Chapter 10: Another Cage

Hailey’s POV

My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like I swallowed dust. Everything’s heavy — my eyelids, my limbs, my thoughts. The thing under me is soft, almost too soft. For a second, I melt into it, not wanting to move.

Then it hits me.

The memories — the running, the fear, the hands, the car, the darkness.

I shoot up from the bed, the duvet clinging to me like a trap. “What the—” My voice cracks. I yank the blanket away and stare around.

The room is massive. White and black with splashes of grey, elegant but cold. The king-sized bed I just escaped from could easily swallow a small apartment. On the left, there’s a door with a table beside it — flowers, books, perfectly placed decorations.

Where the hell am I?

I push off the bed, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. My hoodie clings to me, and when I look down, realisation stabs through me — my jeans are gone. Only underwear.

My throat tightens.

I shuffle toward the door anyway, ignoring the trembling in my legs. The air smells faintly of cedar and coffee — expensive, masculine.

The hallway opens to a staircase that curves downward. I pause at the top, staring through the ceiling-height windows. Below, the city glows — headlights streaking past, massive billboards showing cars I’ll never afford. Everything feels too calm, too polished for a kidnapping scene.

“Do kidnappers live in places like this?” I mutter, voice shaking.

I descend the stairs, slow and careful. Halfway down, I feel it — someone watching. The hairs on my neck lift. My chest tightens.

Then I see him.

He’s standing by the kitchen counter, back turned slightly, a mug in his hand. The ping of a phone lights up the marble near him.

And then he turns.

“You!” The word bursts out before I can think.

His gaze lands on me — cool, unreadable. Familiar.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice calm, too calm. He sets the mug down and walks toward me, slow and deliberate.

“You—” I stammer, my heartbeat in my throat. “You’re the guy from the club. The one who—”

He nods once. Hands slide into his pockets. “Yes.”

“What are you— What am I doing here?” My voice rises with every word. “How did I get here? Why did you—”

He’s close now, too close. His hand reaches out, brushes my forehead, then my cheek — checking, assessing. I jerk away and slap his hand hard enough that it stings.

He flinches, then slides his hands back into his pockets. “You might have a concussion. You’ll need to rest.”

“Rest?” I snap. “I want answers. You kidnapped me!”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with that maddening calm.

“It’s always the nice ones,” I mutter bitterly.

His jaw flexes. Then, quietly: “You should get some sleep.”

He turns to walk past me, but I dart in front of him, blocking the stairs.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, breath coming fast. “You don’t get to kidnap me and then tell me to sleep. Explain yourself.”

For a long second, he says nothing. Just studies me — eyes flicking from my face to my trembling hands.

Then his gaze drifts lower. My legs. My clothes.

The realisation dawns on me a split second too late.

“I didn’t touch you,” he says, tone clipped. “My housekeeper changed you. She’s retired for the night.”

I swallow, throat dry. “Right.”

He steps back slightly, giving me space, but not enough. “You’re safe here, Hailey.”

The way he says my name makes me freeze. “You know my—? Never mind.” I shake my head violently. “Safe? You call this safe? Dragging someone off the street and locking them in your house?”

“I didn’t lock you in,” he says, voice level. “You were being dragged into a car by men I don’t work with. You were drugged.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes.

“I saved you,” he adds softly.

My laugh is harsh and hollow. “You expect me to believe that?”

He tilts his head. “Believe what you want. But you’re breathing because of me.”

I hate that he might be right.

I step back, voice trembling with exhaustion and rage. “Why me? I have nothing. My dad’s broke, my ex is gone, my life is garbage. Why risk yourself for that?”

He exhales, rubbing his jaw. “Your father owes people worse than me. He tried to sell you off as collateral. I erased the debt. That’s all you need to know for now.”

The room spins. “You—what?”

He doesn’t repeat it. “Go upstairs. Rest. You’ll need your strength.”

“Don’t call me a child again,” I snap as he starts past me.

Something flickers in his eyes — amusement, maybe regret. “Then stop acting like one.”

My breath catches. For a heartbeat, I almost lunge at him. But he’s already halfway up the stairs.

“The room’s to the right,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I stand there, shaking. My body is buzzing with adrenaline and something worse — humiliation.

Why do I always end up in messes like this?

My throat burns. I blink hard, refusing to cry, but the tears come anyway — hot, angry, useless. I turn and wander down the hall he pointed to, passing elegant paintings, polished floors, and black security cameras that track every move.

Any thought of escape dies there.

The first door on the right gives way easily. The room is smaller but still beautiful — crisp sheets, framed art, a lamp that hums faintly. Someone actually lives here.

But I can’t think about that now.

I drop onto the bed, the mattress swallowing me whole. And then, finally, I break.

I cry for my father. For Zoey. For the man upstairs who somehow became part of my nightmare.

I cry for me.

And somewhere between the sobs and the silence, exhaustion wins.

Tomorrow, I’ll find out the truth.

Tomorrow, I’ll plan another escape..