Chapter 5: A Bitter Thanks

The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of silent meals, solitary hours in the studio, and the oppressive weight of being watched. Lynn’s charcoal drawings grew darker, more abstract, filled with jagged lines and shadowy figures. They were maps of his internal prison. The unopened art case remained on the study desk, a silent point of contention.

Then, a shift. James approached him one morning, his usual neutral expression softened by a hint of something else. "Mr. Lynn," he said. "The hospital called. Miss Anna's surgery is complete. The doctors report it was a success. She is in recovery and responding very well."

The words hit Lynn like a physical force. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The tight knot of anxiety that had been permanently lodged in his chest since Anna got sick suddenly loosened. Relief, so profound it made his knees weak, washed over him. She was going to be okay. The experimental treatment, the one that had seemed like an impossible dream, had worked. Because of the deal. Because of Caius.

The thought was a bucket of cold water. His relief was instantly tangled with a sharp, familiar bitterness. Anna's life had a price, and he was the currency. The joy he felt was real, but it was built on the foundation of his own surrender. He stood there, grappling with the warring emotions—fierce, overwhelming gratitude for his sister's life, and a deep, seething resentment for the man who held the leash.

He needed to say something. He couldn't just ignore this. When Caius returned to the penthouse that evening, Lynn was waiting in the living area, something he rarely did. Caius paused, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

Lynn took a shaky breath. He forced the words out, his voice dry and rough from disuse and the strain of the emotions churning inside him. "Thank you," he said, the words tasting like ash. "For Anna. The surgery... they said it was a success."

Caius stopped completely, looking at him. He seemed... surprised. The cold mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a flicker of something unguarded. He recovered quickly, his expression shifting back to its usual impassivity. He gave a short, almost awkward nod. "It was part of the agreement," he replied, his tone stiff, as if uncomfortable with the direct gratitude. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a kind word. He simply stated the cold, hard fact of their transaction and then walked past Lynn towards his study.

The response should have angered Lynn further. It was so clinical, so devoid of warmth. But somehow, its very awkwardness felt more genuine than a smooth, practiced reassurance would have. It didn't feel like the gloating of a victor. It felt like a man who didn't know how to handle a simple "thank you."

That night, sleep was slow to come. Lynn lay in the dark, the events of the day replaying in his mind. The joy for Anna. The bitterness of his situation. Caius's surprised, stiff reaction. He finally drifted into a restless sleep.

He woke up sometime later, his throat dry. The digital clock on the bedside table glowed 2:17 AM. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed something new on his nightstand. A simple glass of milk. It was still faintly warm to the touch.

He stared at it, his mind reeling. How? When? The cameras. Of course. Someone—a member of the staff, or perhaps even James on Caius's orders—had seen him wake up frequently during the night and brought this. But the order would have come from Caius. This small, quiet act of... care? It was so at odds with the man who had coldly bought him and referred to saving his sister's life as "part of the agreement."

His first instinct was suspicion. Is this a trick? A way to monitor me even in my sleep? A new way to control? He thought about the locked windows, the blocked computer, the ever-present cameras. This could easily be another form of surveillance disguised as kindness.

But as he looked at the innocent glass of milk, a different, more dangerous feeling crept in. What if it wasn't? What if it was just... a gesture? A clumsy, silent attempt at something resembling concern? The memory of Caius's surprised look when he thanked him surfaced. The man was a fortress of control and coldness, but were there tiny, almost invisible cracks?

His hand hovered over the glass. A part of him, a lonely, tired part that missed simple human kindness, wanted to pick it up and drink it. To accept this small offering, to believe, even for a moment, that there was a person behind the monster.

But the memory of the gala, of the possessive arm around his waist, of the signed agreement that had stripped him of his freedom, was too strong. He couldn't afford to soften. He couldn't afford to see humanity in his jailer. It was a trap more subtle than any locked door.

He pulled his hand back as if the glass were poisoned. He didn't drink it. But he didn't push it away or knock it over in anger either. He just left it there, on the nightstand, a silent, glowing white question mark in the dark. He lay back down, turning his back to it, but he couldn't sleep. The image of the warm milk burned behind his eyelids.

Thank you, he thought into the darkness, the words layered with a complexity he couldn't untangle. And I hate you.

The line between his hatred and the confusing, unwanted flickers of something else was becoming dangerously blurred. The game was no longer just about survival and revenge; it was becoming a battle for his own heart, and he was starting to fear he was losing.