Chapter 12
12
Cecely
Claudius finally spins and takes off, his pace shifting from controlled strides to a near impossible-to-keep-up-with hike.
I don’t say a word. I just struggle to keep up, my legs burning, my lungs screaming, sweat dripping down my back.
He’s mad.
Fine. I’m mad too.
But I shove it down, forcing my feet forward, because at this point, I’m running on pure spite. Just when I’m about to collapse, about to say I physically cannot take another step, the trees thin, and a mansion appears out of nowhere.
I stumble to a stop.
The house is massive. The stark white standing out against the deep green of the jungle. It’s sleek and modern, yet somehow still fitting into the wilderness. It’s the kind of place that screams wealth, power, secrecy.
But that’s not even what gets me.
It’s the helipad.
Sitting right next to the house.
I gawk at it, then at Claudius, then back at the helipad, my exhaustion replaced by a brand-new wave of rage.
“You’re joking.” I gesture wildly at the helipad, practically panting. “You could have landed next to the fucking house and chose not to?”
Claudius doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. He just keeps walking. Like he didn’t just drag me through miles of humid hell for no reason. Like he doesn’t hear the absolute rage vibrating off me.
I glare at his retreating form. I don’t care how dangerous he is…I'm going to kill him in his sleep.
Ahead, I spot two women standing on the front steps of the mansion, their postures straight, their expressions composed but watchful. They’re dressed in matching uniforms—sleek, black, and professional. Which means they work for Claudius. Of course, he has staff. Because why wouldn’t the man who owns an entire island also have people catering to his every whim?
I reach them just as they greet him.
The older woman inclines her head slightly, her voice smooth, respectful. “Welcome home, sir.”
The younger one adds, “It’s been too long.”
Claudius barely acknowledges them. Just dips his head once and keeps walking. Rude! I glance at the women, offering them a sympathetic smile because clearly, they deal with this emotionally stunted man on a regular basis.
“Hi.” I extend a hand, forcing a bit of brightness into my tone. “I’m Cecely.”
The older woman smiles—polite but distant.
“Welcome to Isola Ombrafiore, Ms. Blight.”
Ms. Blight. Right. Because formalities apparently still exist in the middle of nowhere.
She gestures toward the house. “Please, come this way, and I’ll show you to your room.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Claudius’ retreating form. No explanation. No ‘make yourself at home’ speech. Just silence and commands. Fine. Whatever. If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well see where I’m being kept. Squaring my shoulders, I follow the woman inside—still annoyed, still sweaty, but at least I’m getting a damn room.
The cool air of the mansion wraps around me like a blessing. After that hike from hell, I could kiss the air conditioning. The older woman leads the way down a long hallway, her posture straight, practiced. Everything about her screams efficiency and control.
“What’s your name?” I ask as we walk, my voice casual.
She glances at me briefly, like she’s weighing whether or not to answer.
Then, she says, “Agnes.”
Agnes. Okay. Progress.
The younger woman follows a step behind, silent, observant, her gaze flicking between me and Claudius’ fading form. And the way she watches him? Oh my. She looks at him the way a puppy would. Like he hung the damn moon. Does she have a crush on him?
“And you?” I ask, turning my attention to her.
She startles slightly, like she wasn’t expecting to be acknowledged.
“Mildred, but everyone calls me Millie,” she says quickly, then bites her lip, like she’s worried she shouldn’t have spoken at all.
I narrow my eyes slightly. That’s weird.
“Nice to meet you both. And thank you for helping me,” I say, my voice warm but probing, watching for any reaction.
Agnes doesn’t bother responding. She just gestures ahead and says, “Right this way.”
Her tone is clipped. Like she’s trying to get me to shut up. Well, she’s about to learn that I’ll talk to anyone, even if they don’t respond.
As we walk, I throw out, “Claudius had me hike through the freaking forest to get here. I hope you two at least got to land on the helipad by the house.”
Agnes? Silent.
Millie? She blurts out, “Oh, we’re from here.”
I slow my steps. Huh. That’s funny. Because I don’t recall seeing any houses when we flew over the island. In fact… I don’t recall seeing any signs of life at all.
“From here?” I echo, my curiosity spiking. “Like, you were born here?”
Millie opens her mouth, like she might actually answer. But Agnes shuts it down. Fast.
“Millie, go see if Mr. Irons needs anything. When you’re finished, meet me in the kitchen.”
Her tone is sharp and final, leaving no room for argument. Millie’s head lowers instantly, her shoulders curling in like a child caught misbehaving. Heat creeps up her face, and just like that, she turns and hurries away, all but running. Like she’s been trained to obey without question. Like she’s scared.
I watch her go, my stomach twisting. Again, she reminds me of a scolded puppy. I round on Agnes.
“You didn’t have to snap at her like that.”
Agnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at me. She just keeps walking, her pace measured, her face completely unreadable. But I see it. The tension in her jaw. The way her fingers curl slightly at her sides.
She’s pissed.
At me.
“Excuse me.” I stop in my tracks, crossing my arms. “I said you didn’t have to snap at her like that.”
Agnes slows her pace, then turns to face me fully. For the first time, I really look at her. The stern lines of her face. The cold calculation in her eyes. The way she holds herself. She’s not just a housekeeper, but something else. Someone with power.
And when she speaks, her tone is low, firm, and full of warning.
“Let’s get some things clear right now, dearie.”
Dearie. Like I’m some wayward child who doesn’t know better.
Her sharp gaze locks onto mine. “One, do not talk to any of my girls. If you do, I will make sure Mr. Irons hears about it.”
A chill runs down my spine. She means it.
“Two, you stay in your room at all times. Your meals will be brought to you.”
A cage.
She’s locking me in a damn cage.
“Three, if I so much as suspect that you’re sneaking out, I will lock you in your room.”
Like she has more than one way to keep me trapped.
“Am I clear?”
Her eyes dare me to push back. To test her. To see what happens if I don’t fall in line. My heart pounds, rage curling under my skin, but I force my expression to stay neutral. Because Agnes isn’t just some staff member. She’s something more. And if I’m going to survive here, then I need to pick my battles. For now.
“Crystal,” I mutter, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
Agnes’ smile sharpens, but there’s nothing warm about it. It’s the kind of smile that masks a warning. The kind that says she’s won this round.
“Good.” She gestures ahead. “This way.”
I have no choice but to follow her to a stairway, climbing silently behind her. We move through hallway after hallway, each one blending into the next. The dim lighting, the endless turns, the eerily identical doors are all meant to disorient me. I feel it in my bones. This place is designed to confuse, to keep people trapped without even realizing it. A maze. And I hate it.
Just as I’m about to ask how much farther, she stops. We’re in front of a dark wooden door, larger than the others we passed. My stomach tightens. But it’s not just the door that makes me uneasy.
It’s the lock.
On the outside.
Crap.
She wasn’t kidding.
“This is your room,” Agnes says, her tone final.
I stare at the lock. At the solid iron bolt that could easily keep me inside. This isn’t a room. It’s a cell.
Cautiously, I open the door.
I brace myself for something bleak. A cold, barren space that screams prison cell. What I find instead?
Luxury and opulence.
A massive bed sits in the center of the room. The dark mahogany frame carved with intricate designs holds the mattress covered in plush bedding. It’s so thick it looks like it could swallow me whole. A matching dresser stands against the far wall, sleek, modern, and polished enough to reflect the glow of the chandelier overhead—a crystal masterpiece that casts a soft, golden light over the space.
And then there’s the window.
Large. Expansive.
It stretches nearly from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the island. Rolling green jungle, jagged cliffs, and beyond that, the endless blue of the sea.
For a second, I almost forget why I’m here.
Almost.
But then my gaze drifts back to the door.
The lock.
The beautiful prison I’ve just stepped into.
I swallow hard and step inside, testing the feel of the soft rug beneath my feet as I glance toward the side doors.
I push open the first door and find a bathroom that belongs in a five-star resort. A freestanding bathtub sits beneath another window, its curved porcelain edges gleaming under the light. To the side, there’s a walk-in shower, lined with marble walls and gold fixtures. It’s the kind of shower that probably has more settings than I’d know what to do with. The vanity? Double sinks, sleek and modern, with an oversized mirror that reflects the soft glow of built-in lighting.
Everything about it screams comfort.
Everything about it contradicts the fact that I am very much a prisoner.
I move to the next door. The closet.
It’s even more absurd. It’s bigger than some apartments, with floor-to-ceiling shelving, rows of drawers, and a center island that looks designed for jewelry or accessories.
And the clothes?
All my size.
Dresses, blouses, jeans, even shoes…like someone had planned for me to be here. Like they expected me.
My stomach twists. I turn back toward the room, my eyes scanning over the beauty, the wealth, the suffocating perfection of it all. This place is a gilded cage. And Claudius? He’s the one who locked the door.
I step out of the closet, my mind still reeling from the sheer extravagance of it all. And then I hear it. The soft click of a door closing. My pulse kicks up. Agnes is nowhere to be seen.
For a second, a horrible thought grips me. Did Agnes just lock me in? Panic lurches through me, and I run across the room, reaching for the handle, twisting it. It opens.
My chest rises and falls too fast and adrenaline courses through me. I come face to face with Agnes. She gives me a long look. It’s meant to remind me exactly where I stand.
“As I said,” she murmurs, voice smooth but edged with steel. “Play by my rules, and we won’t have a problem.”
I hold her gaze, jaw tight. I should say something. Push back. Challenge her. But something about Agnes tells me she’s not just issuing a warning. She’s making a promise.
And I have the distinct feeling that if I break her rules?
She’ll enjoy making me regret it.