Chapter 22 – Lydia - Glass Cages
The light coming through the tinted glass is faint, gray-edged, cutting across the bed.
I didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
Not after knowing Silas stood guard outside my door all night. So close I could feel his presence through the wall. So far I couldn't reach him.
I sit up, press my palms against my eyes. My body aches from tension, from lying awake listening for any sound of him. Footsteps. A shift in weight. The faint creak of leather when he adjusted his stance.
At some point—maybe three in the morning—I moved to the door. Put my back against it.
And I swear I felt him do the same on the other side.
Two inches of wood between us.
And a thousand reasons we couldn't speak.
I wanted to knock. Wanted to whisper his name. Wanted to tell him I understood. That I heard what he couldn't say when he brought me dinner.
When I whispered the name to him. Elias Voss.
I saw it in his eyes—he heard me. He understood.
But I don't know if it was enough. Don't know if he'll call Elias. Don't know if Elias will even help.
Too many variables. Too many ways this could go wrong.
I slip out of bed. My feet touch the cold marble.
The room feels emptier than it should.
I'm still wearing the black slip dress from last night—the one they laid out for me like a costume. I haven't changed. Haven't showered. I just lay there all night, listening, waiting, hoping.
A knock at the door startles me.
I step back.
The door opens. Not Silas. Not Dom.
Drazen.
He's dressed in a charcoal suit, crisp and controlled. His eyes sweep the room once—assessing, calculating—before landing on me.
"Good morning," he says, like this is a hotel and I'm a guest.
I don't answer.
He steps inside, closes the door behind him. "I trust you slept well."
"As well as anyone locked in a room can."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "You weren't locked in. You were protected."
"Is there a difference?"
"There is when I'm the one doing the protecting."
He walks to the window, looks out at the city. His reflection in the glass is sharper than his body.
"Your guard performed admirably last night," he says casually. "Silas. He was professional, detached. Exactly what I needed to see."
My pulse spikes, but I keep my face neutral. "I wouldn't know. I was in here."
"Exactly." He turns to face me. "And he stayed out there. All night. Didn't try to talk to you. Didn't open the door unless instructed. Didn't show any sign of... attachment."
The word hangs in the air like a threat.
"Why would he?" I ask.
Drazen studies me. "That's what I'm trying to determine."
He crosses the room, stops a few feet from me. Too close. But not close enough to be overtly threatening.
He watches me for a long moment. Then: "Lydia. I really hope you told the truth yesterday, about the leak, because if I find out you're lying, it won't just be you who pays for it."
The threat is clear.
He steps back, smooths his jacket. "You're free to move around the suite. There's a library just down the hall—feel free to stretch your legs. But don't test the boundaries. My men have orders."
"Understood."
"Good." He walks to the door, pauses. "Breakfast will be brought to you shortly. After that, someone will come for you. We have matters to discuss."
He leaves.
The door closes with a click.
And I'm alone again.
After a while, I move to the door. Press my hand against it.
Silas is not out there anymore.
The energy has shifted. Different guard. Different shift.
Which means he’s gone.
And I don't know if I'll see him again.
My throat tightens.
Twenty minutes later, a guard brings breakfast.
Not Silas. A different man. Older. Thicker build. He sets the tray on the table without a word and leaves.
I don't touch the food.
Instead, I move to the door. Open it slightly.
A guard is posted outside. Young. Nervous. His eyes flick to me, then away.
Not Silas.
Which means Silas was dismissed this morning when Drazen arrived.
I close the door.
And I start planning.
An hour later, I can't sit still anymore.
I need to move. Need to see what I'm working with.
Drazen said I could go to the library.
Fine.
I'll go to the library.
I open the door. The guard outside straightens.
"I'm going to the library," I say.
He hesitates. Then nods. "Stay on this floor. Don't go past the east corridor."
"Understood."
I walk past him, keeping my steps measured. Controlled.
The hallway is pristine. White walls. Recessed lighting. Thick carpet that swallows sound.
Cameras in the corners. I count three within twenty feet.
Two more guards stationed at intervals. They watch me but don't move.
I find the library easily. It's three doors down from my room. Walnut shelves. Leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows that don't open.
A cage with better furniture.
I step inside, leaving the door open just enough that the guard outside can see I'm not doing anything suspicious.
Then I start cataloging.
The windows—tinted, reinforced, locked. No way out there.
The shelves—built-in, no gaps behind them. No hidden passages.
The cameras—two in this room alone. One in the far corner. One near the door.
The guards—three visible from where I'm standing. One outside my room. One at the end of the hall. One near the elevator.
Shift changes at intervals, if last night's pattern holds.
Dom checks in every hour.
Drazen when he feels like it.
I file it all away.
The cracks, the patterns, and the routines.
Because if Silas is coming—and he will come—I need to know how to help him when he does.
I sit in the chair by the window. Pick up a book I'm not reading.
And I wait.
Dom finds me an hour later.
He slips into the library like he owns it, jacket open, vest snug, smirk already in place.
"Well," he says, "someone looks comfortable."
I don't look up from the book. "Can I help you?"
"That depends." He circles the chair opposite mine. "Are you planning to be helpful? Or are we still pretending you don't know anything?"
I close the book. Meet his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." He sits, leans back, legs spread, a smug smile on his face. "Funny thing, though. Drazen thinks you're clean. But I'm not so sure."
"Then maybe you should trust Drazen's judgment."
For a second, his smile falters. Just a crack. Then it’s back, smooth and polished, but I saw it: the flicker that told me he’s not sure how deep this lie goes.
Dom rises, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Drazen’s watching for cracks. He doesn’t need you compliant, Lydia. He needs you loyal. Don’t forget that.”
I don’t answer.
Because the threat is clear enough without words.
When he leaves, the library feels heavier than before.
And I realize: it’s not just the cage that’s shrinking. It’s the air inside it.
The door shuts behind Dom, and I count three breaths before the library feels colder.
The rest of the morning drags.
I stay in the library—reading, watching, cataloging.
Every guard rotation. Every camera sweep. Every footstep in the hall.
Dom doesn't come back. Neither does Drazen.
Just the guards. Silent. Watchful.
Around midday, someone brings lunch. A different guard this time. He sets the tray on the side table without a word and leaves.
I pick at the food. Force myself to eat. I'll need my strength.
The afternoon stretches longer than it should. The kind of waiting that makes your nerves raw.
I try to read, but the words blur together. My mind keeps circling back to the same thought:
Is Silas coming? Did he call Elias? Is there even a plan?
Too many questions. No answers.
At some point, exhaustion wins.
I drift off in the chair, book open in my lap, the lamplight still burning soft against the walnut shelves.
When I wake, the room is darker.
Not from the lamp—it's still on. From the light outside.
I blink, disoriented, and glance toward the tinted windows.
The sky beyond them is deep indigo. Almost black.
Night.
I've been asleep for hours.
I stand, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders. My pulse picks up.
How long was I out?
I move to the window, press my hand against the glass.
The city below is alive with lights. Traffic. Movement.
But something feels different.
The air in the penthouse is heavier. Tenser.
Like everyone's waiting for something to happen.
And then—
A knock at the library door.
I turn.
A guard stands in the doorway. Not one of the previous ones. This man is older. Broader. His expression is carefully blank.
"Mr. Drazen requests you in the lounge," he says.
Not asks. Not invites.
Requests.
As if it's optional.
As if I have a choice.
I smooth the black dress over my hips, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Lead the way," I say.
He steps aside, gestures down the hall.
And I follow.
The penthouse is too quiet, the kind of quiet that belongs to waiting rooms before verdicts. Every step across the marble feels like it’s broadcasting my pulse.
The walls stretching with each step. The guard doesn’t touch me. He just walks a pace ahead, trusting that I’ll trail like a shadow. But I watch him as much as I watch the path. His jaw is clenched, his eyes never flick toward mine. It’s not loyalty. It’s shame.
We pass another guard at the corner. This one doesn’t meet my gaze either. His eyes slide sideways, away from me, like looking might get him punished.
The cameras hum faintly above us. But they move too late. A fraction of a second behind our steps, like someone on the other end isn’t fast enough or isn’t paying close attention.
I file it all away. The cracks, and the slowness. The shame.
Because Drazen wants proof. Dom wants obedience. But cracks? Cracks are mine. Cracks are where I live.
My heels click once, and the sound cuts through me like a promise.
If Silas is coming, he’d better come fast.
Because I’m running out of ways to pretend I’m not already his.