Chapter 25
Twenty Five
Aria
The water is scalding, a punishment I inflict on myself, but I barely feel it.
I stand under the spray in the cavernous shower, my back pressed against the cold, hard tile, and scrub my skin until it’s raw.
It’s a futile effort. I’m trying to wash him off me—his scent, the rough scrape of his jaw against my neck, the phantom weight of his body pinning me to the wall.
The memory is a brand, seared deeper than my skin.
The dark, angry mark on my neck I saw in the mirror throbs with a dull ache, a visible symbol of his ownership.
Humiliation is a physical sickness, churning in my gut.
He took me like an object, an outlet for his rage, a thing to be broken but as the water sluices over the angry mark on my skin, another feeling rises through the nausea and pain.
It’s a cold, hard ember of victory. He threw his worst at me.
He tried to shatter me with force and fury, to fuck the truth out of me, and I didn’t break.
I held onto the name. I held onto that one, tiny secret.
It’s still mine. The knowledge doesn’t soothe the pain, but it forges it into something else. A shield. A weapon.
When I finally step out, the silence of the loft is a physical presence.
I wrap a towel tightly around my body, a pathetic piece of armor, and walk into the main living space.
He’s there, sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, elbows on his knees.
He’s not looking at his phone or staring into space.
He’s watching the spot where I emerge, as if he’s been waiting.
The explosive rage from before is gone, replaced by a still, watchful calm that is somehow more terrifying.
He looks like a predator resting, conserving his energy for the next hunt.
My old life feels like a distant dream, a story about someone else, but I have to try. I have to know the new rules of this cage.
"I'm going to be late for work," I say. My voice is surprisingly steady, a credit to the actress I’m quickly becoming. It’s a test. A plea. A demand to have one small piece of myself back.
He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable. "You don't work there anymore."
The words are flat. Final. They hang in the air between us.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice cracking slightly.
"I mean," he says, standing up slowly, "that I took care of it. I called them this morning. Your resignation was effective immediately."
The floor seems to drop out from under me.
The library. My quiet sanctuary of books and whispers.
My last connection to a world outside these concrete walls.
The place I could have searched the archives, the place I could have found a foothold.
Gone. He didn't just lock me in; he's systematically dismantling my entire world, brick by brick, until the only thing left in it is him. My isolation is now absolute.
"You can't do that," I whisper, the protest weak and pathetic even to my own ears. Who would stop him?
"I can," he says, his voice softening into something deceptively reasonable. "I did. We can't have you running around the city, Aria. It's not safe."
He walks over to the large wooden table.
Sitting on its polished surface is a sleek, white box.
"I know this is... an adjustment," he says, the word a gross understatement of the hell he's put me through.
"I don't want you to feel completely cut off.
This is for you. A window to the world, since you can't go out into it. "
He slides the box toward me. It’s a brand-new, top-of-the-line phone.
My blood runs cold. A gift. A peace offering after what he did?
No. Cassian doesn't give gifts. He sets traps.
This is a leash. A new set of eyes. He'll see every call I might make, every message I might send, every desperate search for answers.
He's inviting me to build my own prison while he watches.
I should throw it in his face. I should scream at him until my throat is raw.
But my rage has cooled into something more useful: strategy.
The library is gone. My freedom is gone.
This monitored, poisoned gift is the only weapon I have left.
It's a trap, but it's also my only way out—or rather, my only way in.
My way to the truth. I have to play his game on his board.
I walk forward, my bare feet silent on the floor.
I pick up the box. It feels heavy in my hands, a cold, glass-and-metal promise.
I look him directly in the eye, letting him see the cold resolve there.
"Thank you," I say. The words are quiet, but they are not submissive. They are a declaration of war.
He just nods, a flicker of something—surprise? respect?—in his dark eyes before his mask of indifference slams back down. He retreats to the far side of the loft, giving me the illusion of privacy. An illusion I know is false.
I sit down at the table, my back to him, and unbox the phone. My hands are perfectly steady. I am a block of ice. I power it on, the bright screen illuminating my determined face. My heart pounds a steady, defiant rhythm against my ribs. I can feel his eyes on my back. Let him watch.
My mind races. I can't search for anything related to the crash. Not yet. It's too direct, too suspicious. What would a girl who just lost her job and her freedom do? She'd look for a connection.
I open the browser and type in the name of the library where I used to work. I click through the pages, looking at the staff photos, the event calendars. It's an act, but a painful one. A reminder of the life that was stolen from me. I close the tab.
Then, the name burns in my mind. Leo. Icarus. I have to know. Just a quick look. A test of the waters.
My fingers hover over the screen. It’s a reckless, stupid impulse, but I can’t stop it. I open a new tab. My fingers fly, typing the two words.
Leo Icarus.
I press 'search'.
The screen populates instantly with a wall of useless, meaningless digital noise. Ads for new Honda Icaruses. A link to "Leo's Auto Repair" in a town three states away. Photos of shiny cars. A forum post from a user named "LeoC" asking about tire pressure.
My heart sinks with a wave of frustration and foolishness. Of course it wasn't that easy. It's a common name, a common car. The internet is a vast ocean of garbage, and I'm looking for a single drop of water.