3. Celeste
CELESTE
Five days in the gilded cage, and I'm starting to forget what freedom felt like.
It's not that I'm treated badly. That's the strangest part.
I'm treated better here than I've been treated anywhere in my life.
Meals appear like clockwork, prepared by a chef who seems to know exactly what I like.
Books show up on my nightstand before I can finish the last ones.
The closet keeps filling with clothes that fit perfectly, in colors I would have chosen myself.
I haven't seen Viktor since the warehouse, but I feel him everywhere.
The cameras don't bother hiding. I've counted seven in the common areas, positioned at angles that cover every inch of the penthouse.
None in the bathroom, as far as I can tell.
None in my bedroom. Small mercies. But I know he's watching.
I can feel his attention like a physical weight, like eyes tracing my skin even when I'm completely alone.
So I start talking to the cameras. Just to see what happens.
"I'm bored," I say one afternoon, standing in the middle of the living room with my arms crossed, staring directly at the lens above the fireplace. The next morning, a box of art supplies appears outside my door. Charcoal pencils, a sketchpad with good paper, watercolors in every shade I love.
"I miss the sun," I murmur another day, gazing out the window at the city far below. That afternoon, Marta appears to escort me to a rooftop terrace I didn't know existed. There are plants up there, flowers blooming in careful arrangements, and a view of Manhattan that steals my breath.
"This tea is cold," I mention once, more to myself than anyone else. It never happens again.
He's studying me. Learning me. Every preference filed away, every need anticipated before I can voice it. It should terrify me. Instead, I feel something dangerous blooming in my chest: the sensation of being cared for.
My father hasn't called. Hasn't sent a message.
Hasn't made any attempt to see me or negotiate for my release.
I'm not surprised, but the confirmation still stings.
I've spent my whole life being invisible to him, existing on the periphery of his schemes and failures.
Now I'm finally worth something, and it's only because someone else claimed me.
I wonder what happens when I stop being useful. When my father inevitably fails to pay whatever he owes.
I try not to think about it.
I can't sleep again.
The penthouse is quiet, the city glittering through the windows like a million watching eyes.
I've given up on staying in my room, so I wander out to the living room in the silk robe that appeared in my closet last week.
The fabric is soft against my skin, more expensive than anything I've ever owned.
The lights are dim. The view is stunning. I'm so focused on the skyline that I don't realize I'm not alone until he speaks.
"You should be sleeping."
I whirl around, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Viktor is sitting in an armchair in the corner, half hidden by shadows.
He's got a glass of whiskey in his hand, and he's wearing shirtsleeves instead of his usual jacket.
I've never seen him less than perfectly armored.
The casual vulnerability of it makes my stomach flip.
"So should you," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't shake.
He tilts his head, studying me with those pale blue eyes. "I don't sleep much."
"Neither do I." I should go back to my room. I should retreat to safety, if my room can even be called that anymore. Instead, I cross to the couch across from him and sit down, pulling my robe tighter around myself. "Tell me something."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why haven't you hurt me?"
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the skin. The scar that cuts across his cheekbone seems to catch the dim light, throwing shadows across his features—a stark reminder of the violence he's not only capable of but has survived. "Is that what you expected?"
"It's what I was told to expect." I force myself to hold his gaze. "The Bratva doesn't take hostages to treat them well. They use them. Break them. Make examples of them."
He leans forward slowly, elbows braced on his knees, and the motion brings him out of the shadows and into the amber glow of the city lights filtering through the windows.
Up close, I can see details I've never noticed before—how tired he looks, how the shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights, how tension has carved itself into the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders.
He looks like a man who hasn't slept properly in days, maybe weeks.
Like he's carrying the weight of something too heavy to set down.
"You're not a hostage," he says quietly, each word deliberate.
"Then what am I?"
The pause stretches between us, thick and heavy with something I can't name, something that makes the air feel charged.
His eyes trace my face slowly, deliberately, like he's memorizing every detail—the curve of my cheek, the shape of my mouth, the way I'm trying not to show how his proximity affects me.
Like he's trying to solve a puzzle he doesn't understand, one that frustrates and fascinates him in equal measure.
"I don't know yet."
I should be scared. My heart is racing, pounding so hard I'm certain he can hear it, but it's not fear coursing through my veins. It's something else entirely, something dangerous and magnetic.
"The tea," I say, because I need answers, need to understand what's happening here, what game we're playing. "The specific books I mentioned wanting to read. The art supplies—charcoal, not pencils, because I prefer it. How did you know those things?"
"I pay attention."
"To all your prisoners?"
"You're not a prisoner." He stands abruptly, draining his whiskey in one swallow. The motion is graceful, controlled, every inch of him radiating power even in this quiet moment. "Go to bed, Celeste."
My name in his mouth sounds like a promise and a threat simultaneously, the syllables carrying weight I can't quite decipher. I'm not sure it matters anymore which one it is.
He walks toward the hallway with that same controlled grace, and I think he's going to leave without another word, let this charged moment dissipate into nothing.
But at the doorway, he stops mid-step, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor.
He doesn't turn around, doesn't look back at me.
"I won't hurt you. I need you to know that." The words come out firm, definite, like he's making a vow he intends to keep.
"Then what will you do with me?"
He's quiet for a long moment, so long I wonder if he's going to answer at all. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, almost pained, like the admission costs him something.
"Keep you."
He's gone before I can respond, before I can ask what he means by that, disappearing into the shadows of the penthouse like he was never there at all, like he's part of the darkness itself.
I sit on the couch for a long time after, my tea growing cold beside me, staring at the empty armchair across from me, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what's happening between us.
He says "keep you" like it's simple, straightforward.
Like he's talking about a stray cat he's decided to adopt and not my entire life, my future, my freedom.
I should be terrified by the possessiveness in those two words.
I should be planning my escape right now, looking for weaknesses in his security, finding ways to get out before whatever's building between us explodes into something irreversible.
Instead, I'm something else entirely, something I don't want to examine too closely.
I'm intrigued.
The rooftop terrace becomes my sanctuary.
I spend hours up here, sketching the skyline, breathing in fresh air that tastes like freedom even though I know it's an illusion. Today is day ten, and I've almost convinced myself that this strange existence is survivable. Comfortable, even.
I'm working on a charcoal sketch of the Chrysler Building when the door opens behind me.
I assume it's Marta, coming to check on me like she does every few hours. But the footsteps are too heavy, the presence behind me too aggressive. I turn, and the man staring at me is definitely not Marta.
He's Bratva. I can tell by the tattoos peeking out from under his collar, the way he carries himself like someone who's used to intimidating people smaller than him. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"So you're the Duval girl." He takes a deliberate step closer, crossing the invisible boundary of personal space, and every instinct I've honed over the years screams danger in a language I understand too well. "Viktor's new pet project."
I don't respond, don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
I keep sketching, forcing the charcoal across the paper even though my hand is trembling badly enough that I'm ruining the lines of the building's distinctive crown.
If I show fear, if I let him see weakness, it's over.
I learned that lesson a long time ago, back when showing vulnerability could mean the difference between surviving a night and not.
"Pretty little thing." He's closer now, invading my space completely, close enough that I can smell the acrid mix of cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to his clothes. "I see why he's keeping you up here in the penthouse instead of locked in a basement cell where traitors belong."
"I don't think you should be here." My voice comes out steady, controlled. Small victory in a situation rapidly spinning out of control.
He laughs, a harsh, grating sound that bounces off the terrace walls and the surrounding buildings. His hand reaches for my arm, fingers already curling to grab. "I think I can do whatever the fuck I?—"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
One second he's reaching for me, and the next he's against the wall with Viktor's forearm across his throat. I didn't see Viktor move. Didn't hear him approach. He materialized from the shadows like a nightmare, and now he's holding this man's life in his hands.
"Touch her again and I'll remove your hands." Viktor's voice is calm. That's the terrifying part. There's no anger in his tone, no heat. Just cold, absolute certainty. "Look at her wrong and I'll take your eyes. Do you understand?"
The man chokes out something that might be a yes.
Viktor releases him, and the man scrambles away, not looking back, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to reach the door. The terrace falls silent except for my pounding heart.
Viktor turns to me, and the ice in his eyes melts into something that looks almost like concern. "Are you hurt?"
"No." I'm shaking, but it's adrenaline, not fear. "He didn't touch me."
Viktor steps closer, and I don't back away. His hand hovers near my face, not quite landing, like he's afraid to make contact. "If anyone ever touches you, you tell me. Immediately. Promise me."
"Why do you care?"
His jaw works. The answer seems pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't know existed. "Because you're mine."
I should argue. Should remind him that I'm a person, not property, that he can't just claim me like I'm territory to be conquered. But the way he's looking at me, like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen, like he would burn down the world to keep me safe... I can't make myself pull away.
Instead, I lean into his almost-touch. Just barely. Just enough that the air between his fingertips and my skin seems to crackle with anticipation.
His hand finally cups my cheek, warm and solid, and I let my eyes drift closed.
His palm is rough and warm, the calluses and scars from a lifetime of violence evident beneath my skin. But the way he touches me is impossibly gentle, like I'm made of spun glass. Like I might crack and shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces if he's not careful with every movement.
"Celeste," he breathes, and the sound of my name in his voice has never held that particular quality before. Like a prayer torn from the lips of a man who's forgotten how to believe. Like a plea he doesn't know how to voice.
Then he pulls away, so abruptly that I almost stumble forward into the space he's vacated. His expression shutters closed, that cold mask of indifference sliding back into place with practiced ease, and he takes two deliberate steps back, putting distance between us.
But not before I caught the look that flickered across his face in that unguarded moment.
Desperate. Terrified. Hungry.
I'm in trouble. So is he.
And I'm not sure either of us wants to be saved from whatever this is becoming.