21.
It should have worked.
She had counted the steps. Timed the guards. Slipped through the kitchen corridor undetected.
The tunnel behind the east wing had been opened just long enough she thought-for her to slip out under the storm's cover.
She made it to the iron gate. She touched freedom.
But freedom touched her back in the form of a black leather glove.
Then-darkness.
She awoke to birdsong. Soft, gentle. Too gentle.
Sunlight filtered in through gauzy white curtains.
The bed beneath her was soft. Lace-trimmed pillows, white sheets. A vase of lilacs sat on the window sill.
Isolde blinked. Sat up. The room looked... familiar. But wrong.
Too symmetrical. Too still.
Everything was off. She swung her legs off the bed.
The floor was warm. Wood-paneled. The walls painted pale blush and ivory. There were no cameras. No bars.
Only... a closet.
A dressing table. A mirror.
She rose slowly, walking to the closet.
Inside were dresses. All her size. All vintage, soft pastel silks and delicate embroidery.
Pinned to one hanger was a note in Dante's ink:
You were running toward the wrong dream, little dove. So I built you the right one.
Don't fight it. You'll only bleed.
- D
She let the paper drop. Her heart pounded.
She bolted to the door and turned the knob-
Locked. But not with a click.
With a gentle, electronic hum. As if the door asked permission before it would let her go.
She pounded on it with both fists. "LET ME OUT! DANTE!"
No answer. Only the birds.
Only the scent of lilacs.
Only the creeping terror that she wasn't imprisoned like before.
She was trapped in something pretending to be safe.
Day One
A tray appeared in her room while she showered.
Scrambled eggs. Fruit. Fresh-baked brioche.
She hadn't eaten in almost two days.
She devoured it.
And instantly felt sick.
She vomited in the pristine white sink.
When she returned to the bed, there was a book on her pillow.
A journal. The cover was familiar.
She opened it. Handwriting. Hers.
But she hadn't written it.
"I chose to live here with Dante. I know what the world is like without him.
He keeps me safe. He punishes because he loves. I deserve it.
I deserve it.
I deserve it.
I deserve it."
The final line repeated twenty-seven times.
Day Two
The door opened. Dante entered.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks. No blood. No threat.
Just a man.
He carried a tray of tea and honeyed toast.
"Good morning, Mrs. Valencourt," he said, smiling.
She backed away.
"I'm not-don't call me that."
He walked in like he lived there. Because he did. Because he had built it.
The room. The illusion. The lie.
"I want to go home," she whispered.
He set the tray down. "You are home."
She stared at him. "You've lost your mind."
He tilted his head. "Or I've given you a new one."
Then he left.
Day Three
The calendar on the wall changed.
Someone had moved it forward to mark one week.
She knew only two days had passed.
Her breakfast now came with a single white rose.
The note read: "You're softer now. I like it when you bruise inward. It means you're learning to break properly."
She screamed so hard her voice went raw.
She threw the plate across the room.
It shattered.
And the hidden speaker whispered: "That's not how wives behave."
Day Four
He took her outside. But not into the world.
Into the garden-a greenhouse filled with artificial sunlight and walls covered in vines.
Everything alive, but nothing real.
He led her by the hand.
She didn't speak. She didn't scream.
Because the two guards beside them were dressed like waiters. But their eyes were empty.
In the center of the greenhouse was a chair.
He gestured to it. "Sit."
She did. Because she was tired.
Because she knew disobedience had a cost.
He knelt in front of her. "Do you know what today is?"
She didn't answer.
"Our anniversary," he whispered. "One week since you tried to leave me."
Then he placed a box in her lap.
Wrapped in white velvet.
She stared at it, hands trembling.
"Open it."
Inside:
A heart.
Raw.
Fresh.
Beating.
She screamed and shoved the box away, nearly falling backward.
He caught her.
"Shh," he said softly. "It's not yours."
She sobbed. He brushed the hair from her face.
"I would never hurt you," he said. "But I will destroy anything that thinks it can take you."
"Whose heart-?"
He leaned closer.
"Your old neighbor. The man who tried to call the embassy after he saw you in my car."
She screamed again. He placed the box beside the chair.
And cupped her face.
"You need to understand," he whispered, voice velvet-wrapped violence, "that you are the first thing I've ever wanted that can bleed."
Then he kissed her.
Not roughly.
Not savagely. But softly. Tenderly.
And that broke her more than the box did.
That night, she found the real door.
Behind the mirror. It opened to a stairwell.
Unlit. She crept down.
Found a room lined with monitors.
Her room.
The garden. The hallway. Everything.
She had never been alone.