Chapter Two: Under His Spell

The faint trace of his cologne clung to my skin when I opened my eyes, as if the night before hadn’t really ended. For a moment, I thought I’d still find him lying there beside me. Foolish thought. He never stayed.

My gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, and my stomach dropped. 7:30.

“Oh no…” I scrambled up, nearly tripping over my shoes at the side of the bed.

Clara shifted under her blanket, her sleepy voice thick with irritation. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m late,” I said, already rushing into the bathroom. I turned on the tap, shoved the toothbrush into my mouth, and muttered through the foam, “So, so late.”

I barely showered. The water was still dripping down my back when I pulled on my uniform. My heart raced with every tick of the clock. I couldn’t afford to lose this job—not when everything I had was holding on by a thread.

By the time I ran into the kitchen, Clara was back asleep, and my mother was standing over the stove, frying eggs. The smell made my empty stomach growl.

“Mom, I’m leaving!” I shouted, slipping my bag onto my shoulder.

She looked up, startled. “Won’t you eat something first? Just tea—”

“No time, Mom!” I kissed her cheek on the way out. “I’ll eat at work!”

The streets were already alive with chaos—horns blaring, hawkers shouting, schoolchildren dragging backpacks. I pushed through it all, praying silently that my supervisor wouldn’t notice my lateness.

When I finally got to the hotel, I straightened my clothes, plastered a smile on my face, and walked in. But the moment I saw someone else sitting at the reception desk, my steps froze.

A young woman in uniform tapped on the keyboard, completely at ease, like she belonged there.

“Excuse me,” I said, forcing politeness into my voice. “You’re at my desk.”

She barely glanced at me. “I was told to start here today.”

My chest tightened. “Told by who?”

Before she could answer, the sound of familiar footsteps filled the air. I turned, and there he was—Mr. Dickens.

The sight of him sent a strange chill down my spine. His expression was calm, cold, and commanding.

“I told you already,” he said, his deep voice carrying across the lobby. “You’re not working here anymore.”

My lips parted. “What? Why?”

He didn’t pause, didn’t explain. “Come with me.”

The other staff lowered their heads as if they hadn’t heard a thing. I had no choice but to follow him into his office.

The door shut behind me with a soft click. The air inside was cool, scented faintly of leather and expensive cologne. He leaned against his desk, his gaze burning into me.

“You don’t need this job anymore,” he said simply.

Anger flared inside me. “Then what do you expect me to do? How do you expect me to live?”

“You won’t worry about that again,” he said, his tone calm but final. “I’ll take care of you. You just… stay.”

The words should have sounded like a promise, but to me, they felt like chains. My chest tightened, but I said nothing.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, smirked faintly, then looked back at me. “Tomorrow is the weekend. I’m taking you somewhere—a concert. Not just any concert. It’s exclusive. Only the wealthy and powerful are invited. You’ll see a world you’ve never seen before.”

And just like that, my job, my independence, was gone.

The next night, I stepped into that world.

The moment we entered the ballroom, I was swallowed by the shimmer of chandeliers and the gleam of marble floors. Laughter echoed against gilded walls, and everywhere I looked, men in tailored suits and women in dazzling gowns moved like they owned the world. I recognized faces I’d only ever seen on TV—governors, tycoons, celebrities.

Mr. Dickens walked with me at his side, his hand firm at the small of my back. For the first time in my life, people glanced at me with curiosity, maybe even respect. I sipped the champagne he handed me, trying to blend in, trying to breathe in this new air.

But as the night wore on, I began to notice something.

When he introduced me, he never said “my girlfriend.” Never “my date.”

Instead, I heard him say, “My personal assistant.”

The words stung like a slap. I forced myself to smile, to pretend it didn’t matter, but inside, my heart was unraveling.

Then she arrived.

Tall. Beautiful. Dressed in a backless gown that glittered beneath the lights. The moment she walked in, his eyes changed. His posture stiffened. His laughter sharpened. I watched the way his gaze followed her across the room.

Within minutes, he was gone—walking toward her, leaving me stranded with nothing but my champagne glass and my fake smile.

I sat alone in the corner, watching him disappear into the crowd. I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. He provided for me. He had promised me a vacation, a life I’d never dreamed of. I told myself to be content.

But the ache in my chest didn’t listen.

“Excuse me,” a voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up. A young man, maybe in his late twenties, stood beside my table. Sharp jawline, kind eyes, suit that fit him perfectly. “Is this seat taken?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, my voice firmer than I felt. “It’s reserved. For Mr. Dickens.”

He raised his brows, offered me a polite smile, and nodded. “Understood.” Then he turned and walked away.

I sat there, heart racing, anger and shame burning inside me.

Minutes later, a waiter approached. He placed a white envelope on the table. “Madam, your boss said to give you this.”

“Which boss?” I asked, confused.

“Mr. Dickens.”

My stomach dropped. I reached for the envelope with trembling fingers, tore it open, and unfolded the crisp paper inside.

The words were written in his neat, controlled handwriting:

Don’t talk to any man. You don’t have the right to smile at them. You don’t have the right to let them look at you. Understand? From now on, you belong only to me.

The room tilted around me. My fingers shook as I read the words again and again. Across the ballroom, I could hear him laughing, shaking hands, charming everyone as if nothing had happened.

But inside me, something shifted.

Fear that night, we didn’t return home. He booked a presidential suite in the same hotel, high above the city lights.

I should have been excited—the champagne, the silk sheets, the skyline glittering beneath the window—but all I felt was a restless heaviness pressing against my ribs.

He kissed me like I was air he couldn’t live without. His hands were urgent, claiming every inch of me, as though he wanted to erase the memory of every other man I had ever known. I tried to laugh, to pull away, to tell him I was tired, but his grip only tightened.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against my skin, voice low, dangerous. “Only mine.”

Every time I hesitated, he countered with promises. A Gucci handbag. A diamond bracelet. A car. Things I’d only dreamed of. His words were velvet, but his touch was iron. And in the end, I surrendered—not because I wanted to, but because resisting him felt like resisting a storm.

When it was over, he fell asleep beside me, his breathing deep and even, one heavy arm draped across my waist like a chain. I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, the perfume of his cologne still thick in the air.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

The vibration on the glass nightstand was soft, but in the silence of the room, it was deafening. I shifted carefully, trying not to wake him, and tilted my head. The screen lit up with a name.

Vicky.

My stomach twisted.

The preview of the message glowed clear in the dark: Hey love, why are you ignoring my calls?

The phone buzzed again, lighting up the room a second time, then a third. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

All I could do was stare at that name, at those words, at the proof that I wasn’t the only one.

And for the first time since meeting Mr. Dickens, I realized—I wasn’t sure if I was his lover, his possession… or just one of many.

crept into my chest. And right behind it, anger.