Lies

Isabella’s POV

The door slammed down the hall, rattling the walls with its finality. I stood frozen in the living room, the blanket slipping from my shoulders. Every nerve in my body was wired tight, humming with adrenaline and anger.

I could still feel her — the ex fiancée — like a stain in the air, her perfume clinging to the furniture, her venom burning in my veins.

My hands balled into fists. I turned to Damien, whose eyes hadn't left me once since she disappeared.

"Next time," I said coolly, voice dripping with fury I barely recognized as my own, "put your dog on a leash. Why do I have to be barked at?”

His jaw twitched, but he said nothing, only watched as I tossed the blanket onto the couch and stormed past him.

I didn’t bother looking back.

The penthouse seemed to stretch endlessly as I walked down the hall, every footstep a battle against the instinct screaming at me to run. I found a bedroom and climbed onto the massive bed, crawling to the farthest edge.

I yanked the covers over myself like armor, facing the wall, willing the night to swallow me whole.

But I wasn't alone for long.

The mattress dipped behind me, a heavy, slow sinking that made every hair on my body stand on end. I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe if I pretended to sleep, he'd just...

But no.

I felt him shift closer.

The heat of him pressed into my back before his arm slid around my waist, pulling me against him in one slow, inevitable motion.

I stiffened. Every muscle screamed protest. His body was solid, unyielding, and far too familiar for someone who was supposed to be nothing more than a kidnapper in this twisted game.

I could smell him—sandalwood and smoke—and it made my head spin.

I hated how good it felt.

I hated him.

I hated me most of all.

But I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Not because I didn’t want to—but because survival meant playing the part.

Because he said if you want to live, you follow my rules.

So I stayed. Frozen. Heart hammering so loud I swore he could hear it.

Minutes stretched. Or maybe it was hours.

I waited for his breathing to even out, for his grip to loosen just enough. I needed space. I needed air.

Slowly, carefully, I shifted my weight, trying to slide free without waking him.

But before I could even move an inch—

His arm tightened, like iron bands across my ribs.

I gasped quietly, feeling the sudden crush of his body against mine.

And then his voice—low, deep, dangerous—rumbled against my ear.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I froze. My heart stuttered painfully against my ribs.

"Bathroom," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the lie.

A pause.

Then, without loosening his grip, he murmured, "Later. Sleep now."

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to shove him off, claw my way out of this bed, out of this life.

But all I did was nod mutely, sinking deeper into the mattress, into the trap he'd spun around me with nothing but whispered threats and rough, devastating tenderness.

I laid there, eyes open in the dimly lit room, feeling every breath he took, every steady thump of his heart against my back.

And I vowed — I swore — I would find a way out.

One way or another.

---

The evening dragged on like torture. Sleep didn’t come easily.

Every time I shifted even slightly, Damien’s arm would anchor me tighter, a silent reminder that escape wasn’t an option.

Sometime near dawn, when the sky outside the wide glass windows was bleeding grey and purple, I heard him speak again, almost too softly to catch.

“You surprised me yesterday, Ariana.”

I stiffened but said nothing.

“I thought you’d crumble the second Cleo opened her mouth,” he continued, his fingers brushing absently against my hip in a slow, thoughtless pattern that set my skin on fire. "But you didn't."

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. I didn’t want his praise. I didn’t want anything from him.

I just want to go home.

Silence stretched between us, thick as smoke.

Then he said it—words so quiet, so raw, they barely made it past the barriers of my mind.

“I need you to survive this.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could block out everything—the smell of him, the sound of him, the heavy, terrible warmth of him wrapped around me.

"I need you," he said again, almost to himself.

It wasn't romantic.

It wasn't kind.

It was necessity.

I was a shield. A bargaining chip. A means to an end.

And yet—there was something else beneath it, something desperate and broken, that terrified me more than all the lies he told.

Because monsters don’t whisper like that.

Monsters roar.

Monsters tear and devour.

But whatever Damien Voss was, he wasn’t just a sick bastard.

He was something worse.

Something almost human.

Something that could haunt you without ever laying a hand on your skin.

And a part of me craved that haunt.

---

The morning sun streamed in like an uninvited guest, painting everything in harsh, unforgiving light. I sat at the long dining table, acutely aware of every sound—the ticking clock, the clink of silverware, the faint murmur of the staff in the kitchen.

Damien sat at the head of the table, cool and composed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled casually up his forearms.

The cook bustled in and placed breakfast before us—scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sliced avocado, and a platter of fresh fruit. Simple. Homey. The kind of meal that whispered comfort.

I picked up my fork, but before I could even taste a bite, the sound of a door being thrown open echoed.

And there she was.

The ex fiancée.

Wearing nothing but tight jeans and a silk blouse that looked like it had been painted onto her surgically perfected body. Her glossy hair tumbled down her back like she was on the cover of some magazine, and her eyes—those venomous, sharp green eyes—locked onto me like a target.

She sauntered over, hips swaying, and slid into the seat across from me without so much as a greeting.

The tension thickened immediately, turning the air to syrup.

I stabbed a piece of avocado viciously.

Cleo’s gaze flicked down to the plates, then back up to Damien, a delicate sneer curling her lips.

"When did you start eating this again?" she asked sweetly, though the acid in her voice was unmistakable. She toyed with her napkin like she wanted to rip it to shreds. "I thought we agreed this wasn’t... your kind of breakfast."

Damien didn’t look up from his coffee. He took a slow sip, savoring it, before setting the cup down with a soft clink that sounded louder than a gunshot.

"My fiancée likes it," he said simply, voice cool as winter steel. "If you don’t, you’re welcome to have breakfast somewhere else."

The blow landed squarely, and I didn’t even bother hiding the small, satisfied smirk that curved my mouth.

Cleo caught it, of course. Her fingers tightened on her napkin, crumpling the fabric into a mangled ball.

We ate in silence after that, the scrape of forks against plates sounding like nails on a chalkboard. I could feel Cleo’s gaze burning holes into my skull. Every time I reached for my glass of orange juice or cut into my eggs, I could see her watching me from the corner of my eye, plotting a thousand tiny murders.

I kept my face neutral, serene, pretending not to notice, pretending she didn’t matter.

Because she didn’t.

She could seethe all she wanted.

And if she thought she could bully me into being a scaredy cat, she didn’t know who the hell she was dealing with.

When breakfast was over, Damien pushed back from the table and stood.

"I’ll be back in a minute," he said, flashing me a look that was unreadable—and that made my stomach knot itself into anxious little origami shapes.

Then he disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps fading into the distance.

The second he was gone, Cleo moved.

Fast.