CHAPTER 1
MIA
PRESENT
I wake up with my shirt clinging to my skin, damp with sweat.
My breath comes in short, uneven gasps, and for a moment, I can't tell if the pounding in my chest is from the remnants of the dream or the sheer panic still curling around my ribs.
Nightmare.
It's unsettling—this feeling that I now recognize as fear. It slithers through me like a cold whisper, something unseen but suffocating.
My heart pounds, not from danger, but from the weight of a ghost that doesn’t exist outside my mind.
And yet, it haunts me all the same.
This never occurred to me, in the days when I was trapped in the cage.
I was always good at suppressing my thoughts about James… or maybe I wasn’t? Maybe I just told myself that? Maybe I buried them so deep that I forgot I was even trying?
My is breath still uneven, and take in the place that now holds me—my new cage. A mansion, huge and drowning in silence, except for the ever-present weight of security guards stationed like statues, their eyes sharp, ready.
Ready for me.
No doctors today.
Good.
I turn toward the window, but the sun has abandoned me too. Just a heavy sky, swollen with clouds, pressing down like a bad omen.
The world outside looks dead.
Distant.
Like it doesn’t want me in it.
I wouldn’t want me either.
My head aches—a dull, throbbing pressure, foreign and unwelcome. Fear is still an unfamiliar guest in my body. I was never taught to be afraid. So I always smiled instead, let my lips stretch into something pretty and sharp, pretending it was enough. But lately, there’s been this nagging feeling, like maybe life isn’t real at all. At least, not the way I thought it was.
I move through the room, dragging my fingers over the polished furniture, tracing the smooth edges, the richness of it all. It’s not metal.It’s not small.
It’s not real.
Something twists inside me. A flicker of something I don’t want to name. I shake it off, pushing my body forward, carrying myself to the bathroom. I step under the water and let it run over me, warm and steady, grounding me, forcing my eyes closed for just a second—
"Crazy."
"Murderer."
"You killed him."
“Freak”
The voices drip down my spine like the water, slipping into the cracks of my mind, curling in the spaces I can’t reach.
I press my fingers into my scalp, trying to drown them out, but they laugh, whisper, tangle into my thoughts.
I exhale.
It’s fine.
I can pretend, just a little longer.
Breathe, Mia. You won’t lose your mind here.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But coming back to a place that carved scars into my skin feels like willingly stepping into the fire after finally escaping the flames. Like drowning again after learning how to swim.
No one warns you how much it’ll hurt—not even yourself—because some part of you is stupid enough to believe you’re immune.
I turn off the shower, steam curling around me like ghostly fingers, and wrap myself in a towel before heading straight to the closet. Paulina, in all her misguided enthusiasm, has laid out a selection of dresses. And more dresses. All elegant, all delicate, all so… not me.
But honestly? I don’t have the energy to care.
So I just grab the first blouse and skirt within reach, towel-dry my hair with half-hearted movements, and make my way downstairs, following the delicious scent of food like a starving little detective.
The mansion is quiet—too quiet.
Nico doesn’t live here, though it belongs to him. But my grandfather did .
The walls still hold whispers of a past presence, with scattered photos and furniture that feels too settled for an empty house.
It’s strange, like walking through a memory that doesn’t belong to me.
“Hello, Miss Riviera.”
I blink at the unfamiliar man standing a respectful distance away. Weird. My father’s men don’t usually bother with personal space.
“I was sent by your fiancé for your safety inside the house.” His tone is even, professional. “He asked me to give you a new phone, and if you need to come and go, there is a car at your disposal.”
Fiancé? Excuse me?
I take the phone from his outstretched hand, my brain tripping over itself. I still have my old one tucked away. The one I thought Zane had given me—until Paulina convinced me I had imagined him. And for a second, I almost believed her.
Until I saw him. With my own eyes.
But that can’t be right, can it? Zane is not some rich, revolutionary mobster. Zane listens to Blackpink like a religious experience. Zane despises violence. Zane is by far the best artist I’ve ever seen, quiet but soft on the inside, a free spirit wrapped in ink and gold.
Zane has blond hair and an angelic face.
Not dark hair and a devious expression.
Not the kind of man who belongs in this world of silent threats and bloodstained legacies.
That is not Zane.
No... it's not who he was. It's who he became after everything. After the lies, the silence, the weight of it all—he got hurt. And somewhere in the middle of that mess, he turned into someone else.
I shake off the thought and follow the scent of food like a possessed bloodhound, stepping into the dining area—only to freeze at the sight of the absolute feast laid out before me. Fruits, juices, cakes… Is this what royalty eats?
Before I can make a dive for the food, a woman approaches me with a no-nonsense expression.
Olga.
The head of the mansion. The unshakable force of order and intimidation.
I grin at her like an overenthusiastic puppy.
I will win her heart. It's only a matter of time.
"Good morning, Olga," I say, beaming at her. "Did you rest well today?"
As always, I get nothing but a grunt in response. No words, no acknowledgment beyond the mechanical placement of my breakfast on the table before she turns on her heel and leaves.
I sigh, propping my chin in my hands as I stare at my plate. Olga is like a fortress, and I—determined little gremlin that I am— will find a way in.
The strangest part of being here is how unfamiliar this part of the mansion feels. It’s like it exists in an entirely different universe from the damp, suffocating basement where I spent most of my life. The realization creeps in, slow but suffocating—my father didn’t keep me locked up because he cared about me. He did it so he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of his own choices.
Whether I lived in a gilded mansion or a moldy dungeon didn’t matter to him. As long as I was out of his way.
Before I can spiral too hard, Olga returns, this time holding out a phone. "For you," she says, and I take it with a skeptical glance.
"Mia," a familiar voice sighs on the other end.
I lean back, already feeling the headache coming. "Paulina, what a lovely surprise. What nightmare do you bring me today?"
"Your father asked me to return to the States to prepare you for your wedding—teach you things," she says, like I’m some stray dog that needs training. "But I’m very busy at the moment with other matters. So you’ll need to behave. Or Katie will suffer the consequences."
My blood goes cold.
"Your fiancé is a young man," she continues, voice laced with something smug. "So try to enjoy at least this."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Wow, that’s some really motherly advice coming from the bitch who drugged me and threw me into yet another cage—just a shinier one this time."
Paulina’s tone sharpens. "Actually, you’re free to come and go. That was a demand from your fiancé. He wanted you to move in with him, but your father vetoed that idea for now."
My brows shoot up. Zane wanted me to move in with him?
"So," Paulina continues, "he’ll be moving into the mansion in two weeks. In the meantime, you’ll be going on dates. Try not to fuck this up. If I have to come to the States because of you, it’ll be to kill you and that fucking bitch."
And then she hangs up. Just like that.
I stare at the phone in my hand, my mind a whirlwind of chaos.
Three problems:
I have to keep Paulina out of the States. Whatever shady business she’s up to, she’d recognize Zane instantly, and that would blow everything up.
I need to find Zane and figure out what the hell he’s doing.
I need to convince him to stop whatever he’s doing because, obviously, he has zero self-preservation instincts.
He’s going to end up dead in this crossfire.
And the thought of that sends a wave of pure, blinding fury through me.
"Miss Riviera," Olga says again, and I swear her voice has softened. Interesting.
I grin, tilting my head at her. "Olga, just call me Mia, please."
She does not. But I swear her stoic expression cracks—just a little.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asks.
"No."
"I’m not hungry, Miss, thank you."
I squint at her. "You have to say that, don’t you?"
She doesn’t answer.
Instead of pushing, I get up and head straight for the kitchen.
"Isn’t breakfast to your liking, ma’am?" Olga asks, following behind me.
I wave her off. "Everything is perfect, Olga, I just want to make waffles."
Her expression turns alarmed. "I can’t let you do that."
I blink at her. "Why? Are the waffle irons cursed? Haunted by the ghosts of bad dietary choices?"
She looks… nervous? "Mrs. Riviera said your diet must be strictly carbohydrate-free."
My eye twitches.
That bitch.
She drugged me, kidnapped me, and now she’s forbidding me from eating waffles?
I bite back my frustration because Olga looks genuinely uneasy, like she expects me to snap. And that just makes me sad. That’s the problem with the Riviera name—I may not have used it much, but I know the weight it carries. The fear it instills. I don’t want to be part of that.
So I school my expression into something harmless. "It’s okay, Olga, I understand."
She nods, but watches me like I might combust at any second.
Then—"Oh, Miss Riviera—Mia," she corrects, hesitating. "Your fiancé is coming to see you in a few moments."
I freeze.
…Oh, fuck.