Ayin
Grrrrr. My stomach growled loudly, betraying me. Great. Just great. If this ridiculous morning fiasco hadn't happened, I'd be having breakfast in peace by now. But no, my life had to be a full-blown circus act.
With no other option, I made my way toward the kitchen. The layout of this place was still a little confusing—probably because I never really bothered to explore it properly. I walked through the dining area, and just as I was passing the massive dining table, something caught my eye.
A tray sat neatly on the polished surface, carrying a glass of juice and a bowl of oats, topped with strawberries, blackberries, and cherries. Beside the food, a small note rested against the glass. I picked it up, instantly recognizing the sharp yet elegant handwriting.
"This frustration will come and go, but don't forget to have your sweet breakfast. —Ithan."
Oh, I'd seriously kill him someday.
Here he locked me in this place like a caged bird, and yet, he still had the nerve to leave me little notes as if that would somehow make up for it.
Sighing, I plopped down into one of the ridiculously comfortable dining chairs. What choice did I have? Might as well eat.
I took a sip of the juice first. Malgaro. But wait—it's not even Malgaro season.
Right. Ithan is a billionaire. He probably had it imported from some tropical island with a ridiculous price tag attached to it. That's the thing about money, isn't it? You can get whatever you want, whenever you want. And if you don't have it? Well, then you just rot in this world, watching the rich play.
Annoying.
Still… the juice was good. Not just good—amazing. Sweet, tangy, refreshing. Ugh, I hated that I liked it.
I continued drinking, my irritation easing ever so slightly. Halfway through the juice, I picked up the spoon and took a bite of the oats. Warm, creamy, and just the right amount of sweetness. Not bad at all.
Bzzzt.
My phone vibrated on the table. I glanced at the screen. Killian.
Crap. Work.
I quickly cleared my throat and put on my best sick voice before picking up.
"Killian," I croaked, dragging my words, "I can't come to work today. Ugh, I can't even talk properly. I'll have to pass."
There was a pause before he answered, his tone laced with concern. "Wait, what? Are you sick? What happened?"
I sniffled dramatically. "Mmm… yeah. Fever. Can't even get up from bed."
"Damn. Is it serious? Where's your husband? Is he there?"
"Yes, yes, don't worry. Ithan's here. He's not even moving an inch from me."
"Oh, good. If you need anything, just let me know, alright? Don't push yourself."
"I will," I murmured. "Thanks, Killian."
"Of course. Get some rest."
I hung up, sighing in relief. Dodged that one.
There was no way I could tell him that my loving husband had locked me in. That would hurt my ego. No one should know that Ayin—who never let anyone control her—was now stuck inside a penthouse like a damn prisoner.
I groaned, pushing my bowl away. I should've been at work today, preparing for my trip to Huston. I needed to be ready.
At least I could still do something. I had my laptop. I had access to a very specific corner of the internet—the dark web. Time to do some digging. What was Huston really hiding? Were there actually werewolves there?
Finishing my breakfast quickly, I stood up. But before getting to work, but a corner of my mind nudged me—urging me toward something else, something impulsive.
Ithan's penthouse.
I hadn't explored it properly yet. And now, I wanted to see it for myself.
I turned, taking in my surroundings. The entire place had a sleek, minimalist aesthetic—black and grey tones dominated the space, giving it a modern yet slightly ominous vibe. The dining area had a long black marble table with high-backed chairs, the walls adorned with abstract paintings in muted shades of grey and silver.
Beyond the dining space, the living room stretched out, massive floor-to-ceiling windows giving a breathtaking view of the city skyline. A plush charcoal-colored sectional couch sat in the center, facing an enormous flat-screen TV mounted against a dark accent wall. Shelves lined the walls, displaying a mix of books, sculptures, and what looked like expensive whiskey bottles.
A floating staircase with glass railings led to the second floor, where the bedrooms are. The lighting was dim but strategic—small, embedded lights in the ceiling created a moody yet intimate atmosphere.
To the left, an open-concept kitchen blended seamlessly with the space. Black cabinets, marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances—everything screamed luxury. Even the damn bar stools looked like they cost more than my entire salary.
I crossed my arms, exhaling.
This place felt like Ithan himself—intimidating, calculated, and effortlessly extravagant.
And now, I was trapped in it.
Not bad actually, being trapped in an expensive penthouse.