19
When Isolde woke, the blindfold was gone. But she almost wished it hadn't been. Because what she saw would never leave her.
She wasn't on the velvet chaise anymore.
She was in that room made of mirrors walls, floor, even the ceiling above her. No windows. No exit. Just her reflection fractured a hundred ways.
She sat in the center, still in the midnight dress. Her wrists were no longer bound, but her body was sore.
She ached in places she didn't have names for-tight with anxiety, stiff with the aftermath of fear.
Then the screen flickered on.
Not a television. A full wall mirror that rippled like water and lit up from behind.
And Dante appeared.
Not in the room.
But on the screen.
He stood in what looked like a warehouse-dark concrete walls and a rusted iron chair bolted to the floor.
A man was tied to it. Bloodied. Gagged. Shirtless. His face was barely recognizable.
Isolde's breath caught in her throat.
The man looked familiar.
Dante's voice echoed through hidden speakers. "Good morning, dove."
She backed against the mirrored wall.
"You disobeyed me," he continued. "You tried to run. You reached for a world that does not want you anymore. You need to understand what loyalty means."
He stepped aside, revealing the man in full view.
"No," she gasped. "That's the café owner-André-he never did anything-!"
"No. But he saw you. He spoke to you. He let that boy ask you out, didn't he?"
Dante picked up a pair of pliers from a steel tray beside the chair.
André screamed behind the gag.
Isolde stood, fists clenched. "Dante, stop it-he's not part of this!"
Dante tilted his head. His dark hair was slicked back, his black gloves stained already with blood. "He knew I was watching. And he didn't stop the boy from asking to touch what's mine. That's betrayal."
He gripped André's hand.
And ripped off his thumbnail. André shrieked.
The sound was distorted through the speakers-almost worse, like something broken being played on a loop.
Blood dripped down the man's wrist, pooling on the floor beneath him.
Isolde turned away, trembling, tears blurring her vision.
But every wall showed it. Every reflection. There was no escape from the lesson.
"Look at him," Dante said, voice now lower, tighter. "Look, Isolde."
She turned. Because not looking was worse.
Because he would make her look anyway.
Dante pressed a knife to André's shoulder. "Every scream... every drop of blood... will be your fault if you don't understand this."
The blade slid in. Slow. Deliberate. Isolde sobbed.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't kill him..."
Dante leaned close to the camera. "You misunderstand, dove. I'm not punishing him."
He smiled-sharp, cruel. "I'm giving you a choice."
Another man appeared in the background. Large. Tattooed. Holding a second prisoner.
A young woman. Mira. Isolde's friend.
Bloodied. Terrified.
Her mouth was duct-taped. Her arm looked broken. Her hair stuck to her face in wet ropes.
Dante's voice turned to ice. "Here is your choice, my darling.""I kill one.You choose who."
Isolde's body locked in place. "No..."
"You don't choose?" Dante said smoothly. "Then I'll kill both. And I'll let you watch every second Or... you choose. And I spare the other."
She screamed.
She ran to the mirrored wall and slammed her fists against it. "You're a monster! I can't-I can't choose!"
But she knew he meant it. Because this was how he taught obedience.
Not with chains. But with agony.
"You can't make me do this!" she sobbed. "They're innocent-!"
"And yet, they bled for you," he said. "Because you tried to run from me."
"Because you still believe you belong to anyone but me."
She fell to her knees. Her face pressed to the cold mirror. Her reflection stared back.
Red-eyed. Trembling. Broken.
"Choose," Dante said. "Or I begin cutting from the Red-eyed. sobbed through her gag.
André was whimpering, half-conscious now, blood soaking his jeans.
Isolde whispered "...Mira."
The silence afterward felt like death.
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Say it again."
"Mirs lives." He smiled.
And without another word Slit André's throat.
It wasn't clean.
He let the man choke on his own blood, hands still twitching against the chair's arms, eyes bulging before they stilled.
Isolde screamed. Her voice broke. She collapsed.
An hour later, she was still on the floor. Tears crusted on her cheeks.
Her body curled in on itself. Then the mirror-door slid open.
Dante entered. Alone. Immaculate.
He knelt beside her. His cologne filled the room-rich, commanding.
She didn't move.
He brushed her hair back.
She flinched, but didn't resist.
"You learned today," he said softly, "what your disobedience costs."
"You're insane," she whispered. "You're evil."
He tilted her face up, his hand under her chin.
"No," he said. "I'm inevitable."
She stared at him, shattered. He leaned down.
And kissed her forehead.
Like a man kissing the altar before the sacrifice.
Then he whispered "Clean yourself. You have dinner in one hour. Wear red. You've shed enough tears. Now I want to see beauty."