Chapter 3

I woke up slowly.

Not all at once. It came in pieces.

The weight of my body against something soft. A low hum in my ears. The dull ache behind my eyes.

I blinked.

The room was dim. Not dark, but not bright either. A single lamp cast a low glow, just enough to make out shapes. The walls were unfamiliar. The ceiling too high.

Immediately I realised this was not my apartment.

Panic surged through me and I pushed myself upright, breath coming fast. The bed dipped under my movement. My head spun and I grabbed the sheets to steady myself.

“You’re awake.”

The voice came from the corner.

I froze.

It was calm. Male. Unhurried.

My eyes strained toward the sound. A couch sat against the far wall, half swallowed by shadow. Someone was sitting there, one arm draped over the back, posture relaxed like this was his living room.

“Don’t move too fast,” the voice continued. “You were sedated.”

My heart pounded. “Where am I?”

“In my house.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed. My bare feet hit cold marble.

“What did you do to me?”

A pause.

“I told them not to use that,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to be unconscious.”

That did not help.

I backed toward the door, eyes never leaving the dark corner. My hand closed around the handle and I twisted.

Locked.

Of course it was.

I yanked again, harder this time, like it might magically open if I tried enough times. It did not.

“What do you want,” I snapped, turning back toward him. “Let me go, please.”

He stood.

The movement was slow, deliberate. He stepped into the light and my breath caught in my throat.

I knew that face.

I had seen it from a distance, framed by velvet and gold. I had watched it from the stage, from under bright lights, from across a crowded theater.

But this was different.

Up close, Enzo Santini was more than the rumors. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes so dark they looked black in the low light. He wore a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up, no tie, no jacket. Nothing flashy.

Power all over him.

“You tried to run,” he said.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I said, even though I knew exactly who he was. “But you can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he replied.

He stopped a few feet away from me. Close enough that I could feel his presence. Close enough that my body reacted before my brain could catch up.

I hated that part.

“I won’t,” he added. “But I can.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s the truth.”

I shook my head. “I want to go home.”

His gaze held mine. Unblinking.

“I can’t let you leave,” he said.

The way he said it was almost gentle. That was what scared me.

“Why,” I demanded.

He inhaled slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“The moment you step out of here,” he said, “there will be no trace of you.”

The room felt smaller.

“That’s not true,” I said, even though my voice wavered. “You said they don’t know about me.”

“They didn’t,” he corrected. “They do now.”

My stomach dropped.

“You screamed,” he continued. “You ran. People noticed. Someone always notices.”

I swallowed hard. “So what. You just lock me up.”

“I keep you alive.”

“That’s not living.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s surviving.”

I laughed, sharp and shaky. “You drugged me and dragged me here. Forgive me if I don’t feel protected.”

A flicker crossed his face. Something like regret. It was gone as fast as it appeared.

“My men acted too quickly,” he said. “That won’t happen again.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to stop the trembling. “You expect me to just stay here.”

“Yes.”

“For how long.”

“Until this is resolved.”

“And when is that?”

“When the threat is gone.”

“That could be weeks. Months.”

“Possibly.”

My chest tightened. “I have a life.”

He looked at me then, really looked. Like he was seeing something beyond the panic and anger.

“I know,” he said quietly.

That made it worse.

“I have rehearsals,” I said. “Performances. I can’t just disappear.”

“You won’t,” he said. “Everything you need will be provided.”

“I don’t want things,” I snapped. “I want freedom.”

Silence settled between us.

He took a step closer.

“You think I enjoy this,” he said. “Keeping you here. Watching you look at me like that.”

“Then let me go.”

He shook his head once.

“No.”

I clenched my fists. “You don’t get to decide my life.”

His voice dropped. Lower. Darker.

“In my world,” he said, “I do.”

I felt it then. The truth of it. This man was not bluffing. He was not posturing. He was stating a fact.

I backed away until the edge of the bed hit the back of my knees. I sat without meaning to.

“You’re afraid of me,” he said.

“I should be.”

“Yes.”

The admission caught me off guard.

“You should,” he continued. “Those men you saw, won’t hesitate to kill you.”

My throat burned. “So what. I just trust you.”

“No,” he said. “You endure me.”

That sounded more honest.

He straightened, all business again. “You’ll stay in this room for now. There’s a bathroom through that door. Food will be brought to you.”

“And if I try to leave.”

He met my eyes.

“You won’t.”

Confidence. Absolute.

He moved closer.

“Wait… please,” I said.

He paused.

His gaze lingered on me, heavy and unreadable.

“I won’t touch you,” he said. “but I’ll make you ask for it.”

The words sent a strange chill through me.