Anastasia sat on the edge of the grand four-poster bed, her hands curled tightly in her lap. The silk sheets beneath her were softer than anything she had ever touched, yet she felt as though she were sitting on thorns.
The room—no, the suite—was nothing short of extravagant, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a vast garden, chandeliers casting golden light against high-arched ceilings, and a vanity table lined with perfume bottles that cost more than her father's entire estate. She should have been in awe. Any other woman in her place would be.
But all Anastasia felt was trapped.
There was no going back.
The truth of that reality settled over her like a heavy chain, wrapping around her throat, her wrists, her ankles. She had thought, foolishly, that she could fight him. That she could claw her way out of this life the same way she had survived her father's house—by making herself small, by enduring.
But the walls here were higher. The doors heavier. And the man she was bound to… he was nothing like her father.
He was worse.
Not because he was cruel. No—Leonidas had not lifted a finger against her. He had not raised his voice, not locked her away in a dark room or berated her until she sobbed.
That would have been easier to understand.
Instead, he had taken her from the ruins of her former life and placed her into a golden cage, where the chains were invisible, the prison disguised as a palace. And then—he had left her to it.
He had not forced her to speak. Had not demanded anything of her in the past few days except that she stay.
And she hated him for it.
Hated the way his presence lingered even in his absence.
Hated that she could feel him in the walls of this house. That even when he was gone, his scent clung to the air, a faint mix of cedarwood and something darker, something rich and expensive.
Hated that everyone in this house treated her like she belonged to him.
"Madam, the master will return shortly," a voice murmured behind her.
Anastasia stiffened.
She turned slowly to see a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway. Her uniform was immaculate, her posture perfect, her expression polite but unreadable.
It was like this with all the servants.
They called her Madam.
Not Miss. Not Mistress.
Madam.
Like a wife. Like she belonged here.
The thought made her stomach twist painfully.
She wanted to tell them to stop. To tell them that she wasn't his wife, that she wasn't anything to him.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because what was she, if not his?
He had bought her. Not with coin, not with force, but with something worse—a promise she couldn't refuse.
Security. Protection. A life she could never have dreamed of in her father's crumbling estate.
And now, she was here.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, pressing her nails into her palms until the sharp sting pulled her back into herself.
She would not cry.
Not here. Not now.
"Would you like me to prepare anything for the evening, Madam?" the woman asked again, her tone patient.
Anastasia shook her head stiffly.
She hadn't left the suite in two days. Hadn't ventured past the doors of the luxurious prison Leonidas had placed her in. She didn't know the servants' names, didn't ask where the dining hall was, didn't even know which direction led to him.
And yet, he was everywhere.
The woman hesitated, as if expecting more of a response, but when Anastasia remained silent, she inclined her head and left the room.
The quiet that followed was suffocating.
---
Anastasia woke to the distant sound of thunder.
She barely registered the storm brewing outside, the distant rumble that sent shivers up her spine. The room was dark now, the moonlight casting silver streaks across the floor.
And then—she felt him.
Even before she saw him, she knew.
Her heart stopped in her chest.
A presence. A shift in the air. A slow, measured inhale that was not her own.
She turned sharply—and there he was.
Leonidas stood by the door, watching her.
Her pulse leaped into her throat, but he didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched.
His dark eyes swept over her, his gaze unreadable. He was still dressed in his suit from the day, though his tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins along his forearms.
He looked... tired.
Not exhausted. Not weak.
Just... worn, like a man who carried the weight of an empire on his back.
A ridiculous thought.
Because Leonidas never looked anything but dangerous.
She swallowed hard, gripping the silk sheets beneath her. "You—you're back."
A slow nod. "Did you think I wouldn't return?"
She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't know how to answer that.
Because part of her had, foolishly, hoped he wouldn't.
"Did you eat?" he asked instead.
She flinched at the casualness of the question. Like he cared.
Like she wasn't just another piece in his world to be kept, to be owned.
"...Yes," she lied.
He didn't call her out on it.
He just tilted his head slightly, studying her the way a predator studied prey.
And then, he moved.
Not toward her. Not away. Just closer.
Her breath caught in her throat.
And then he spoke, his voice lower this time. Softer.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Anastasia."
She should have laughed.
Should have told him that fear had nothing to do with it.
That she wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of what he made her feel.
But she said nothing.
And he didn't press.
Just let the silence settle, let the storm outside cover the tension between them.
And for the first time in days, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as cruel as she thought.
And that terrified her more than anything else.