3

(Rafael’s POV)

The fire crackled softly in the library, throwing flickers of gold across the polished wood floors.

I stood at the window, staring out into the night, watching the black sedan parked two streets over — far enough to seem innocent.

But not far enough to be missed.

They were getting bold.

I didn’t turn when I heard the soft creak of the door opening.

Only one person in this house moved like that — quiet, deliberate, without the jittery fear that infected most of the men under my command.

Mrs. Holloway.

“She’s sleeping,” she said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

I gave a brief nod, still watching the distant car.

“You should keep her, Rafael,” she said after a beat of silence.

At that, I turned.

Mrs. Holloway’s hair was silver at the temples now, pulled into the same severe bun she’d worn for decades. Her face, lined by time and care, held a softness reserved for very few.

I narrowed my eyes slightly.

“She’s not a stray kitten, Angela,” I said, voice low. “She’s… broken.”

“All the more reason,” she replied calmly, folding her hands in front of her. “Broken things need more careful hands. Not less.”

A muscle in my jaw tightened.

Angela Holloway had been with my family longer than I’d been alive.

She wasn’t just a housekeeper — she was the housekeeper.

More than that, she was the last person who had held me after my mother died, whispering prayers into my hair when I was too young to understand grief.

She had earned her place beside me with loyalty, not blood.

“She’s terrified of me,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. “Of everything.”

“Good,” Angela said, and her sharpness startled a humorless chuckle out of me.

“Means she’s smart.”

I looked back out the window.

The car was gone now, swallowed by the night.

“How do I keep her safe,” I asked quietly, “without becoming just another jailer?”

Angela’s voice softened.

“You let her choose to stay. And then, you fight like hell to make sure no one ever forces her hand again.”

(Amara’s POV)

I woke slowly, as if surfacing from deep water.

The room was dimly lit by the softest lamp — no overhead lights, no harshness.

Just muted, golden warmth.

For a terrifying heartbeat, I didn’t know where I was.

The panic started to rise — until I smelled something.

Soup.

Bread.

Real food, fresh and warm, not the instant noodles and stale crackers I was used to scavenging in the dorms.

I pushed myself upright, the unfamiliar bed swallowing my movements.

A tray sat neatly on the nightstand beside me.

A bowl of chicken soup, a small hunk of fresh bread, and a folded piece of paper held down by a spoon.

My fingers trembled as I reached for it.

You are safe here.

Stay as long as you wish.

Or leave when you are ready.

The choice is yours.

No signature.

But somehow… I knew.

It was him.

Rafael Moretti.

The man I was supposed to fear — and yet, the only one who hadn’t treated me like a thing to be owned.

Tears burned my eyes, blurring the neat handwriting.

How long had it been since anyone had given me a choice?

Even my first love had dangled freedom like bait, only to humiliate me in the end.

And my parents — well.

Freedom had always been a myth under their roof.

My hands clutched the note like a lifeline.

Maybe this was just another cage.

Maybe I was a fool for believing otherwise.

But right now, sitting in a warm bed, with a meal prepared and no demands pressing against my throat, it didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like breathing.

For the first time in my life, it felt like someone saw me as a person.

Not a burden.

Not a weapon.

Not a prize to be won.

Just… me.

I wiped my eyes and turned toward the window, needing to anchor myself to the real world.

That’s when I saw it.

A car — sleek, black, predatory — idling just beyond the property line.

Watching.

Waiting.

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

They had followed me.

Panic clawed up my throat, but I forced myself to breathe slowly, the way Clara had taught me.

They can’t get you here, I reminded myself.

And somehow, deep inside, I believed it.

Because Rafael had seen the car too.

And he had stayed by the window all night.

Protecting me.

Without a word.

Without a bargain.

Without asking for anything in return.

My fingers tightened around the note.

Maybe — just maybe — staying wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.