Chapter 06 (Part 02)

I stood slowly and walked to the bed, the marble floor cold beneath my feet. Every step echoed softly in the quiet room, but the sound seemed muffled, absorbed by the heavy curtains and plush furniture.

I turned to face the mirror.

Tilted my head. Studied the reflection.

Everything was perfect. Every object in its place. The walls with their subtle damask pattern, the polished floor that gleamed like black water, the edge of the Persian carpet with its intricate border…

But not the door.

The bedroom door — the one I’d just come through — wasn’t visible in the reflection.

I took a step left, trying to find an angle where it would appear.

Nothing.

Step right.

Still nothing.

The mirror reflected the entire room in perfect detail except for the exact space where the door should be. It was as if that section of the room simply didn’t exist in the glass world.

I walked to the door and stood directly in front of it, facing the mirror again. I raised my hand, waved at my reflection.

I should have seen myself twice — once directly, once reflected.

But the glass was… flat. Empty where I should have been.

Like it wasn’t glass at all.

My heart began to race as the implications sank in. I crossed the room slowly, my bare feet silent on the cool floor, every nerve ending suddenly alive with awareness. I stopped inches from the surface, studying it more closely.

It looked like a mirror. The frame was certainly real — solid silver, ornately carved with roses and thorns that seemed to writhe in the lamplight. But the surface itself…

I reached up and touched it.

Cool.

But not quite cold. Not like glass should be.

There was no give, but there was something else — a faint vibration, so subtle I might have imagined it. Like machinery humming behind the wall.

I knocked — once, softly.

The sound didn’t echo like it should have. Instead, it seemed to be absorbed, swallowed by whatever lay beyond.

Like it had gone somewhere else.

Like it had gone through.

I leaned in until my lips were almost touching the surface and whispered, “Who’s watching me?”

No answer.

Of course not.

But I swore I could feel something on the other side. A presence. Patient. Waiting.

I stayed there for another few seconds, staring at my own reflection — the robe hanging loose around my body, the bare throat with its diamond collar catching the light, the faint shadows under my eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and constant fear — and for the first time since entering this house, I felt truly exposed.

Not alone.

Never alone.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. How long had they been watching? From the very first night? Had they seen me cry in the shower? Seen me try the windows, test the door locks? Seen me lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and planning escapes I was too afraid to attempt?

Had Dante been watching when I touched myself in the darkness, desperate for some connection to my own body, some reminder that I was still human beneath the silk and diamonds?

The thought made me nauseous.

The suite was quiet again.

Too quiet.

I lay on the bed fully clothed, still dressed in the robe, the diamond collar snug against my skin like a reminder of everything I’d lost. The sheets were barely wrinkled beneath me — expensive cotton that smelled of lavender and something else I couldn’t identify. Something medicinal.

My body refused to relax. I’d memorized every sound in the room over the last hour, cataloging them like a prisoner learning the schedule of her guards. The hum of air vents that cycled on every twelve minutes. The creak in the floor near the window when the house settled. The faint click of the overhead light when it shut off automatically at exactly nine o’clock, leaving only the bedside lamps to push back the darkness.

But now… there was something else.

A new sound.

Low. Muffled.

Not inside the room.

Behind the wall.

I sat up slowly, heart tapping against my ribs like a caged bird, the air suddenly feeling thinner. The mirror across from the bed loomed in the dim light like a mouth that never spoke but always listened. I rose to my feet — bare, silent — and stepped toward it.

There it was again.

A voice.

Male.

Deep.

It wasn’t clear — just sound filtering through whatever mechanism lay behind the false mirror — but the cadence was familiar. Sharp, measured, controlled in the way that suggested violence held carefully in check.

Dante.

He was behind the wall.

I leaned in, placing my fingertips against the cool surface. The vibration was stronger now, more noticeable. Whatever technology they were using, it was active. Recording. Transmitting.

I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Controlled. Commanding. Like it always was when he spoke to me — as if every sentence was a carefully measured dose of authority designed to keep me compliant.

But there was another voice too — a second one, rougher, more agitated. A man’s voice, speaking in shorter sentences. I caught fragments: “…too risky…” “…not ready…” “…should have waited…”

They were arguing.

About me.

It had to be about me.

No yelling. No raised voices. Just that controlled force that lived just beneath the surface of real violence — the kind of quiet argument that could end in bloodshed if the wrong word was spoken.

Then… silence.

For a second, I thought they’d left, that whatever meeting or conference was taking place in the hidden room had concluded.

But then the sound of something falling — soft but heavy — made every muscle in my body tense.

A chair?

A body?

I pressed my ear against the glass and held my breath, straining to hear anything that might tell me what was happening on the other side of the wall.

Nothing.

Then—

“Don’t ever question me about her again.”

The words were muffled but clear enough to send ice through my veins. Cold. Final. The tone of a man who’d just ended a conversation permanently.

Dante.

So close it felt like he was breathing against the other side of the wall.

My heart stopped.

Her.

He meant me.

I stepped back instinctively, and the back of my heel hit the bedframe with a soft thump that seemed to echo like thunder in the quiet room.

I froze.

Silence again.

Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Approaching the mirror from the other side.

I could feel them now — vibrations traveling through whatever mechanism connected his world to mine. Each step sent a tiny tremor through the false glass, and I realized with growing horror that if I could feel his movement, he could probably sense mine too.

I held still.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare to blink.

My reflection stared back at me — wide-eyed, trembling, helpless in silk and diamonds. A beautiful prisoner in a gilded cage, watched by invisible eyes, judged by hidden observers.

And for one terrible second… I wondered if he could see me too.

If he was standing on the other side of that mirror right now, studying me like a specimen under glass. If he’d watched me discover the truth about the mirror. If my fear and revulsion were just another form of entertainment for him.

The footsteps stopped.

Directly in front of where I stood.

I could swear I felt his presence like heat radiating through the false glass — close enough that if the barrier weren’t there, his breath would fog the surface.

My legs shook. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

And still, I didn’t move.

Because somewhere in the terrified part of my brain, I understood that this was a test. That my reaction to discovering the mirror’s secret was being measured, evaluated, filed away for future reference.

I was always being tested.

Every moment. Every breath. Every choice.

The footsteps resumed, moving away from the mirror. Voices again — too low to understand, but urgent now. Planning something. Deciding something.

About me.

Always about me.

I remained frozen until the sounds faded completely, until I was certain the room beyond was empty. Only then did I allow myself to collapse onto the bed, my legs finally giving out under the weight of adrenaline and terror.

They’d been watching me.

They were still watching me.

And tomorrow — or the next day, or the day after that — whatever they’d been planning would begin.

I pulled the robe tighter around myself and stared at the mirror, no longer seeing my own reflection but imagining the eyes that watched from behind it. Patient. Calculating. Waiting for me to break.

Or to become whatever they intended me to be.

The choice, I realized, might not be mine to make.