Beom's stomach churned at the words, his frustration and helplessness coiling tighter in his chest. Why does he always have to have the last word? Beom thought, clenching his fists under the table. Why does he make it sound like I don't have a choice?
"Why?" Beom muttered, his voice breaking the silence like a fragile whisper. His hands clenched into fists on the table as he lifted his eyes to meet Yaroslav's cold, unyielding gaze. The man's expression was unreadable, a mask of indifference that only fueled Beom's frustration. "Why are you doing this to me?" Beom's voice cracked, his emotions spilling out despite his best efforts to hold them back. "I never asked for this... I never asked for you."
Yaroslav said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Beom with a detached curiosity. The lack of response only made Beom's chest tighten further, his heart pounding as he continued, desperation creeping into his tone.
"I just want to go home," Beom pleaded, his voice trembling. "Please, Yaroslav. Let me go. I promise—you'll never see me again. I won't be a problem for you. I swear."
For a brief moment, Beom thought he saw something flicker in Yaroslav's eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or a shred of humanity. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a low chuckle that sent a chill down Beom's spine. The sound was cold and unfeeling, a cruel mockery of Beom's desperation.
"Why should I let you go, huh?" Yaroslav finally said, his voice smooth and unwavering. There was no pity, no remorse, only the calm certainty of someone who believed they were completely in control. "I told you, didn't I? I'm going to get you pregnant. How can I let you go when I've already decided that?"
Beom's blood ran cold at the words, his stomach twisting in disgust and fear. He opened his mouth to argue, but Yaroslav wasn't finished.
"Even if you give birth for me," Yaroslav continued, leaning back in his chair with an air of arrogance, "I still won't let you go. You'll stay by my side, Beom. Forever. And eventually..." He paused, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Eventually, you might even fall for me."
The sheer audacity of Yaroslav's words left Beom momentarily speechless. He stared at the man across from him, his chest heaving as his emotions churned—anger, disbelief, sadness, and a deep, bitter hatred that he could no longer contain. And then, before he could stop himself, Beom let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Fall for you?" Beom repeated, his voice laced with scorn and pain. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. "You? A murderer... a rapist... a liar... a hypocrite... a manipulator?" His words were sharp, each one cutting through the air like a blade, fueled by the raw anger surging through him. "No, Yaroslav. I don't have Stockholm syndrome. I don't care how long you keep me here. I hate you. I hate you from the bottom of my heart. I will never fall for a monster like you."
Yaroslav's smirk faltered slightly, but he said nothing, his icy gaze fixed on Beom as the younger man's words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, the room seemed frozen in time, the tension between them thick and palpable.
Beom's hands were shaking as he turned away, unable to bear the sight of Yaroslav any longer. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding as he stormed out of the dining room, his footsteps echoing through the hall. He didn't care where he was going—he just needed to get away, to put as much distance between himself and Yaroslav as possible.
Tears pricked at the corners of Beom's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. I won't cry, he told himself fiercely, his fists clenched at his sides. Not for him. Not for this.
As he walked, his mind raced with thoughts of home, of freedom, of everything he'd lost. The overwhelming sense of helplessness threatened to consume him, but he pushed it down, clinging to the faint hope that one day, somehow, he would escape this nightmare. Until then, he would hold onto his anger, his hatred, and his defiance—because that was all he had left.
Beom stood silently by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, staring out at the unfamiliar landscape stretched before him. The sky was painted in muted shades of gray, the trees bare and lifeless, their skeletal branches swaying gently in the cold wind. The view offered no solace, only a stark reminder of how far he was from everything he once knew.
His breath fogged up the glass as he exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging slightly. He felt like a bird trapped in a gilded cage, the walls of the mansion enclosing him, suffocating him. The world outside seemed distant and unattainable, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.
"What's today's date, Yaroslav?" Beom asked softly, his voice breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room.
Yaroslav, seated on the couch behind him, looked up from his phone. "It's the seventeenth," he replied, his tone even and casual, as if the question carried no weight.
Beom frowned slightly, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The seventeenth. The date rolled around in his mind, a sharp reminder of time slipping away from him. He tried to recall what day of the week it might be, but the isolation had left him disoriented. Days blurred together here, each one feeling like an eternity.
"Seventeenth..." he repeated under his breath, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. How long has it been since he'd seen his family? His friends? Did they miss him? Were they even looking for him? Or had they accepted his absence, chalking it up to some unspoken tragedy?
The ache in his chest deepened. His mother's face floated into his mind—a blurry image of her smiling, her warmth, her unwavering presence. Was she worried sick about him right now? Or had Yaroslav already planted some excuse, weaving lies to cover his tracks? The thought made Beom's stomach churn.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "It's been weeks, hasn't it?" he muttered, more to himself than to Yaroslav.
Yaroslav didn't answer immediately. He leaned back on the couch, studying Beom's profile as the younger man continued staring out the window. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable.
"You've been here long enough to forget the dates," Yaroslav said finally, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Beom's jaw tightened. "That's not funny," he snapped, turning to glare at Yaroslav. "You think this is some kind of game? That I'm just going to forget everything—my life, my family, my freedom—because you've kept me here long enough?"
Yaroslav raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Beom's anger. "You're here now. That's what matters," he said calmly, his gaze unwavering.
Beom turned back to the window, his fists trembling with frustration. The man's dismissive attitude only added fuel to the fire burning inside him.
"You don't get it, do you?" Beom said, his voice low and strained. "Every day I'm here feels like a lifetime. You've taken everything from me—my choices, my dignity, my future. Do you even realize what you've done?"
Yaroslav didn't respond immediately, his silence speaking volumes. Beom let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head.
"Of course, you don't," Beom said bitterly. "Why would you? You're used to getting everything you want, aren't you? No matter the cost, no matter who you hurt."
The room fell silent again, the tension thick and suffocating. Beom's thoughts swirled chaotically, his mind a storm of resentment, fear, and despair. He wanted to scream, to cry, to break the window and run as far away from this place as possible.
But he couldn't.
Instead, he stood there, staring out at the barren landscape, feeling more trapped than ever.
Beom let out a frustrated hiss, the sound sharp and cutting in the heavy silence of the room. He turned abruptly from the window to face Yaroslav, his arms now crossed tightly over his chest, as if trying to shield himself from the oppressive weight of the conversation. His eyes bore into Yaroslav, a mixture of irritation and desperation swirling within them.
"Christmas is coming," Beom said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't you have a family to spend it with? Your brothers, your sisters, your father... or whatever?"
The question hung in the air, an accusation disguised as curiosity. Beom tilted his head slightly, his gaze unrelenting, waiting for some reaction from Yaroslav. Yet the man just stared at him, his expression unreadable as always, like a fortress no one could breach.
Beom's chest tightened. The lack of response only stoked his frustration further, igniting a fire that he struggled to keep under control. His fingers twitched at his sides as he tried to process his own thoughts. Why am I even asking? Do I really care? Probably not, but it's better than sitting in silence and feeling like I'm suffocating in this place.
He took a step closer, his voice growing sharper, laced with bitterness. "Or are you one of those people who think family's just a word? Something you can use when it's convenient and discard when it's not?"
Beom didn't know why he was pressing so hard, but something about the way Yaroslav always carried himself—calm, detached, in control—made him want to peel back the layers and see if there was something real underneath. Or maybe it was because Christmas was supposed to be a time for warmth and togetherness, and here he was, stuck in a cold house with a man who had turned his life upside down.
Christmas, he thought bitterly, the word itself leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Back home, it was a season filled with laughter and traditions. His mom would always bake too many cookies, the house would smell like cinnamon and pine, and they'd stay up late decorating the tree. The thought of his family—of the life that had been ripped away from him—made his chest ache. Were they still celebrating without him? Did they even know he was alive?
Yaroslav, meanwhile, remained seated, his body language infuriatingly relaxed as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest. His lips curved ever so slightly, almost like he was amused by Beom's outburst, and that only made Beom angrier.
"Well?" Beom pressed, throwing his hands up. "What, no family dinners? No heartwarming reunions? Or maybe you scared them all off with this charming personality of yours."
Yaroslav finally shifted, his gaze narrowing slightly. He uncrossed his arms, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. "Family..." he said slowly, his voice deep and measured, like he was carefully choosing his words. "Isn't what you think it is."