Semua Bab MINE TO OWN : Bab 1 - Bab 10

The club stank of cheap perfume and broken promises. It always had.And on this particular evening likealways, Zane Knightly moved between the tables with the effortless grace of someone who knew how to make men ache without ever touching them. The flickering neon lights painted his bare skin in shades of red and blue, a masterpiece of temptation, a symbol of seduction, but his heart had long since learned to stay cold, stay hidden, stay tucked away. It was a job. A way to survive. Just another stage, another night, another lie he wore like cologne. The club, Velvet Eden, situated in a hidden alley of Paris’s underworld, was a den for the desperate and the dangerous, a get-away from their lives in the 'real world'. Zane knew better than to trust the men who came to watch him, thick with sweat and lust, tossing crumpled euros like confessions into the air. They didn't care about the boy behind the performance, they never did. Not even the kind ones. They all cared about the f

The first thing Zane noticed was the silence. Heavy. Smothering. He woke up startled, the tangled sheets and furs beneath him felt alien against his skin. The faint scent of lavender and old stone clung to the air around him. And for a moment, half a moment, he didn't move. Didn't even breathe. Memory crashed into him, rough and brutal. The auction. The cold eyes in the crowd. The clink of cigarette lighters. The man—Andrei. The price paid in millions. Zane clenched his teeth against the bile he could feel rising in his throat. His body ached, a dull hum of bruises beneath his skin. His wrists burned faintly from where the shackles had bitten into them, leaving angry red rings. But he was whole. He was breathing. And he was alone. No guards at the door. No locks on his limbs. It felt wrong. A trap too sweet not to reek of poison. He couldn’t allow himself get distracted and bewitched by the beauty and wealth that surrounded him. Slowly, Zane sat up

The sun never fully touched this place. Not through the thick glass. Not past the tall trees shaped and positioned like an army of soldiers. Not within the cold corridors that smelled faintly of wood polish, blood, and lavender. Zane had counted twelve cameras in the west wing alone, five guards who moved like they’d been trained in war zones, and zero unlocked doors. But he observed that the windows in the music room didn’t have bars. A minor victory. Now, he sat on the floor, his back against the velvet coated sofa, legs stretched out, head tilted just enough to feel the faint warmth of sun filtered through frost. His bruises were healing. They always did. But the ache behind his ribs was new—sharp, hot, and inconvenient. He pressed a hand against his sternum like he could push it down. Desire. Obsession. He could feel it growing. Not his. Andrei’s. Zane hadn’t seen him since the hallway—since the moment where silence had hung between them, stretched tight as piano wir

The day went by with too much quiet and way too little supervision. That was what unsettled Zane the most; not the guards, not the cameras, not even Andrei’s calculated, suffocating generosity. It was the stillness. The "freedom". It made his skin itch. He’d spent hours wandering. Through the gallery where oil portraits and paintings stared at him. Through the greenhouse and garden where plants grew too well. Through the east wing, where velvet curtains shut out the sun completely. And now, Zane stood before a door he hadn’t yet opened. A small one. Discreet. Hidden at the end of a hall lined with books and antiques. No cameras pointed here. No guards passed. It felt forgotten. Which meant it probably wasn’t. Zane turned the handle. Unlocked. The room inside was dim with only slivers of light slipping through the slight space between curtains. It was dusty. And a faint smell of iron and paper hung in the air. The walls were lined with filing cabinets, shelves of books

The next morning, Zane woke up with resolve and determination pumping through his veins like caffeine. There will be no silence today. No stillness. He wanted motion, answers. Lines to push and boundaries to draw blood from. He dressed in whatever the wardrobe provided—gray slacks, another silk shirt that clung too perfectly—and walked the halls like a ghost with unfinished business. The east wing felt different. Warmer, lived-in. There were shelves of books in languages he didn’t understand, antique vases placed like relics, and occasional laughter muffled behind closed doors. He passed servants who nodded silently, not daring to speak unless spoken to. He passed mirrors too, too many of them. All reflecting a version of himself he was still learning not to hate. The gardens were another matter. He stepped into them like he was breaking a rule. But no one stopped him. The hedges were tall, the paths twisted and mazelike. By the cold stone bench near the koi pond, he paused and wa