13. Cathy
13
CATHY
I wake before dawn, my eyes adjusting to the soft gray light that sneaks through the curtains. Ivan is beside me, his breathing deep and steady, his face softened in sleep.
Yet even in rest, there’s a power in his presence, an unyielding control that wraps around him, around me, binding me here. I feel safe. God, that feels good. I could get addicted to that feeling.
Last night was a mistake, I tell myself, a moment I won’t let define me. I am not falling for him—not now, not ever.
He took my virginity.
That thought keeps bumping around inside my skull.
I ease myself out of bed, careful not to make a sound. My heart races as I reach for my dress. I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, lying still, lost in shadow.
I’m filled with a sudden urge to slip back under the covers, to stay there, close to him, letting his warmth wrap around me. But I shake the thought away. I have to leave before he gets any deeper under my skin.
With my shoes in hand, I creep toward the door. One last glance back, and then I’m gone, slipping through the door and into the dim hallway, hoping against hope that I won’t see him again.
The house is silent, a thick, oppressive quiet that feels almost alive. Shadows stretch along the walls, pooling in every corner, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching me, waiting.
The portraits are judging me, their painted eyes sharp, unsettling, following my every step with an intensity that sends chills down my spine. I shiver, feeling their gaze as I pass, reminding myself they’re just paint and canvas, that there’s no one here watching.
But the feeling lingers, clinging to me like a damp mist. I fetch my bag from the bedroom I set fire to, the smell of burning lingering even now.
My footsteps echo softly in the corridor, bouncing off the walls, the sound strangely amplified in the silence. A faint, aged scent fills the air—wood, leather, dust, and something deeper, a hint of smoke maybe, or incense long burned away.
I try one door after another but most are locked. The few I look into are dark, filled with nothing but ancient relics.
One room catches my attention, standing out against the others. The furnishings here are delicate, feminine—a vanity with a large, ornate mirror, an easel draped in an old, faded sheet. As I step inside, I spot paintings on the wall, portraits of a young girl, her face familiar somehow, though I can’t place her.
The room feels untouched, like it’s been waiting in silence for years. A pang of curiosity pricks at me—did he love her once? But I shake the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. I can’t get sidetracked now.
I keep moving, the house a maze of darkened halls and echoing rooms. I find a sitting room shrouded in dust covers, everything ghostly and untouched. The covers drape each chair and table, giving them a haunting, formless look.
My heart races, a flicker of hope rising as I search, expecting Ivan to be lurking somewhere, as if he’s just another part of the shadows here. But as I lift one cover, I reveal only a chair, silent, dust-coated, as still as the rest of this forsaken mansion.
At last, I spot an unlocked door to the outside, the handle cool beneath my hand. The taste of freedom is so close, I can almost feel it—a fresh start, an escape from his unyielding grip. I take a breath, steadying myself, and step through, heart pounding.
But the hope that had sparked flickers and dies the instant I open it.
Ivan stands in the darkness, his figure looming in the dim morning light, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze colder than I’ve ever seen it. Dressed in a black suit as if he never went to bed.
The weight of his presence makes every breath, every thought, feel impossibly small. He steps inside, saying nothing. The early light squeezes through the closed shutters, casting his face in shadows, highlighting the hard line of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, and I realize—there’s no escaping him. Not here, not in his world.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence thick, crackling with the tension that stretches between us. I can feel his anger simmering beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break, and every instinct in me screams to run, to flee. But I stand there, rooted to the spot, completely at his mercy.
"Going somewhere?"
His voice cuts through the silence, low and ominous, sending a chill down my spine. I freeze, barely able to process the sight of him looming in the shadows, his gaze fixed on me with a dark, unyielding intensity. He steps closer, and before I can react, his hand wraps around my arm, pulling me close, holding me firmly in place.
“You’re bound to me now,” he says, his tone quiet but carrying the weight of a command. "There are dangers waiting outside, Cathy. You think you can leave this place, and be safe? Jimmy will hurt you again if he gets the chance. I won’t let that happen."
The words surprise me, stirring something conflicted within me. "Why do you even care?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it, but he doesn’t answer, his gaze narrowing instead, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes.
His voice is a low murmur, so calm, so assured, and I can feel the power, the quiet authority beneath each word. "You’ll stay here, as my wife," he continues, the finality in his tone chilling. "It’s the only way I can keep you protected. And," he adds, his eyes gleaming with something dark and determined, "there’s something you forget that I need from you. An heir. This arrangement benefits us both."
I stare at him, horrified by the arrogance in his tone, the certainty with which he speaks of my life, my future, as though it’s all his to decide. "You can’t just expect me to?—"
"Enough." His voice hardens, cutting through my protest. “This isn’t a negotiation, Cathy. Your ex is more dangerous than you realize.” He pauses, his expression darkening, as though remembering something grim, something he hasn’t yet shared.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear.
His gaze sharpens, his mouth a hard line. “He has ties to an Italian mafia family,” he says, each word clipped and cold. "The Bianchis. A family known for their violence, their manipulation. He’s been circling my world for a long time like a shark. I will kill the cunt.”
A wave of dread washes over me. He says it all so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if these shadows and threats are just part of his world—a world I never wanted any part of. But now, somehow, I’m bound to it, tethered to him.
I shake my head, trying to pull free, desperate to escape his suffocating control, but his hold remains strong, his expression darkening, an edge of barely restrained anger flickering in his eyes.
Without another word, he lifts me off the ground, his arm firm around me, ignoring my protests as he carries me back through the winding halls of the mansion.
“Put me down!” I struggle against him, but it’s useless. His jaw is set, his gaze focused ahead, as if nothing I say or do could make him change his mind.
"If you insist on acting like a child," he growls, his voice low and filled with a quiet menace, "then I’ll treat you like one." His tone drops to a dangerous whisper as we reach the bedroom, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark and unyielding. “Run from me again, Cathy, and the consequences will be severe.”
I shiver, my heart pounding in terror, the weight of his warning pressing down on me, suffocating. He places me down on the bed, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment before he straightens, towering over me, his presence overwhelming.
“This is for your own good, whether you believe it or not,” he says, his voice low and steady, a final, immovable decree. “You’re not leaving, Cathy. Not now, not ever.”
And with that, he turns and storms out, the heavy click of the lock echoing through the silence, sealing me inside. The room feels oppressive, the walls closing in around me, and I’m left alone, trapped, the reality of my situation sinking over me like a shroud.
Tears prick at my eyes, hot and stinging, and I try to blink them away, but the despair is too deep, too overwhelming to ignore. I’ve fought him, pushed back, resisted with every ounce of strength I have, but it doesn’t matter—he’s made sure of that. His presence surrounds me, binding me to him in ways I never anticipated, in ways that terrify me.
With a trembling breath, I pull the covers around myself, wrapping them tightly as if they might protect me, though I know better. The bed feels enormous, a cold and empty space that only emphasizes my vulnerability, my powerlessness.
I feel small, a sharp contrast to the defiance I clung to earlier, and as I sink deeper into the darkness of this room, my carefully built walls begin to crumble.
A choked sob escapes, breaking the silence, and then another, until the tears spill over, hot and relentless. I bury my face in the pillow, muffling my sobs, letting the anger, the fear, the overwhelming despair pour out.
I’m trapped, caged in a world I never wanted, bound to a man whose power feels absolute, whose control is a constant shadow looming over me.
His gaze haunts me, that intense, possessive look that I can still feel, even now, as if he’s still here, watching me, his presence lingering in every corner of this room. I can’t escape it, can’t shake the feeling of being claimed, of being under his control.
I don’t know what kind of future I’m trapped in, or if there’s any way to escape the dark hold he has over me. The thought spirals in my mind, endless and hopeless, as I cling to the pillow, the tears soaking into the fabric.
A faint click breaks the silence, and I freeze, the sound sharp and unmistakable in the stillness. The door. He’s coming back. Panic floods through me, and I hastily wipe at my face, trying to erase the evidence of my tears.
My heart races, every beat echoing in my chest as I try to steady myself, to push the emotions back down, to find some semblance of control.
I press my face into the pillow, willing the tears to stop, swallowing the sobs that still linger in my throat. The instinct is all too familiar—a habit ingrained from childhood, from nights spent stifling my cries so my mother wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t find me with tear-stained cheeks.
I learned early on that showing weakness, showing any emotion at all, would only make things worse. Tears only made her angrier.
I tell myself to breathe, to gather my strength, to hide every trace of what I’m feeling. But the fear is too close, too fresh, and I can’t escape the sense that any slip, any crack in my mask, will only feed his control, his power.
I feel the muscles in my jaw clench, my body tense as I brace myself for his presence, for whatever he’ll say or demand next.
The handle turns, and I close my eyes for a brief second, steadying myself, pushing the last remnants of emotion down as far as they’ll go.
But it’s not Ivan who walks in when the door opens. It’s someone I’ve never met before.