Chapter 3

"Take off your clothes."

The words fall like a sentence in the heavy silence of the suite. I stand frozen in the bathroom doorway, the silk nightgown still folded over my arm. My heart pounds so hard I hear it in my temples. No. I can't do this. Not like this. Not tonight. Not with him.

"What… I… No," I finally whisper, my voice trembling but clear. I step back, clutching the fabric against me like a pathetic shield. "I… I can't."

Cameron, sitting on the edge of the bed, bare‑chested and imposing, stares at me for a long moment. I expect anger, an explosion, immediate punishment. But instead, he tilts his head slightly, and a slow, almost amused smile stretches his lips.

"So you resist," he says in a low voice, almost satisfied. He rises with calculated slowness, approaches without touching me, and stops a yard away. "Anyway, that was just a test. I would never have let you go through with it… at least, not yet."

The "not yet" chills my blood. He's promising a future where I'll no longer have a choice, where resistance will become impossible. But for now, he steps back, pointing to a discreet door on the opposite wall. "That's your suite. Mine is right across. Make sure you're ready tomorrow at 9 a.m. We have a long day ahead."

He turns on his heel, pulls on a black shirt without fully buttoning it, and disappears into his room without another word. I stand there for a few seconds, breathless, then retreat into the suite he pointed out. I lock the door even though I know it wouldn't help and collapse onto the bed, still dressed. Sleep comes in fits, haunted by his gaze and the weight of the necklace around my neck.

The next morning, at 8:45 a.m., I'm ready. Charcoal‑grey trouser suit, impeccable white shirt, hair pulled into a tight bun. I barely slept, but I refuse to show it. At exactly 9 a.m., Cameron knocks twice on my door. He's already in work mode: dark suit, but today he's left the jacket on the back of his chair and is wearing only a tight black shirt and a dark grey t‑shirt underneath. More casual. More dangerous.

"Come," he says simply.

The Bentley ride is silent. I stare at the tinted window, avoiding his reflection. Once at the Black Tower, he doesn't lead me to a separate office. No. He seats me directly in his vast open office, at a table adjacent to his. Shared office. No partition. No privacy. I'm ten feet from him, permanently in his line of sight.

"Your station," he announces, pointing to the already lit screen. "You handle my priority emails, prepare report summaries, anticipate. And you stay here."

The day begins. Banal tasks, on the surface: sorting hundreds of emails, drafting notes on investments, checking figures. But the proximity is unbearable. I feel his gaze on me at regular intervals intense, probing, as if he's studying every micro‑expression on my face. Several times I look up and fall straight into his green eyes. I immediately look away, cheeks burning, a visceral unease in the pit of my stomach.

Around 11 a.m., he takes off his suit shirt, remaining in a tight grey t‑shirt that perfectly hugs his broad shoulders and muscular chest. I try not to look. Really. But my eyes slide despite themselves over the tattoos that peek out from the short sleeves: black geometric lines, Orthodox symbols, a stylised raven on his left forearm. I freeze.

That raven. I recognise it. Exactly the same as the one my father had on his right forearm. The same design, the same sharp lines. My father, who disappeared without a trace three years ago. I haven't heard from him since that night when he called me, voice trembling, to tell me to "be careful" before abruptly hanging up. The wound rips open all at once, sharp, painful. My eyes blur before I can control them.

Cameron notices my distress. He puts down his pen, slowly gets up and approaches my desk. I bow my head, pretend to focus on the screen.

"You were staring," he says in a low, amused voice. He leans against my desk, arms crossed, towering over me. "My tattoos interest you?"

I shake my head, too quickly. "No, I… it's nothing."

He chuckles softly. "Liar." He pulls up the left sleeve of his t‑shirt, revealing more of the raven and other symbols: a miniature cathedral, eight‑pointed stars, Cyrillic numbers.

"Every design has a story. The raven… it's for memory. For those we've lost, but never forget. The stars are rank. The cathedral… the faith you keep even when everything else goes to hell."

His voice is calm, almost introspective. I try to stay neutral, to give nothing away, but my eyes stay locked on that raven. He follows my gaze, frowning slightly as if he senses something, but says nothing. He simply stares at me for a long while, a smirk on his lips.

"You can look as much as you want, Amanda. I don't bite… unless you ask me to."

All day long, he alternates between crisp orders and lingering looks, between heavy silences and double‑entendre phrases. I feel watched, dissected, like prey that doesn't yet know it's already caught.

Around 5 p.m.

His phone buzzes. He answers, accidentally  or intentionally  putting it on speaker. A distorted, raspy voice echoes through the office:

"Cameron… you think you can double‑cross us and get away with it? Your time is over. I will find you. I will make you beg. And then I will kill you slowly."

Cameron grips the phone so hard his knuckles turn white. His eyes turn black, cold, deadly. "Just try," he replies in an icy voice. "I'll be waiting."

He hangs up abruptly, springs to his feet, grabs his jacket. I automatically stand up, reflexively, heart pounding.

"No," he cuts in immediately, seeing me move. He stops dead in front of me, places a firm hand on my shoulder the first voluntary contact since yesterday. "You're going back. It's too dangerous right now. Ask Alfred to take you to the hotel suite. You stay there until further notice."

His tone brooks no argument. He looks at me for one more second, as if he wants to add something, then turns on his heel and storms out, the door slamming behind him.

I'm left alone in the vast, empty office, the silence falling back like a lead blanket. Alfred is already waiting for me downstairs. The drive to the hotel happens in a fog. Once inside the suite, I lock the door, sit on the bed, and a thousand questions spin in a loop in my head.

Who was on the phone? Why did he say "too dangerous for you"? And above all… why is that raven on his arm exactly the same as my missing father's?

I stare into space, the necklace heavier than ever around my neck. I'm trapped. And I'm starting to wonder how I can escape.