Chapter 21 Mara
MARA
The days blur together in a haze of luxury and captivity.
After that first night, I feel like I’m losing track of time.
Which day of the week it is feels hazy. The days have no structure, no rhythm, nothing to distinguish one from another except the slow, suffocating passage of hours.
I wake up in the guest room—my prison, though Ilya will never admit it—and I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to think of how I’m going to get myself out of this.
Every day begins the same way—waking up in the most luxurious bed I’ve ever experienced, on sheets that feel like silk to the touch and a duvet as soft and fluffy as a cloud, surrounded by absolute luxury, the kind I coud never hope to aspire to.
I lie there for long time, every morning, and there’s always a small thought that pries its way into my head…
an insidious whisper that wonders what if?
What if I just… let him have me? What if I let myself have him… and all of this?
It’s so tempting, like the apple offered to Eve, and there’s never been a more beautiful snake than Ilya.
He’s gorgeous, wealthy, powerful, and utterly obsessed with me.
I’m sure we’ve only tapped the beginning of what it’s like to go to bed with him.
He’ll give me anything I ask for, I’m sure of it… except my independence.
And that independence; my career, my life, my entire existence, is what I’ve cultivated all my life. I can’t just give it all up for a man, no matter how beautiful he is or how consuming his desire for me feels.
Or mine for him.
I don’t want to admit it, and I do my best to hide it from him, but I feel like I’m burning up from the inside out, aching for something that I never knew existed until he showed it to me. I never knew sex could feel like that. I’ve had my share of it, and some of it was even good, but that…
Now I understand why people write songs and poems and novels about it. What there is between Ilya and I is something else. Something remarkable, and rare.
That doesn’t mean I have to give in to it.
I wait for a moment, every morning, before opening my eyes, hoping that when I finally do I’ll be in my own room and this will have all been some beautiful, insanely pleasurable nightmare.
A hell that makes you want to stay because the only fire that’s burning is the kind you want to let dissolve you into ash.
But it never is.
I force myself out of bed eventually, usually around nine or ten.
There's no reason to get up earlier—I have nowhere to go, nothing to do, no schedule to keep. The thought of Claire and the gallery and what’s happening in my world is enough to drive me mad, so I try not to think about it, even though it’s all but impossible.
This morning, four days into my captivity, I take a shower first thing.
Alongside the toiletries that he purchased to match mine, there’s what must have stocked the guest bathroom before I came here: expensive French soap that smells like lavender, shampoo and conditioner with more French names that I don’t recognize, and expensive moisturizer.
I use those, because I don’t want to use what he purchased specifically for me.
That feels like giving in, like accepting this, and I can’t bring myself to do that.
The shower is a luxury I can’t be mad at. It’s so much bigger than the one in my comfortable but small apartment. I stay under the hot spray for a long time, trying to wash away the feeling of being watched. Because even here, even with the door locked, I feel his presence.
He's always aware of where I am. What I'm doing. How I'm feeling.
It's suffocating.
I have no choice, after the shower, but to get dressed in the clothes he’s purchased for me, but I pick the most boring options.
It’s that or go naked, which is somehow worse, so I opt for a pair of loose blue jeans and a grey sweater, trying not to think about how he picked out the underwear lying against my bare skin.
I don’t want him to think I’m taking pleasure in accepting the things
But they're all his gifts. I can't escape it.
I usually try to wait long enough to get breakfast to avoid running into him in the kitchen—or I just don’t eat at all.
My appetite has diminished considerably lately, and the anxiety over what’s happening to my life outside of this gilded cage and what’s going to come next for me has only made it worse.
But even when I wait, there’s always food waiting for me in the kitchen—fresh-cut fruit, local bagels, fancy pastries, and hot French-press coffee with real cream in a small pitcher next to it.
I know Ilya wants us to behave like a normal couple having a normal morning, discussing how we slept and the weather and whatever other bullshit would come up.
But I’m not going to pretend that anything about this is normal.
I’ve done my best to ignore him and find ways to fill the day that will keep my mind occupied and stop me from thinking about where I am and why I'm here.
Mostly, I’ve been reading. The penthouse is well-stocked with books, and I pull books at random, curl up in one of the leather chairs, and try to lose myself in stories.
But the words always blur together, the plots fail to hold my attention, and I find myself reading the same page over and over without absorbing any of it.
My mind won't settle. It keeps circling back to the same thoughts: How do I get out? What is Ilya planning? What does he want from me, beyond just to be his? That can’t be all there is to it.
And, besides all of that, the worst thought, the one I try desperately to suppress: Why does part of me not want to leave?
Ilya has stocked the penthouse with art supplies too, which made my stomach twist the first time I saw them, realizing that he’s undoubtedly seen me painting in my own apartment and looked over the paintings himself to know exactly what I would need.
There’s professional-grade watercolors and oils, expensive brushes and thick, luxurious paper.
The first time I saw them, I wanted to throw them all out the window.
I wanted to reject his attempt to make this comfortable, to make me forget that I'm a prisoner.
But the temptation to use them has been so strong. They’re all beautiful, and I know I coud make beautiful things with them. He’s giving me everything I could possibly want… except my freedom… and it feels harder and harder each day to ignore how good it could be to just give in.
Each day, the walls seem a little closer, the ceilings a little lower, the air a little thinner. I'm suffocating in luxury, drowning in expensive things, losing myself in the beautiful cage Ilya has built for me.
I stand at the windows and stare out at the city.
From this height, I can see for miles—the river, the bridges, the buildings stretching toward the horizon.
I can see people moving on the streets below, tiny figures going about their lives, free to go wherever they want, do whatever they want.
And on the other side of the penthouse, I know, is my apartment, easily visible from the living room.
That's the cruelest part. My home is right there, so close it feels like I could almost reach out and touch it.
My life is waiting for me, frozen in time—my books, my clothes, my bed, my freedom.
Everything I took for granted is sitting there empty, while I'm trapped here, watching it across what might as well be an ocean.
Shaking off the feeling, I go to the door and unlock it, stepping out into the hall…
And that’s when I see it.
I almost trip over the flat velvet box lying just in front of the door. My heart is hammering as I catch myself and look down at it, unable to entirely reconcile in my head what I’m looking at.
Jewelry. Of course he bought me jewelry. I consider ignoring it; just walking off and pretending that I didn’t see it there. He deserves nothing more, as far as I’m concerned.
But my curiosity is too much.
I reach down and pick up the box. There’s no jeweler’s name on the box, just smooth black velvet, luxurious under my fingertips.
I open it slowly, and my breath catches.
It’s quite possibly the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen. Layers of thin links that look like platinum hold together more small diamonds than I’ve ever seen in one place, creating a panel of flashing, prismatic light that is unmistakably…
A collar.
There’s nothing subtle about it. I can imagine how it would look on my neck, how it would sit snugly against my throat, the small clasp at the back that would require someone else to fasten it. This isn't just jewelry, it's a brand. A statement of ownership.
You belong to me, it says. You wear my mark.
The sight of it makes me furious, my blood boiling with the insult, that he not only thinks he can own me but that he can do so so… blatantly. That he thinks for a second I would put this on, and…
I can feel how cool and secure it would be against my skin. How it would lie against my throat with just the right amount of pressure. I can imagine his fingers brushing against the base of my spine as he hooks it…
I’m insulted, yes. I’m so fucking angry.
And I’m also horribly turned on.
The realization makes my face flush hot with shame. I stare at the choker, at the way the diamonds glitter in the light, and I imagine Ilya fastening it, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, Mine.
I imagine wearing it. Walking through the penthouse, in the city, at some function or gala with his mark on my throat, visible to anyone who might see, a declaration of ownership that I can't hide or deny. I imagine the way he would look at me, the satisfaction in his eyes, the possessive pride.
The thought makes heat pool low in my belly.
What's wrong with me?