Elara stood before the grand mirror in her new room, staring at the reflection that did not feel like her.
The dress was black silk, smooth and cold against her skin. It clung to her slender frame, the neckline dipping lower than she would have ever dared in her old life. Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed, falling in dark waves down her back. The marks on her shoulders and spine ached beneath the fabric, but no one would see them tonight. Not unless Lucien wished to show them.
A soft knock.
The same older woman—Anna—stepped into the room.
"He is waiting in the dining hall," she said, eyes flickering briefly to the fresh welts hidden under the gown. "Come, child. Best not to make him wait tonight."
Elara followed in silence. Every step through the endless corridors felt like walking deeper into the belly of some great beast. The walls whispered secrets, the chandeliers gleamed like hungry eyes.
They reached the doors.
Two guards stood aside and pulled them open.
And there he was.
Lucien Moretti sat at the long dining table, lit by dozens of flickering candles. Silver gleamed. Crystal glasses caught the light. A single chair waited across from him.
Elara swallowed hard.
He rose as she entered, his gray eyes sliding over her slowly. Measuring. Tasting.
"You clean up well, little painter," he murmured. "Black suits you. Like a mourning dove dressed for a funeral."
She said nothing. Her throat was dry.
He gestured to the chair.
"Sit."
She obeyed, smoothing the silk over her trembling legs. Her pulse raced beneath her skin, but her face—carefully—remained calm.
Lucien poured dark red wine into her glass, the scent rich and heavy.
"I trust Anna tended to you?" he asked, his voice smooth as velvet.
Elara hesitated.
"Yes."
"Good. I dislike leaving marks. Ugly things. You deserve better than ugly scars." He smiled faintly. "For now."
Her stomach twisted.
Food appeared—a silent servant wheeling in silver trays. Roasted lamb. Garlic potatoes. Fresh bread. Steam curled into the air like whispers.
Lucien filled her plate.
"You must eat," he said softly. "You need your strength."
Elara forced herself to lift the fork. Her hand barely shook.
He watched her with the eyes of a man who could not be fooled.
"You are wondering why I keep you here," he said after a long moment. "Why I did not let you go this morning. Why I punished you instead of releasing you like a bird from a broken cage."
Elara set her fork down gently.
"Yes," she whispered. "Why?"
Lucien leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant for the first time.
"Because birds fly back to the sky," he said softly. "And I am so very tired of being left behind."
The words hung between them, heavy and strange.
Elara frowned.
"Who left you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Lucien smiled without warmth.
"Everyone," he murmured. "My mother. My father. My brother. Friends who turned into enemies. Women who smiled and lied and left me holding the knife."
His eyes darkened.
"And now you. Trying to run from me. Like they all did."
Elara stared, her breath caught.
"I am not like them," she said quietly.
"No?" Lucien tilted his head. "Then why did you run?"
"Because I am afraid," she said, her voice breaking before she could swallow it. "Because you terrify me."
He said nothing.
For a long, aching moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the crackling of candle flames.
Lucien set his glass down.
"Fear is honest," he said softly. "I will accept that. I prefer honesty to false sweetness."
He rose, circling the table slowly, until he stood behind her chair.
Elara tensed.
His fingers touched her shoulder, light as silk. No force. No cruelty. Just the strange, quiet weight of his presence.
"Eat," he murmured near her ear. "You will need strength for what is coming."
Her heart shuddered.
"What is coming?" she whispered.
Lucien smiled against her hair.
"A guest," he said. "An old friend. Or enemy. The line blurs in this world."
He pulled back, his hand slipping from her shoulder.
"And I want you there when he arrives. To see how quickly masks fall away. To understand what danger truly is."
Elara turned in her chair, her eyes searching his face.
"Why?" she asked. "Why involve me in your business?"
Lucien's smile grew, sharp as glass.
"Because you are no longer a prisoner, Elara. You are part of my world now. And that means danger will find you whether I wish it or not."
His gaze held hers, dark and burning.
"Better you see the game early. Before it costs you more than bruises and fear."
Her throat closed.
"You expect me to trust you?" she breathed.
"No," he said softly. "I expect you to obey. Trust can come later. Or not at all."
He moved back to his chair, calm and smooth, as if the darkness between them had never stirred.
Elara's mind raced.
A guest. A friend or enemy. Something dangerous enough to make Lucien cautious.
An opportunity, maybe.
A crack in the armor.
"Who is coming?" she asked, forcing her voice steady.
Lucien smiled thinly.
"Someone from the past. Someone who owes me a debt."
His fingers tapped the crystal glass.
"You will meet him tomorrow. Until then... stay close. Watch. Listen. Learn. You may discover things that even I have forgotten."
Elara picked up her fork again, her hand steady now.
She would watch.
She would listen.
And she would learn.
The quiet rebellion inside her burned brighter than ever.
Lucien Moretti thought he was teaching her the rules of his world.
But Elara would write new ones.
And one day, they would play by her game.