Lion's Den.

Zey 

I didn’t know which was worse—staying at the hotel or going back to the mansion.

The mansion… the mansion was the lion’s den.

I didn’t want to go back there. I wanted to go home—to my family, to the life I had before Adrian stormed in and turned everything to ash.

I knew what was waiting for me: Adrian’s stepmother and his stepsister, ready to make every second a living hell. They always did. And I had no power to stop them.

There was no escape. Not from this house. Not from this life.

“Are you going to take all day?”His sharp voice cut through my thoughts. 

"I… I’m getting ready,” I called out. 

“Five more minutes, Don’t make me come in there and drag you out.”

My pulse thundered. He wouldn’t… would he?

The way he said it made my stomach knot. I grabbed a dress—no time to overthink it—and rushed out.

He didn’t look up at first, just checked his watch. Dressed sharply in another one of his black tuxedos, his face was unreadable, eyes empty.

A beautiful devil with nothing but cruelty in his soul.

As I stepped out, he lifted his brow. "Why are you dressed in black?” he asked.

"I......I..." The words caught in my throat. Then I whispered, “You burned all my dresses.”

His eyes lit up—not with regret, but with satisfaction. 

"How could I forget?"

His eyes assessed me, and I felt small—crushed beneath the weight of his gaze.

The memories crept in, unwanted and sharp. I remembered how he burned them—every single one. My favorite dress, the pink floral one that reminded me of spring. The vibrant fabrics, the pieces that once made me feel alive… all gone in flames.

He replaced them with black. All black.

The one color I hated the most.

But when it came to Adrian, my choices were stripped from me. I had to endure—there was no other way.

---

AT THE MANSION

They were already waiting when we pulled up. His stepmother and her venomous daughter, arms crossed, faces tight with judgment.

"How was it? How was the little vacation?" she asked, a smile dripping with sarcasm.

Adrian’s response was calm, too calm. "It was fine… except your favorite daughter-in-law fell ill and ruined everything."

I froze.

He hadn’t mentioned it on the way here, hadn’t said a word. But I knew Adrian never forgot. He never forgave. And he always… always punished.

"Now that you're back," the woman sneered, "I hope you're fully recovered. Because you're going straight into the kitchen to cook something for us."

Adrian said nothing. He walked right past her without even a glance.

"You should know," she whispered after him, her gaze turning to me like a dagger, "he’s not done with you."

"This is just the beginning, Mother,” Laura chimed in, her voice laced with poison.

“Welcome back to torment. You know how it is here.”

Of course, I knew.

They knew exactly how to manipulate Adrian. They understood his temper, how to stoke the fire and then push me straight into the flames.

I swallowed hard.

What can I do?

This life was a cage—tight, unrelenting. It wrung out my tears, left me hollow, and shattered every dream I’d once clung to.

I used to dream of love. Of marrying someone whose eyes would make me forget the world, whose touch would feel like safety, like home.  

But love didn’t live here.

Not with Adrian.

He married me for one reason: revenge. To punish me, to keep me bound under his heel. He didn’t even pretend otherwise. The hate was always there—in his voice, his glare, his silence.

And the worst part? He never told me why.

Why did he hate me so much? Why had I become the target of all this pain?

He never answered. Only more coldness. More cruelty. More silence.

I turned away from the venomous duo. 

Back in the room, I went to the drawers and slipped into something simple and comfortable. I could hear the water running—Adrian was in the shower.

As I turned to leave, a soft beep broke through the silence.

I paused.

The sound came again. Adrian’s phone, lighting up on the table.

Every voice in my head screamed: Don’t look. Walk away.

But my eyes drifted anyway.

One message. Then another. And another.

> Hey hunny, wanna meet up tonight?

> I missed you so much, Adrian.

> The other night was so hot.

> I'm craving you again.

My heart dropped.

Stevie.

His girlfriend. The one who often came over like she owned everything. The one Adrian made me serve drinks to, while she clung to him like I didn’t exist.

And now, this. Another cruel reminder of what I wasn’t.

I stepped back, eyes stinging, chest tight.

Then I almost crashed straight into him.

Adrian stood there—towel around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his abs. His chest rose and fell steadily, but it was his eyes that stole my breath. Cold. Calculating.

I froze, heat rushing to my cheeks, shame and shock swirling in my chest.

I... I..." 

I panicked.

Adrian’s frown deepened as I tried—really tried—to keep my eyes on his face and not let them drift downward again.

But my throat was dry, the words stuck. I couldn’t speak.

He brushed past me without a word, walking straight to his phone.

I didn’t wait—I fled the room like the walls were closing in.

Outside, I exhaled a shaky breath and leaned against the wall. My eyes fluttered shut.

Focus. Breathe. Forget the water on his chest. Forget the way his eyes darkened.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I forced myself into the kitchen, pushing thoughts of Adrian and Stevie out of my head. I focused on the task at hand.

Grill the chicken.  

Sauté the vegetables.

Slice the cabbage.

—

A FEW MINUTES LATER

Macaroni. Grilled chicken. Steamed vegetables. All laid out neatly.

I carried the dishes to the dining table, where the two witches were already seated—Laura and her mother.

Laura looked up from her phone with a smirk as I set the dishes down. I moved carefully, silently, as I always did—knowing anything could be twisted into an offense.

When I finished, I stood back.

Watching.

Waiting.

Laura took one bite, then grimaced dramatically. “What is this?"

Her mother echoed her disgust, slamming her spoon down. “You call this food?” she snapped, glaring at me like I’d just insulted their bloodline.

She banged her fist on the table. “Clear it. Prepare something else. Something edible."

They weren’t hungry. I knew it. This wasn’t about the food.

This was about punishment.

They did this every time—hours of cooking, only to toss it aside like trash, just to watch me suffer through the motions again.

I swallowed my pride, held back the tears, and cleared the table.

Then I returned to the kitchen.

Back to the flames. Back to the chopping and boiling and burning.

This is a nightmare.

But I couldn’t afford to break.

Not yet.