CHAPTER 354

LORI

I’m halfway through a restless dream—shallow waves lapping over my feet, the sky overhead dark and glittering with distant stars—when the sharp rap of knuckles on my door jolts me awake. My eyes snap open to find myself not on any free shore but still locked in the same lavish suite, the same four walls, the same hush of captive nights.

I push up onto my elbows. It’s definitely late; the night outside my balcony is lit by a half-moon, casting pale light across the ocean. They never summon me at this hour unless something unusual is happening, and every nerve in my body bristles with warning. Strands of my hair cling to my cheek as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Another knock—two quick taps, then a pause, then one final rap. That’s the signal Lucius’s staff uses whenever they’re about to disrupt my so-called “routine.” Routine. A bitter laugh catches in my throat. Nothing is routine about living as a pampered prisoner on an island fortress, forced to wear dresses chosen by a controlling madman.

I roll my shoulders, smoothing down the thin, gauzy nightgown Lucius insisted I wear. Everything in this suite—down to the color of my undergarments—follows his whims. A flash of disgust heats my chest as I cross the room, bare feet silent on cool marble. At the door stands an attendant, a young woman with eyes brimming with apology.

She bows her head slightly. “Miss Lori,” she whispers, as though afraid any louder volume might invite trouble. “We need you to get ready. He’s expecting you in less than an hour.”

My pulse jolts. “Expecting me for what? It’s the middle of the night.”

She avoids my gaze. “He’ll explain. You must dress nicely. There’s a plane waiting.”

A plane? The island is far from the city—a multi-hour trip if you’re traveling by sea, and an hour or more by private jet. I got the information from the guards and the maids in this place when I probed secretly, pretending I’m docile. My scalp prickles with a confusing rush of dread and faint hope. 

Possibly I’m leaving this place? Even if it’s under watch, it’s a change from the suffocating daily cycle. “Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “What does he want me to wear?”

Her uneasy glance flicks to the wardrobe along the far wall. “He picked something. It’s laid out. I’m sorry.”

She turns on her heel, slipping away, and the door shuts behind her. My chest constricts. Every time he has me “dress for an outing,” I end up watching him conduct some twisted form of business. Last time, we boarded a speedboat at dawn, reached the city, and I glimpsed Alexander in passing, a sight that nearly wrecked me but I couldn’t do anything. My head pounds just remembering. So he’s taking me again, but now it’s deep night. Where are we going at such an hour?

I cross to the wardrobe, yanking the door open. Sure enough, inside is a sleek black cocktail dress, cut low in the back, tastefully short. Beside it hang strappy heels that glint in the faint lamplight. A wave of revulsion hits me. He loves playing dress-up with me, molding me into some decorative showpiece for his secret dealings. But refusing to wear it will bring consequences.

With trembling fingers, I remove the dress from its hanger, letting out a shaky breath. Get it over with. The mirror in the corner reveals me as I slip out of the nightgown. Shadowy bruises still linger on my wrists from a guard’s rough grip days ago. A jolt of sorrow stabs me as I recall the day I tried to run for the cove. Didn’t make it far.

I tug the dress on and zip it up, the silky fabric sliding over my skin like an unwanted caress. My reflection stares back with hollow eyes. If Alexander saw me now, wearing clothes chosen by another man—my captor—would he even recognize me? The question slices deeper than I want to admit.

A gentle knock returns, and a second attendant steps inside, holding a small tray of makeup. “He wants you to look your best,” she explains in a hushed tone. I can’t find it in me to muster anger at these staffers. They’re as trapped as I am. Instead, I let her brush concealer under my eyes, add a soft gloss to my lips, some shimmer on my eyelids. Numb acceptance pulses through me. The final flourish is a pair of diamond earrings that catch the overhead light. Lucius’s taste is impeccable—cruelly so.

“Done,” she murmurs, stepping back.

I swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say, even though it feels ridiculous. She nods, slipping out again. My reflection is a stranger: polished, sultry, perfect for some high-society gala. Yet the hollowness in my eyes remains.

Moments later, the door opens again—this time it’s a guard with a gun slung over his shoulder. He gestures, unsmiling. “Follow.”

He leads me through the villa’s corridors, lavishly lit by low lamps. Outside, the night sky is a deep indigo, stars scattered overhead. The hum of insects thrums in the foliage, mixing with the hush of surf. We pass palm trees and thick blooms that glisten silver under the moon. At a far clearing, I spot a small, private airstrip. My heart lurches at the silhouette of a sleek, twin-engine plane. So we’re flying out in the dark?

Lucius stands near the plane’s stairway, conversing with a man in a pilot’s uniform. He notices me approach, casting a critical eye over my attire. A glimmer of satisfaction lights his gaze, though he offers no compliment. “On time again,” he says softly. “I do appreciate your cooperation.”

I say nothing. He lifts an eyebrow at my silence. Then, with a bored flick of his wrist, he gestures me aboard. The interior is plush: leather seats, tinted windows, a small bar at the front. The second I sink into a seat, two guards take positions behind me, as if even in a pressurized cabin I might attempt some grand escape. With a muted roar, the engines throttle up, and we roll down the short runway, lifting into the night sky.

Time crawls. I watch the island’s lights recede, swallowed by inky darkness. The plane ride can’t be short—some hours, likely. My head swims with anxious thoughts. Is this a bigger city across the sea? A different country entirely? Lucius has wealth enough to orchestrate anything. Every so often, he glances my way, as though checking I haven’t spontaneously combusted.

Eventually, I drift into a fitful doze, only snapping awake when the plane jolts with turbulence. We must be close to landing. Sure enough, within minutes, the wheels touch tarmac with a thud, and we taxi to a private hangar. Outside the window, city lights sprawl in the distance, a glittering mosaic against the black sky. My stomach twists, half hope, half dread. Another city, another set of watchers.

Lucius leads me into yet another sleek SUV, the nighttime air pressing warm and humid. The local time must be near midnight. The roads are mostly empty, streetlamps casting pale halos across deserted avenues. We drive for a while, neon signs flickering to life in the distance. Then, abruptly, we veer onto a side street lined with upscale restaurants and exclusive clubs. Even at this hour, the vibe is electric: well-dressed patrons slip past velvet ropes, music pulses from behind ornate doors.

We halt at a glimmering black structure: Haven Noir, spelled out in gold across tinted glass. Two men in suits guard the entrance, moving aside with bowed heads as Lucius steps out. I follow gingerly, my heels clicking on the pavement. A club? My pulse skitters. Of all places he might drag me at this time of night, why here?

Inside, the music hits me—a steady, bass-driven throb that seeps into bones. The lighting is low, tinted with crimson and violet. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, and a plush carpet muffles footsteps. The clientele exudes wealth, shimmering gowns and tailored suits, a swirl of laughter and hushed conversation.

Lucius keeps a tight hand at my lower back, guiding me past the main lounge to a roped-off area. It’s humiliating—like parading a trophy. I catch glimpses of curious stares, men and women both eyeing me. The guards behind us remain vigilant, hands near their concealed weapons. My heart thrums with every step.

A hostess in a sleek black dress greets us quietly. “Mr. Lucius, your VIP booth is ready.” Her eyes flick to me, a fleeting sympathy or curiosity glimmering before she leads us upstairs. The second level overlooks the central dance floor below, swirling with bodies moving to the DJ’s pulsing beat. My ears ring from the music’s volume.

We enter a private booth partitioned by sheer curtains. Soft seats circle a low table. A subdued neon glow highlights the bar area beyond. Two of Lucius’s men stay at the entrance, effectively blocking me from anyone else. The hostess sets a chilled bottle of some top-shelf liquor before us, plus a pair of crystal glasses.

My skin prickles, fear mixing with the decadent environment. Lucius lowers himself into the seat, patting the spot beside him. When I don’t immediately comply, his gaze darkens. I force myself to sit, leaving the smallest gap I can manage. He arches an eyebrow but says nothing, pouring liquor into each glass. The beat below thrums in my rib cage.

He picks up his glass, eyes skimming the crowd. “Now we wait,” he murmurs.

For what? My question goes unspoken. In times like these, he rarely volunteers answers. Instead, I train my gaze on the dance floor, searching for any sign of recognition or possible rescue. The dancers are a kaleidoscope of shifting shadows, no one paying mind to an isolated VIP booth upstairs.

Time slides by in a haze of tension. People come and go from the main floor, and my nerves coil tighter. Then something changes: Lucius’s phone buzzes. He checks it, lips curling faintly. “They’re here,” he says to me. “Enjoy the show.”

They? I watch him gesture to one of his guards. The guard steps aside, letting a new figure into the booth. My eyes adjust: a short, stocky man in a suit. Lucius addresses him briefly in hushed tones.

I catch scraps of their conversation over the pounding music: “...did he arrive with her? The vantage is across the way…” “...eight minutes ago. Possibly at the other lounge...”

Lounge? Another swirl of confusion hits me. The stocky man scurries out, leaving us alone except for guards. A pang of dread grips me. Lucius is staging another vantage scenario, just like last time. My stomach twists.

He glances at me. “Up on your feet.”

“What are you—”

He grips my wrist, dragging me to a darkened window at the booth’s edge. Through tinted glass, I see across the street—another building with neon-laced architecture, tall windows on the upper level revealing a private bar area. My chest tightens. This is the vantage.

There, half-obscured by moody lighting, stands Alexander, leaning against the bar rail with a crystal tumbler in his hand. My heart flips at the sight of him—he’s in a charcoal suit, shoulders tense, expression unreadable. And next to him is a woman, tall, raven-haired, wearing a form-hugging black gown. She touches Alexander’s elbow as she speaks, leaning in intimately. Another wave of heartbreak hits me like a physical blow.

“It looks like they’re enjoying themselves,” Lucius murmurs, lips near my ear. The club’s music throbs, but his voice cuts through, cold and mocking. “Notice how he’s letting her stand so close. He doesn’t look troubled, does he?”

A lump lodges in my throat. “He—maybe it’s just business.” My voice trembles. “I know him. He wouldn’t—”

Lucius’s grip on my wrist tightens, pulling me closer to the glass. “Look at how her hand drifts across his shoulder. People don’t do that for purely professional reasons, do they? Maybe he’s found a new partner. One with the resources he needs.”

Tears burn my eyes. Could it be he found a new lover so soon? The possibility crushes me. Yet I cling to the thought that he might be forced. “You don’t know anything,” I manage, voice trembling.

He chuckles softly. “I know enough. Men adapt quickly. If you’re out of reach, he’s not going to waste time pining. That’s what it is to live in our world.”

Alexander raises his glass, the woman leaning in to clink hers against it. Their lips move in conversation, the neon glow accentuating the curve of her smile. She looks confident, regal even. Alexander’s posture is stiff, but not enough to imply distress. My nails bite into my palms, the betrayal or possibility of it stinging like salt in an open wound.

Lucius sets his chin on my shoulder, making me tense. “I take it this is quite a blow to your heart. But better to face reality.”

I want to lash out, to shout that Alexander must be coerced, but Lucius’s breath on my neck paralyzes me with revulsion. “Get away,” I hiss, voice strangled.

He smirks, stepping back. “As you wish.” He pours a second glass of liquor, thrusting it into my hand. “Drink. Unless you’d rather watch them toast each other while you stand sober and miserable.”

I glare, refusing to raise the glass. The music from below rattles my bones. A flicker of movement outside draws my eyes: the woman pressing closer to Alexander. A swirl of jealousy, heartbreak, confusion churns inside me. The glass in my hand trembles.

Lucius sees the anguish etched on my face. “Go on,” he urges. “Hide behind your drink. It won’t fix anything, but it might dull the pain.”

At that moment, one of Lucius’s men—a lean, wiry colleague—slips into the booth. He reeks of cologne and cheap whiskey, eyes roving over me with brazen curiosity. “Boss, is this the famous captive?” he purrs, stepping uncomfortably close.

I recoil, but he lifts a hand as if to stroke my shoulder. “She’s a pretty little bird. Mind if I—”

Adrenaline spikes. I lash out with the glass in my grip, aiming to clobber him with it, but he blocks my wrist. His reeking breath fans my face. Panic seizes me. At last second, I pivot, smashing the heavy base of the glass across his temple. Liquid splatters. He staggers, cursing.

A heartbeat passes, the neon lighting flickering over the scene. Then Lucius’s expression flares with something savage. He whips out a pistol from his waist. The colleague’s eyes widen, and before he can react, Lucius squeezes the trigger. A muffled gunshot—silenced by the booth’s thick soundproofing—rings in my ears. The colleague collapses with a groan, clutching his leg, blood seeping between his fingers.

He shrieks, voice drowned out by the thunderous club music outside. My mind reels. Another wave of fear and confusion. Lucius kneels, pressing a hand to the wound, voice cold. “Touch what’s mine again, I’ll put a bullet in your head next time.”

The man thrashes, tears running down his face as he begs for mercy. I can’t stand the sight of blood, yet nurse instincts kick in. I drop to my knees, ignoring the flash of alarm from Lucius’s guards. “He’ll bleed out if we don’t—”

Lucius flicks me a derisive glance but nods. “Fine. Help him if you must.”

With shaking hands, I press down on the bullet wound, forming an improvised tourniquet from the tablecloth. The man moans, cursing me, cursing Lucius. The tension in my body is unbearable—shock, guilt, relief that it’s not me on the floor. A minute later, more men burst in. Lucius orders them to drag the victim away to “the doc.” They comply, leaving a slick of blood on the VIP booth’s plush carpeting.

The hush that descends is suffocating. I kneel, breath ragged, hands stained red. Lucius stands over me, gun still in hand, an air of eerie satisfaction about him. My entire being trembles. Did he do this for me? Or just to show off?

He extends a hand, as if to help me to my feet. I jerk away, scrambling upright on my own. My heart slams against my ribs. “You’re insane,” I breathe, voice quavering.

He slides the gun back under his suit jacket, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Perhaps. But you see now? If anyone else tries to claim you, or harm you, I’ll respond the same way. I protect what’s mine.”

I stare in horror, still reeling. The thick smell of blood lingers, drowned by the swirling perfume of the club’s air fresheners. “I’m not yours,” I rasp. “I never will be. I’m your captive! Have you lost your mind?”

Lucius’s eyes gleam. “We’ll see about that. Your gall excites me.” He steps nearer, wiping a smear of blood from my wrist with a pristine handkerchief. “Maybe you’d prefer if I punished you for that outburst? Or do you like that I shot him, not you?”

Hatred mingles with a flicker of twisted relief. He did this to protect me from the man’s lecherous grip—but his brand of protection is grotesque. My stomach churns as I choke, “Let’s just go,” I force out. “I—I can’t stand being here any longer.”

A thin smile curves his mouth. “Don’t you want to escape? But as you wish.” He casts a glance at the tinted window again. Alexander and the woman are gone, presumably leaving. My throat tightens at the memory. Another chunk of my hope erodes. Did Alexander see the flash of violence here? Probably not. He’s busy, entangled with some new alliance.

Lucius motions to a guard. “We’re done. Take her back.”

The guard nods. Two of them hover, ready to escort me out. Lucius lowers his voice, stepping close enough that I can smell the faint powdery scent of gun residue. “Consider this night a lesson, Lori. Your defiance is tantalizing, but it’s a blade you wield at your own peril. Next time you push me, I might not aim for the leg.”

I swallow thickly, drawing my chin up. “I’m not afraid of you,” I lie, even though my stomach is hollow with terror.

He chuckles, brushing the hair off my cheek. “Liar. But that’s all right. Keep lying to yourself if it helps you sleep.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel. The guards steer me away from the VIP booth, away from the blood-soaked carpet. Outside, the music pounds relentlessly, oblivious to the bullet fired just a few feet away. People dance, laugh, sip expensive cocktails, none the wiser. We exit down a back stairwell, slipping into the black SUV that roars away into the neon-lit streets. My heart hammers in my throat the entire drive, replaying the moment I locked eyes with Alexander from afar—and the moment Lucius pulled that trigger.

We reach the private airstrip on the city’s outskirts. By now, it’s nearing dawn. The sky overhead palely suggests sunrise, the horizon turning faintly gray. Dull exhaustion weighs on me. The plane sits waiting, engines humming. A short time later, we’re airborne once again, leaving this city behind. My gaze remains glued to the window, watching lights fade below. Another lost chance at freedom.

The flight is silent. Lucius reclines with closed eyes, almost as if he’s dozing. I remain stiff, remembering the man’s screams, my own trembling hands pressing down on the bullet wound. And the overhead swirl of heartbreak from witnessing Alexander with that woman. My eyes burn, but tears remain locked behind pride. I won’t give Lucius the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Eventually, the plane descends to the island’s airstrip. The first rays of morning light greet us as we disembark, the oppressive humidity wrapping around me again like a sticky net. The guards escort me back to the main villa, moving through corridors I know too well. My dress is ruined, splattered with blood and the reek of spilt liquor. I ache to tear it off and cleanse my skin of the night’s horrors.

At the villa’s foyer, Lucius halts me with a light grasp on my arm. The dawn glow slides across the marble floor, illuminating his features. He regards me with an unreadable expression. “Our excursion was educational, I hope.”

I keep my voice tight. “I learned you’re even more twisted than I imagined.”

His lips lift in a wry half-smile. “Flatterer. Now go clean up. I’ll send fresh clothes. Sleep if you wish, but don’t get too comfortable. We’ll talk soon.”

A guard at my back nudges me gently toward the hallway. My feet feel leaden. I glance back once, meeting Lucius’s gaze. The reminder of Alexander’s face in that bar hovers in my mind—how heartbreak flickered inside me with each second I watched him stand close to that mysterious woman. I hope, deep down, it’s a ruse. But the possibility that he’s truly moving on scalds me.

The guard’s nudge pushes me forward, so I let out a quivering breath and hurry to my suite. Once the door shuts behind me, I slump against it, arms trembling. A swirl of images bombards me: the colleague’s blood staining plush carpeting, Alexander’s distant form in that lounge across the street, the savage delight in Lucius’s eyes. Overwhelming exhaustion sinks in. The sky outside is fully bright now, but everything feels soaked in night’s dread.

I discard the ruined dress, stepping into a steaming shower to scrub away the grime, the tang of gun smoke, the stench of cheap whiskey. No matter how hard I wash, the memory clings. My reflection in the fogged mirror reveals wide eyes and a lost expression. “One day,” I whisper, echoing the vow I keep repeating. “I’ll be free.”

Later, I emerge wrapped in a soft robe. On the bed, as promised, a new dress awaits—this one a simple daytime shift. I ignore it for the moment, sliding into a plain T-shirt and lounge pants from the closet’s neglected corner. If Lucius demands another show, he can force me. Right now, I need the illusion of comfort.

I collapse onto the bed, the tension in my shoulders refusing to fade. My mind replays Alexander’s unguarded face, how the woman leaned in close. I remind myself he could be under pressure. But the tiny voice of doubt won’t die: What if he’s simply moved on, believing me dead or unreachable? Lucius certainly wants me to think so.

My eyes drift shut, the overhead fan spinning slow circles. In that half-dream state, I see the bar’s neon glow, watch the bullet tear into a man’s leg. My heart spasms with pity and leftover adrenaline. Then I see Alexander’s face again, replaced by Lucius’s cold smirk. The dream collapses into a swirl of confusion.

At some point, exhaustion claims me fully. I drift into uneasy sleep, half-formed nightmares swirling with gunshots, city lights, and a pair of haunting green eyes. Sometime later—minutes or hours, I don’t know—I jolt awake, covered in sweat. The suite is quiet, no sign of Lucius or his staff. Good. I can breathe without his oppressive presence.

Eventually, I rise and cross to the window. The sun rides high in the sky now, shimmering across the ocean. My reflection is faint against the glass, a figure of sorrow in comfortable clothes that ironically aren’t part of Lucius’s curated selection. I wonder if he’ll punish me for discarding his chosen dress. Probably. But I can’t muster the energy to care.

Pressing my palm to the glass, I gaze at the pristine beach, the orchard of palms swaying. It’s the same mocking paradise as always. The echo of the night’s events—seeing Alexander so close yet so far, the savage brutality Lucius inflicted—lingers in every breath. One day, I remind myself. One day I’ll get off this island for good.

For now, I exist in the tension between heartbreak and defiance. Each day Lucius’s interest in me grows, each day his cruelty reveals new depths. But I refuse to cower. If he thinks tormenting me with glimpses of Alexander will break my spirit, he’s wrong. I’ll harness the ache, turn it into resolve. Because the alternative—accepting captivity—is unthinkable.

My eyes close, a shaky exhale escaping. The memory of Alexander’s parted lips, that glass in his hand, and the woman’s gentle touch on his arm still gnaws at me. I cling to the possibility that it’s all a façade. Even if it isn’t, I can’t let Lucius own me. I straighten my spine, letting the sun’s heat press against the window, warming my forehead.

I will endure, I vow again, the same mantra that’s carried me through each indignity. No matter how many miles separate me from true freedom, no matter how many twisted nights Lucius arranges, I won’t surrender my will. I tighten my hand into a fist against the glass, the faint reflection of determination flickering across my face.The next day might bring more horror, but also one more chance to fight.