Chapter 5

Nina’s POV

I stayed still, letting the quiet stretch between us.

His gaze had lingered too long, the weight of it pressing against my skin long after he’d spoken. The words—“I won’t touch you… but I’ll make you ask for it”—echoed in my ears, unrelenting.

And then he was gone.

The gentle click of the door shutting echoed louder than a gunshot in the silence.

I exhaled shakily, my back against the wall, feeling the cold marble bite through the thin fabric of my dress. My pulse hammered in my ears. My fingers trembled, and I told myself it was the sedative, not him.

But I knew better.

The room felt larger now that he was gone. The lamp in the corner cast long shadows across the walls. Everything was too clean. Too deliberate. A bed. A chair. A desk. That couch where he’d sat like he owned not just the room, but me.

I hated it.

I walked to the bed and ran my hand over the sheets. Smooth. Cold. Unfamiliar.

My eyes went to the door.

I had to know.

My bare feet made no sound against the floor as I crossed the room. My hand closed around the handle. My breath caught.

I twisted.

Locked.

Of course.

I yanked harder. Nothing. Harder still. The door didn’t budge.

My chest flung, frustration twisting into something sharper. He thought locking me in would break me. Make me beg. He was wrong.

I pressed my ear against the door. Silence. Too much silence.

I stepped back, forcing myself to breathe and think.

That’s when I saw it.

A faint red dot blinked in the corner near the ceiling.

A camera.

My stomach dropped.

He was watching. Right now. Somewhere in this massive house, he was sitting in front of a screen, watching me panic like some caged animal.

I wanted to scream. To throw something at the lens. To make him see that I wasn’t afraid.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I straightened. Shoulders back. Chin up. I controlled my breathing, slow and even, the way Madame had taught me. Performance face. Calm. Untouchable.

If he wanted to watch, fine. I would give him nothing.

I walked to the window instead. The curtains were thick, drawn halfway. I pressed my hand against the cold glass. Outside, the gardens stretched endlessly, perfectly maintained. Too perfect. Like a painting.

Somewhere out there, his men were waiting. Watching.

And somewhere, he was too.

I hated that I could feel him even when he wasn’t in the room.

A soft knock came at the door.

I turned sharply, my heart jumping into my throat.

“Yes?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

“Delivery, signorina.”

The voice was female. Older. Not one of his men.

I heard a key turn in the lock, then the door opened just wide enough for someone to push through a rolling rack.

The woman from earlier. The one in black with the severe bun. She wheeled in a garment rack filled with clothes. Dresses. Pants. Blouses. All hanging neatly, organized by color.

She didn’t look at me. Just positioned the rack near the closet and stepped back.

“Mr. Santini thought you’d need something to wear.”

I stared at the clothes. Designer labels. Expensive fabrics. Everything is in my size.

“How does he know my size?”

She didn’t answer. Just gestured to the rack. “There are undergarments in the drawers. Shoes in the closet. If you need anything else, use the phone on the desk.”

“I want to leave.”

“That’s not an option.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like she was telling me the weather. “Breakfast is at eight. Someone will come for you.”

She turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She paused, hand on the door.

“What’s your name?”

“Rosa.”

“Rosa, please. I don’t belong here. He can’t just keep me locked up like this.”

Her expression didn’t change. “You’re not locked up, signorina. You’re protected.”

“From what?”

“From people who would do much worse than keep you in a nice room with nice clothes.” She pulled the door open. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

The door closed. The lock clicked.

I stood there, staring at the rack of clothes, my mind racing.

Protected.

That’s what she’d said. Like I was supposed to be grateful.

I walked over to the rack slowly, running my fingers across the fabrics. Silk. Cashmere. Linen. Everything felt expensive. Everything felt wrong.

I pulled out a simple dress. Navy blue. Long sleeves. Nothing too revealing. If I had to face him again, I wouldn’t do it in a nightgown.

The bathroom was through a door I hadn’t noticed before. All marble and gold fixtures. A shower big enough for three people. Towels so soft they felt like clouds.

I locked the bathroom door even though I knew it was pointless.

The shower was too hot at first, then too cold, then finally just right. I stood under the water longer than I needed to, letting it wash away the feeling of his eyes on me.

When I finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged over. I wiped it clear with my hand and stared at my reflection.

I looked the same. But I didn’t feel the same.

Few hours ago, I was a dancer. Now I was a prisoner in a killer’s house.

I dried off and pulled on the dress. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.

There was makeup in the drawers. Expensive brands. I didn’t touch it. I wasn’t going to make myself pretty for him.

I brushed my hair and pulled it back into a tight bun. Dancer’s habit. It made me feel more like myself.

When I came out of the bathroom, there was a tray on the desk.

I hadn’t heard anyone come in.

Coffee. Toast. Fruit. Yogurt. All arranged perfectly on fine china.

My stomach growled, betraying me.

I sat down and ate slowly, forcing myself to take small bites even though I was starving. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me desperate.

The coffee was good. Too good. I hated that I noticed.

I was finishing the last of it when another knock came.

“Yes?”

The door opened. A different man this time. Younger. Still in a suit.

“Mr. Santini will see you now… he’s waiting.”