CHAPTER 4
ROSE P.O.V.
The heavy door to my new prison room clicked shut, the sound echoing with a chilling finality.
Liam’s retreating footsteps, measured and powerful, faded down the long hallway, leaving me in a silence that felt heavier, colder, than any tomb.
This wasn’t just a room; it was a mausoleum for my freedom.
I stood there, trembling, my hand still pressed to the nape of my neck where his fingers had squeezed, branding me with his touch.
The phantom warmth lingered, a sickening reminder of his claim, his absolute dominion.
My eyes scanned the opulent space. It was a bedroom beyond anything I’d ever known: a massive king-sized bed with crisp, dark sheets, a sleek chaise lounge, a walk-in closet whose mirrored doors reflected my own pale, terrified face.
The private bathroom, glimpsed through an open doorway, was a study in marble and polished chrome.
Yet, no matter how luxurious, it was still a cell.
My bag, the paltry collection of my old life, had been placed neatly on a mahogany dresser.
I walked over, my movements stiff, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I opened it, running my fingers over the worn leather of my sketchbook, the familiar coolness of my pencils.
They felt alien here, out of place in this stark, controlled environment.
A wave of despair, thick and suffocating, washed over me.
This wasn’t a temporary nightmare. This was my life now.
The raw terror that had gripped me in the car and the warehouse had begun to morph, twisting into a hot, poisonous knot of anger.
Anger at my father, at Clara, at the universe, but most intensely, at Liam Morozov.
He thought he could break me? Turn me into some obedient toy?
My jaw clenched, my teeth digging into the soft flesh of my inner cheek.
He didn’t know me. He didn’t know the fire that burned beneath the quiet exterior of Rose Collins.
I wouldn't break. I wouldn't.
My eyes landed on the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised an entire wall of the room.
They offered the same breathtaking, glittering vista of Manhattan as the living area, an endless tapestry of light and shadow, but from this height, the city felt impossibly distant, unreachable.
A cruel joke. I walked towards them, pressing my palm against the cool glass.
The penthouse was dozens of stories high, the streets below a dizzying blur. No escape there.
I turned, searching. There had to be a way out.
This wasn’t some ancient ruin I was restoring; it was a modern building.
There were always emergency exits, service stairwells, something.
My heart began to pound with a renewed, desperate energy.
I wasn't just going to exist in his world. I was going to fight my way out of it.
I checked the door, twisting the ornate handle.
It was unlocked. Too easy. Liam Morozov wasn’t a fool.
I pushed it open slowly, peering out into the darkened hallway.
The main living area, vast and still, was to my left.
To my right, the hall stretched, lined with other closed doors.
I listened. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the building, a low, mechanical thrum that vibrated through the floorboards.
My pulse throbbed in my ears. This was it.
The first attempt. I pulled the door gently shut, leaving it ajar just a crack, a silent promise of my return.
My bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet as I crept into the hallway, my senses on high alert.
The air was cool, faintly scented with expensive cologne and a hint of the cigar smoke that clung to Liam.
I moved like a shadow, my eyes darting, searching for anything that looked like an exit.
Each closed door was a mystery, each shadow a potential threat.
I was a rat in a maze, but a rat with a desperate, burning will to survive.
I found a service panel, flush with the wall, but it was locked tight.
Further down, an innocuous door, almost invisible against the dark wood paneling. I tried the handle. Locked. Of course.
Where were the guards? Liam had said his men were everywhere.
Were they ghosts? Or were they just that good, watching from unseen cameras, waiting for me to make a move?
The thought made my skin crawl, the feeling of being watched, constantly observed.
It was a violation far more insidious than a physical touch.
I continued my silent patrol, my frustration growing with each dead end.
This place was a fortress, just as he had boasted.
Designed to keep people out, yes, but also, terrifyingly, to keep people in.
There were no windows in the hallway, no fire escape, nothing that hinted at a path to freedom.
Only closed doors, impenetrable walls, and the suffocating sense of being utterly alone.
My despair was starting to claw at my throat, but my rage pushed back. I wouldn’t give up. Not yet. I had to find something.
Then, I saw it. A faint red light, barely visible, blinking rhythmically above what looked like a small service elevator door, tucked away in a shadowed alcove.
My heart leaped. An elevator. It wouldn't lead directly outside, but it might lead to a different floor, a different part of the building, a chance to get away from this penthouse.
A chance to find an unsupervised exit, a stairwell, anything.
Hope, fragile but fierce, surged through me. This was it. My chance.
I crept closer, my movements careful, deliberate.
The elevator door was plain, unadorned, industrial metal, a stark contrast to the opulence of the penthouse.
I reached for the call button, my finger hovering, my breath held.
This was a gamble, a desperate, foolish gamble, but I had to take it. For my family. For myself.
My hand was about to press the button when a deep, cold voice cut through the silence, making me jump, my blood turning to ice.
"Going somewhere, moya roza?"
My head whipped around. Liam. He stood at the end of the hallway, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the city lights filtering through the main living area.
He was leaning against the doorframe of what looked like his own bedroom, arms crossed over his formidable chest, his dark hair a little mussed as if he’d just woken.
But his eyes, those steel-gray eyes, were wide awake, burning with a chilling intensity, watching me.
He hadn't moved, but his presence filled the hallway, crushing the air from my lungs.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and shame. He’d known. He'd been waiting. A mouse in his trap, and I had walked right into it.
"I... I was just looking for a glass of water," I stammered, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue, pathetically flimsy against the cold certainty in his gaze. My throat was dry, tighter than a vice.
He pushed off the doorframe, his movement fluid, predatory, slowly stalking towards me.
Each step resonated through the quiet, closing the distance between us, amplifying the suffocating power of his presence.
"Water?" His voice was a low growl, laced with a dangerous amusement that sent a shiver down my spine.
"At three in the morning? And you thought the service elevator was the quickest route to the kitchen? "
My pathetic excuse crumbled. There was no point in lying. He saw right through me. The rage that had fueled my escape attempt now flared, mingling with a fresh wave of defiant terror.
"I won't stay here!" I hissed, the words a desperate whisper. "You can’t keep me here!"
He stopped just a few feet from me, his shadow falling over me, consuming me whole.
He was wearing dark silk pajama bottoms that clung to his powerful thighs, his chest bare, a canvas of defined muscle and subtle, meaningful tattoos.
The sight of his raw, masculine power, so close, so uninhibited, was a visceral assault on my senses, terrifying and, to my horror, undeniably magnetic.
A spark of that dark, unwanted fascination ignited deep within me.
His eyes narrowed, hardening to granite.
"I can, and I will." His hand shot out, not touching me, but slamming against the wall beside my head, his forearm caging me against the cold metal of the elevator door.
The sudden impact made me flinch, a terrified gasp escaping my lips.
His body was impossibly close, pressing against mine, the heat radiating from his bare skin searing through my thin nightshirt.
The scent of him — that powerful, masculine tobacco and cologne — was overwhelming, filling my lungs, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.
"You like to test my patience, little flower," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through my chest, deep into my bones.
His gaze was fixed on my eyes, but I felt the heat of his bare chest against my breasts, the hard press of his thigh against my hip.
I could feel the frantic beat of my own heart, a hummingbird trapped in a cage.
"I warned you. This is my world. And you are mine. "
My breath hitched. I could feel the desperate tremble starting deep in my core, threatening to spread through my limbs. I pressed back against the cold metal, desperate for an inch of space, but there was nowhere to go.
"I am not yours!" I spat, a last, desperate flicker of defiance. "I am Rose Collins! I belong to no one!"