Chapter Five

Sophie's POV

The penthouse doors hissed shut behind me like the jaws of a beautiful trap sealing forever.

I stood frozen in the foyer, my fingers tightening around the handle of my battered suitcase the last relic of my old life. Before me stretched an expanse of polished marble so pristine it mirrored the glittering city skyline twenty-three stories below. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead like the ribcage of some enormous beast, swallowing the sound of my hesitant footsteps. Every surface gleamed under recessed lighting, sterile as an operating theater and twice as cold.

"Five million dollars", I reminded myself, dragging a fingertip across the lacquered console table. Not a single fingerprint remained in my wake. "Six months. Then you burn this place to the ground."

"Mrs. Blackstone."

The voice could have frosted glass. I turned to face a woman carved from ice and wrapped in a Chanel suit two shades darker than her soul. Silver hair pulled into a punishing chignon stretched her porcelain skin taut.

Her eyes pale, unblinking scanned me with clinical precision, cataloging every flaw: the frayed hem of my thrifted dress, the chipped burgundy polish on my nails, the barely perceptible tremor in my hands when I noticed them.

The cameras.

Not hidden. Not discreet.

Bullet lenses stared from every corner, their dark apertures drinking in my discomfort.

"Mrs. Whitlock," she said before I could speak. "House manager. Mr. Blackstone asked me to familiarize you with the rules."

She extended a tablet toward me with manicured hands that had never known labor. The screen displayed a floor plan dotted with blinking red markers:

Master Bedroom: Motion sensors (active 11PM- 6AM)

The Balcony: Glass-break detectors

The Study: Biometric lock (thumbprint required)

At the bottom of the screen, a notification popped up with chilling precision:

"10:47 PM - Subject entered master suite. Awaiting further instructions."

I looked directly into the nearest camera, curled my lips into something too sharp to be a smile, and flipped it off with both hands.

Breakfast arrived at precisely 7:15 the next morning.

Poached eggs like unblinking eyes. Avocado toast arranged with geometric precision. A side of humiliation served on bone china.

The server a stiff-backed man with an earpiece coiled around his ear like a venomous snake set the tray on the dining table without meeting my gaze. "Mr. Blackstone's compliments."

I stabbed the yolk with unnecessary force, watching golden liquid hemorrhage across the plate. "Does he want a report on how I chew, too? Or is he just watching that live?"

No answer. Just the quiet "click" of the electronic lock engaging behind him.

Between bites of food that tasted like ashes, I conducted a reconnaissance of my gilded prison:

The Walk-In Closet:Rows of designer garments all my exact size hung like skinned carcasses. Tags still attached.

"How did he know my size?" I starred at the closet puzzles

The Suite Bathroom: A mirror that refused to fog no matter how much steam filled the room.

The "Gift": A pearl-handled letter opener left on my pillow, its edge honed to surgical sharpness. Too fine for paper. Just right for arteries.

Could this be a test?

A threat?

A game?

I slid the blade into my pocket, its weight a comforting secret against my thigh.

3:17 AM. The penthouse held its breath.

I moved through the shadows like smoke, duct tape muffling the motion sensors' red eyes. The biometric lock on Damien's study flashed crimson when I pressed my thumb to the scanner.

"Damn you," I whispered, pulling out the letter opener.

The blade slipped between door and jamb with practiced ease, searching for the vulnerable point beneath the tech. A trick my father taught me when I was six and accidentally locked myself in his office back when he still pretended to love me.

"Click."

The study smelled like expensive whiskey and the first frost of winter. Moonlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the heart of my husband's surveillance web: sixteen monitors glowing like a predator's eyes in the dark. Every screen showed a different room.

Including mine.

Where I was supposedly sleeping.

My reflection stared back from the blackened glass, pale as a ghost. Then movement. The study door groaned open behind me.

"Find what you're looking for?"

Damien leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, a tumbler of bourbon dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. The camera feeds painted his torso in shifting blue shadows, illuminating the scars I hadn't known about three parallel lines raked across his pectoral, pale and raised like the marks of some great beast.

I lifted the letter opener between us, letting moonlight dance along the blade. "Does the footage come with director's commentary, or do you just jack off to the silent reruns?"

He took a slow sip, the ice in his glass clinking like a death knell. "You missed one."

A monitor I hadn't touched flickered to life showing this moment, from an angle near the bookshelf.

"Bedroom cameras are infrared," he mused, stepping closer. The scent of him smoke and expensive cologne and something inherently

Damien wrapped around me. "Interesting what they pick up at night." His gaze dropped to my throat. "Your pulse jumps when you lie."

I drove the blade into the control panel with all my strength.

Sparks rained down like dying stars, and in their brief, violent light, I saw his lips curl in approval.