Chapter Five - Clara
I wake up slowly, the kind of slow that comes after being dragged under something heavy. My eyes sting as I open them. For a second, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is white and smooth, the light soft and unfamiliar. My mattress feels expensive beneath me.
I don’t remember falling asleep here… did he move me during the night? The thought makes my skin itch.
The room is beautiful in a way that sets my nerves on edge. Everything looks polished and deliberate. Deep gold curtains. Dark wood furniture. A rug that probably costs more than my monthly rent. It takes another few seconds before I notice the details that matter more than the luxury.
The windows have bars across them. Thin, elegant, but bars all the same. The door has no knob. My bag is gone. My phone is missing. The only thing left from my old life is the panic rising in my throat.
I sit up fast. My head swims. My breath comes too quick. I swing my legs over the bed and stand, forcing myself to stay steady as I walk to the nearest window. When I tug on it, it doesn’t budge. The bars are fixed from the outside. There’s no way to open it.
A tray of food sits on a small table near the bed. Eggs, fruit, a glass of water. I don’t remember anyone bringing it in. The idea that someone was in here while I was unconscious makes my stomach twist.
I check the nightstand drawers for anything helpful. Empty. The wardrobe is locked. The bathroom door opens, but it contains only a sink, a toilet, and a shower. No window. No phone. No weapons.
The silence in the room presses down on me until I can barely think.
I try the door. It doesn’t move. I hit it with my palm. Nothing. I slam my fist into it again and again until the side of my hand throbs. I shout until my throat aches. I yell for help, for anyone, until it feels pointless. No footsteps answer. No voices. No reaction at all.
Whoever brought me here doesn’t care if I scream.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the blanket. Time stretches. Minutes, maybe hours. I don’t know. The food stays untouched. The water stays full. Fear curls in tight knots under my ribs, but it never overtakes the anger building behind it.
He took me. Not the men in the alley. Him. The man with the steady voice and the cold stare.
I picture his eyes again. Blue. Focused. Too sure of themselves.
When the door finally unlocks, the sound is small but sharp. I’m already on my feet before it swings open.
He steps inside with a cold smile on his face. He’s dressed in black, every line of him neat and controlled. His presence fills the space more than any threat could. His expression hasn’t changed since the car.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I grab the nearest object I can reach—a glass from the tray—and throw it at his head. It misses by inches, shattering against the wall behind him. Water sprays across the floor.
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t even raise a hand.
“You finished?” he asks.
The casual tone sparks something fierce inside me. “Let me out.”
“No.”
It’s simple. Final. He takes a few steps toward me, and I back up without meaning to. My shoulders hit the wall before I realize I’ve reached it. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“I don’t hurt women,” he says. His voice stays flat. “But I expect respect.”
I’m shaking, but anger helps me hold myself together. “Respect? You kidnapped me.”
“The things you write, you’d be taken by someone sooner or later anyway.”
“You replaced one danger with another.”
“That depends on how honest you’re willing to be.”
His calmness scares me more than yelling ever could. His eyes don’t move from mine. He waits, expecting answers the same way someone expects a door to open when they push it.
He steps back, giving me space, but the air between us is still thick with tension.
“Who told you to write my name?” he asks.
“No one.”
“Who paid you?”
“No one.”
“What organization are you working for?”
“I told you already. I’m a student. I researched public data and put the pieces together myself.”
His gaze stays on me as if he’s studying every twitch in my face. I hold steady. I keep my voice clear. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of watching me crumble.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He stands there, silent, watching me with a level of focus that makes my pulse jump. I don’t look away. If I look away, I know I’ll lose more than ground. I’ll lose the piece of myself fighting to stay intact.
He finally lifts his chin a fraction. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
The comment hits harder than I expect. It isn’t a compliment. It isn’t an insult. It’s an observation, spoken like a fact he already decided on before coming into this room.
I take a breath that shakes slightly. “What do you want from me?”
“Truth.”
“I already gave you that.”
“We’ll see.”
He turns without warning. The movement is smooth, controlled, and final. He steps through the doorway, and the moment he crosses the threshold I feel the room shift again, like the air loosens and tightens at the same time.
He doesn’t look back. Not once.
I wait a few seconds before leaning against the wall, forcing myself to stay upright, even though my legs shake.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten, or try to touch me, but I have never felt more trapped in my life.
His last words replay in my head with slow, steady certainty. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
I don’t know how long I sit on the bed after he leaves. The light in the room shifts from bright to dim as evening creeps in, but I barely notice. My mind keeps circling everything he said, everything he didn’t say, the way he watched me like he was reading more than my words.
When a guard slips in hours later to leave another tray of food, I don’t move fast enough to catch him. The door shuts a second after I stand. I bite down a curse and walk to the table.
Another plate. Lunch, I guess.
Something white peeks from beneath the rim.
My stomach twists. I lift the plate and find a folded note. Thick paper, crisp edges. My name isn’t on it. Just one line in dark ink.
You’re safe here until I decide otherwise.
I crumple it instantly. The paper cracks beneath my fingers as I squeeze hard enough for the edges to bite into my palm.
Safe. He thinks this is safety.
I throw the crushed note at the wall and pace across the carpet, the adrenaline returning in sharp waves. My anger feels clearer than fear. It helps me breathe. It helps me stay upright.
I count my steps. Back and forth. The room is too big and too small at the same time. Luxury wrapped around confinement.
I stop when I hear voices in the hall—low, muffled, two men speaking just outside my door. I press my ear against the surface, holding my breath.
“She’s not talking,” one says. His voice is unfamiliar. Maybe one of Lukyan’s guards.
“She doesn’t need to talk yet,” the other replies. Deeper. Steadier. I know that tone. His second-in-command. The man who waited by the SUV the night everything changed.
“Boss is wasting his time,” the guard mutters. “She’s a kid with a laptop. Let me handle her. She’ll crack.”
“No,” the second-in-command says. “She’s off-limits.”
“She’s angry at him.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She wakes the whole place screaming.”
“She’s off-limits,” he repeats, sharper this time. “You lay a hand on her, he’ll break every bone you’ve got.”
The guard scoffs quietly. “He’s getting soft.”
A beat of silence follows.
“He’s focused,” the second-in-command says. “Don’t mistake the two.”
Their footsteps fade. I back away from the door, heart pounding. My hands shake, but the anger anchors me. Even they’re confused about what Lukyan wants. That doesn’t make me feel safer. It only proves how unpredictable this situation is.
I return to the window. Night has swallowed the gardens. The grounds stretch out in a dark sprawl, broken by patches of moonlight and the faint outlines of tall hedges. The air outside looks cold. Still. Empty.
If I scream, no one will hear. If I run, I’ll never reach the main road.
It takes everything in me not to slide down the wall in frustration, but I stay standing. I don’t want to give the cameras that image—me collapsing.
I search the ceiling until I find it: a small, dark lens in the corner near the molding. A faint red light glints each time I shift, catching the device at an angle.
He’s watching. Maybe not constantly, but enough.
The thought sends a shiver down my arms. I refuse to let fear take over, even as my skin prickles with the weight of unseen eyes.
I step closer to the window and rest my forehead against the cool glass. My breath fogs a small circle on the surface. The gardens outside look endless. I focus on the distant tree line until the blur of tears sharpens again.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper. My voice wavers, barely there. I hate that. I clear my throat and try again. “You hear me? I’m not afraid.”
Silence fills the room. My reflection stares back at me, pale and strained.
I look at the camera again, jaw tight.
“You can lock the door,” I say. “You can take my phone, and my bag, but you can’t make me afraid of you.”
The tremor sneaks back into my voice anyway, betraying the truth underneath the mask. Fear lives in my ribs, in the way my breath hitches, in the tightness around my eyes when I blink.
But I keep my gaze fixed on the camera. It’s all I can do. I need him to know I’m not broken. Not yet.
I don’t step away until my legs shake. I sink onto the bed, curling my fingers into the blanket. Everything feels too quiet again. Too heavy.
After a moment, I hear something faint through the wall. A footstep. A shift of weight. A voice, low and unreadable, as if someone is standing just outside the door again.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” the second-in-command says. I think his name is Nikolai.
My heart stutters. “I’m not provoking anyone,” I call back, unsure if he can even hear me clearly. “I’m surviving.”
“Then stop drawing his attention.”
“Why?” My throat tightens. “What happens if I do?”
Silence answers.
I stand again and approach the door. “You think you’re protecting me?”
Another long pause. “No,” he says. “You’d still do well to listen.”
A chill runs along my spine. I step back from the door instinctively.
The hallway goes quiet again. I remain still, listening, but no more words follow. The house settles around me like a living thing—breathing, watching, waiting for something I can’t predict.
The night stretches on. I lie on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, tracing every shadow that shifts in the corners. The barred windows catch pale light from outside. The camera glints once more.
I whisper into the darkness, more to myself than anyone else.
“I’m not afraid.”
My voice betrays me again.