A show.

Sylvia’s POV

The rest of the journey was uneventful. No more threats, no people jumping out of the woods at us, just silence. When we finally emerged from the woods, a black car was already waiting.

The drive back to the mansion was quiet, tense.

"Stay in the car. Don't move," one of Mario’s men ordered before stepping out. I watched as he disappeared into the house, only to return minutes later with a duffel bag, heavy and full. He tossed it into the trunk without a word, then motioned for me to switch cars.

No questions. No explanations. Just orders.

We drove for hours. Two, maybe more. Thirty minutes on a dirt road until we pulled up in front of a secluded cabin, a beautiful lake stretching out before it like something out of a painting.

Too bad I wasn’t here for a vacation.

One of the men escorted me inside, his expression unreadable. "Mario wants you here alone with him," he said, his voice flat. "You’ll do the cooking. A cleaner will come three times a week. And don’t even think about running—this place is surrounded by guards." His gaze was sharp, daring me to argue.

I nodded, accepting my fate. But one question burned in my throat.

“How long was I gone?”

Something shifted in his expression. Pity? "You don’t remember?"

I swallowed hard. "I was drugged."

His jaw tensed. "It’s been a week, since the incident."

A week?

The ground beneath me swayed. I had thought it was a day—maybe two. But a whole damn week?

The guard exhaled. "Mario’s in one of the rooms on the left. Groceries are in the bags. Make the place as comfortable as you want." And with that, he turned and walked out.

I stood by the window, watching as the car sped away, leaving me alone in this unfamiliar place.

Alone with Mario.

I took a deep breath as I climbed the wooden stairs, dragging my feet like a child forced to do chores. Staring at the door, I debated if I should just turn around and pretend I never made it up here, make a run throughout the woods and escape.

But then, I’d have to deal with the guards. And they looked like they’d enjoy dragging me back by the hair.

So, with a sigh, I pushed the door open.

Mario lay on the bed, looking like life had chewed him up and spit him back out. Frail, pale, and honestly… a little pathetic.

I watched him for a few seconds. Maybe he was dead.

Wishful thinking.

I turned to leave.

“Sylvia…”

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, like he was just learning how to speak again.

I froze, then turned slowly, my brows raised.

"I'm here," I said flatly. "Good to see you’re alive. Terrible that you still won’t let me go."

His lips curled slightly. "I see you haven’t lost your attitude. And I can see you judging me from here." He pushed himself up, wincing slightly as he leaned against the pillows. "Don’t hate me, though. Hate your mother."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers itching to grab the pillow and smother him with it.

And he must've seen the thought pass through my mind, because he chuckled.

"Don’t even think about it," he murmured, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You wouldn’t be able to kill me. Even now."

He stood, slowly, and walked toward me.

I took a step back, but the door stopped me. Great. Trapped.

Mario smirked like he enjoyed that. His hands settled on my waist, and he dipped his head closer.

"I’ve missed you, wifey," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "And this… this is our honeymoon. Sorry it’s late."

His nose brushed my neck, and I nearly gagged.

I shoved at his chest. "Have a shower," I muttered, turning my face away. "You smell like drugs."

"Coming from the one who smells like she hasn’t had a shower in weeks," he beamed.

My face froze. Then burned. How could he say that to me!

Asshole.

I stormed out before he could see just how mortified I was, making sure to slam the door behind me as loudly as possible.

I knew I smelled bad, possibly I didn't have a bath in the one week since I was kidnapped , but did he have to rub it in?

'Maybe if you hadn’t pointed his out first, he wouldn’t have done the same.'

That tiny, annoying voice in my head? I wanted to smother it.

I stomped into the second empty room, yanked off my clothes, and jumped into the shower, turning the water up so hot it nearly scalded me. I scrubbed like my life depended on it, determined to wash off every trace of this godforsaken week, and every of the hands of those guys that had touched me.

When I finally stepped out, fresh and dripping, reality hit me.

No towels. No clothes.

Just the pathetic, wet pile of what I’d just stripped off, now soaking on the bathroom floor.

I groaned. I was stupid.

Alright. No need to panic. Mario could barely walk, so he’d still be in bed. I just needed to make a quick, stealthy dash into the living room, grab a towel from the duffle bag, and get back before he even realized I was out.

Easy.

I hurried downstairs, thanking every god in existence when I saw the room was empty.

Bending over the couch, I dug through the bag, tossing aside socks, toiletries—finally, a towel. I snatched it up, turned to run—

And froze.

Mario stood at the bottom of the staircase, leaning lazily against the railing, his arms crossed.

Grinning.

And judging by the way his gaze dragged very slowly down my very bare body, I had just given him a show.

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.