and burning.

A name carved in silence.

His.