Chapter 2_Sixteen months of silence

Elira’s POV

The heavy oak door to my room creaked open, then clicked shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the tomb-like silence I had built for myself.

"Mr. Blackthorne requests your presence for breakfast," a man’s voice said. It was one of the guards or assistants—I didn't care which.

I didn't turn around. I sat on the terrace, the cold morning air biting at my skin. I was perched in the wheelchair that had been my only companion for months, though lately, my legs had regained their strength. I ignored them anyway. I preferred the wheels; they reminded me that I was broken. My gaze remained fixed on the city skyline, watching the grey clouds swallow the tops of the skyscrapers.

"Ma'am..." the voice came again, more insistent this time.

"I’m not hungry," I cut him off, my voice raspy from disuse, cold as a winter grave. "Leave my room. Now."

I heard his retreating footsteps and the familiar thud of the door. Ever since I had "recovered," eating felt like a chore. Food had no taste. Water felt like lead.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, the memories of my "rebirth" washing over me. I remembered the first time I woke up. Everything had been a terrifying blur of white lights and muffled sounds. “She’s awake,” someone had whispered. Then, a voice cut through the fog—a voice so deep, so authoritative, it seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of my bones.

“Call the doctor. Now.”

I had drifted back into the darkness then, only to wake up months later in this room. It was a masterpiece of luxury—expensive silk curtains, hand-carved furniture, and a view that cost millions. But to me, it was a gilded cage. To my surprise, the agony that should have racked my body was gone.

The doctor had come in with a man to check my vitals. I was confused, lost in a sea of trauma. As the doctor began to touch my arm to check a bandage, the dam inside me finally broke. The image of Damien’s face, the sound of my sister’s moans, and the phantom feeling of my baby leaving my body hit me all at once.

I started crying until my chest felt like it was collapsing. The doctor had stammered, his hands shaking as he asked if I was in pain. He didn't understand that the pain wasn't in my flesh; it was in my soul.

Then, the door bursted open.

My savior had walked in. Mr. Blackthorne. He looked like a storm draped in a tailored suit.

"What did you do to her?" he had demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The doctor had trembled, unable to speak. Blackthorne didn't wait for an answer. He walked to the bed and reached out, his large, warm hands lifting me up. He sat me against the headboard, his touch firm yet strangely careful.

"She looks so pale, doctor. Can she eat?" he asked, not looking away from my tear-stained face.

"Yes, sir... something light," the doctor whispered.

He had ordered the man that came with the doctor to bring fruits. When the plate arrived, Mr. Blackthorne took it himself. He picked up a fork, intending to feed me, but I had looked at him with eyes full of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Were you the one who saved me?" I asked, my heart burning.

He didn't answer. He just held a piece of melon toward my lips.

With a scream of rage, I shoved the plate. It flew across the room, shattering against the wall, the fruit scattering like debris across the glass floor. "Why did you save me? Why!" I shrieked. The doctor and the other man rushed to hold me down, but I fought them, my eyes locked on Blackthorne’s unreadable face. "What gave you the right? You should have left me to die! I wanted to die!"

He had said nothing. He just watched me, his grey eyes like cold ash, watching my breakdown as if he were observing a storm from behind a glass window.

Sixteen months.

That was how long it had been. I had been in a coma for nearly a year, then bedridden for six months more. Now, I could walk. My scars had faded into thin, silver lines that were barely visible. But I wasn't grateful.

I hated him. I hated this house. I hated the fact that I was breathing.

While I was tucked away in this mansion, the world had moved on. My funeral had been held without a body. My father hadn't looked for me. Damien and Sarah were likely living their lives, perhaps even celebrating the fact that the "sensitive" Lira was finally out of their way. It was suffocating.

A few days later, the doctor came for his final check-up.

"Have you eaten today, Miss Lira?" he asked as he worked.

I stared at the wall. Silence was my only weapon.

"You really should," he sighed, reaching up to peel the last bandage from my forehead. "The scar is gone. I’m so glad you’ve healed. To be honest, I was terrified when you were brought here. You were a mess of broken bones and internal bleeding. It’s a miracle you’re alive."

I felt a spark of curiosity through my numbness. "How did you know my name?"

The doctor froze. Almost everyone in the house thought I was mute. I never spoke to the maids, never acknowledged the guards.

"Oh... Mr. Blackthorne told me," the doctor said, packing his medical bag quickly. He seemed eager to leave. "He’s kept a very close eye on your progress. He’ll be pleased you're fully healed."

I glared at him, a look so sharp he actually stumbled back. He apologized and hurried out, the door clicking shut behind him.

*Mr. Blackthorne.*

How did he know my name? I had no ID on me when I was hit by that truck.

I felt a sudden, hot surge of indignation. For the first time in over a year, I wanted something. I wanted answers.

I swung my legs off the bed. My feet touched the cold, glass floor, and a shiver ran up my spine. I stood up. It felt weird—the floor felt too far away, the room too large. I walked to the mirror. My white nightgown was oversized, hanging off my thin frame like a shroud. My hair was a tangled nest of dark silk. I used my fingers to comb through it, my breath hitching in my chest.

I walked to the door and turned the knob.

I stepped out into the hallway, and my breath caught. The house was breathtaking. It wasn't just luxury; it was a palace of shadow and gold. The ceilings were arched and painted with dark, moody frescoes. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror shine. Massive chandeliers hung like frozen rain from the heights above.

The house was silent. No maids. No guards. I walked down the long, sweeping staircase, my bare feet making no sound on the stone.

Then, I heard it.

A sound that made my stomach turn into a knot of ice. A moan. A rhythmic, wet sound of flesh against flesh.

My hands flew to my head, covering my ears. No. Not again. It’s a dream. It’s the trauma of seeing my fiance with my twin sister.

But it wasn't a dream. It was coming from a room to the right— the doors wide open.

I shouldn't have looked. I should have turned around and crawled back into my cage. But the anger drove me forward. I reached the doorway and stopped.

The man who had saved me—Mr. Blackthorne—was there. He was bare-chested, his back a map of muscles and dark, intricate tattoos that seemed to writhe as he moved. He was standing, his cock thrusting against a woman who was draped over the bed.

He was cold. He was brutal. His hand was tangled in her hair, pulling her head back so sharply her neck looked like it might snap. She was arching her back, her fingers clawing at the bedsheet, her breasts bouncing with every heavy, violent thrust he made. It wasn't a dance of love; it was an act of dominance.

I swallowed hard, a bile of disgust rising in my throat. This man wasn't a savior. He was a freak. A monster. Had he saved me just to use me like this? To add me to a collection of broken things?

Suddenly, his head snapped up.

His dark, stormy eyes locked onto mine. He didn't stop. He didn't look embarrassed. He looked... hungry.

I froze, my heart stopping in my chest. Then, the flight instinct kicked in. I turned sharply, my gown fluttering around my legs as I aimed for the stairs.

I didn't make it five steps.

A hand, massive and hot, gripped my upper arm. He had moved with impossible speed. He spun me around and slammed me back against the cold stone wall of the hallway.

I gasped, the air leaving my lungs. He was right there, looming over me. He had a silk sheet tied loosely around his waist, his chest still heaving from exertion, the scent of sex and expensive cologne surrounding him. His grey eyes, full of sin and secrets, bored into mine.

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me whole. A slow, cruel smirk spread across his lips.

"Finally," he whispered, his voice a low growl that vibrated against my skin. "You came out of your cage, princess."