CHAPTER 5
THE SHRINE
POV: IVY
Light is the first intruder.
It doesn’t creep in like the dusty, gray dawn I’m used to in the Lower East Side. This light is violent, absolute, and blindingly bright. It floods through floor-to-ceiling glass, hitting my eyelids with the force of a physical blow.
I groan, rolling over, burying my face in the pillow to escape it.
The fabric against my cheek isn't the rough, pilling cotton of my cheap Target sheets. It’s fluid. Cool. Slippery like water.
Silk.
Memory crashes into me like a head-on collision.
The car. The bath. The man with the scar and the eyes like frozen oceans.
Silas.
I shoot up in bed, gasping as if I’ve just surfaced from drowning. The movement makes the room spin, a lingering effect of the adrenaline hangover and the sheer exhaustion that pulled me under last night.
I’m alone.
The massive bedroom is silent. The black silk sheets are tangled around my legs, shimmering in the sunlight. I look down at myself. I’m still wearing the midnight blue pajamas he gave me. The top button has come undone in my sleep, revealing the flash of the diamond choker at my throat.
I touch it instantly. It’s warm from my body heat, a heavy, constant reminder of my new reality.
This is your cage now.
I scramble out of bed, my bare feet sinking into a plush charcoal rug that probably costs more than my student loans. I run to the door.
It opens.
I blink, surprised. I expected it to be locked. I expected to have to pound on the wood and scream until my throat bled. But the handle turns smoothly, and the heavy door swings inward on silent hinges.
I step out into the hallway. It’s wide, lined with modern art that looks aggressive—splashes of red and black paint that resemble wounds. The floor is polished concrete, cold and industrial, softening the luxury of the rest of the penthouse.
"Hello?" I call out.
My voice echoes, bouncing off the hard surfaces. It sounds small. Insignificant.
There is no answer.
I walk slowly toward the main living area, hugging my arms around my chest. The space is cavernous.
The living room is a masterpiece of minimalist design—low-slung Italian leather sofas, a fireplace encased in glass, and a wall of windows that offers a view of Manhattan so clear it feels like a high-definition screen.
I walk to the glass.
My stomach drops. We are impossibly high up. The cars down on the avenue look like ants. The people are invisible specks. I press my hand against the glass. It’s thick, cool, and utterly unyielding.
I look for a handle, a latch, anything.
There is nothing. It’s a seamless sheet of glass. A fishbowl in the sky.
"Okay," I whisper to myself, my heart rate picking up. "Okay. Find the door."
I spot the elevator bank across the room. It’s the only way down. I run to it, my footsteps slapping against the floor.
There are no buttons. Just a sleek black panel next to the brushed steel doors.
I press my hand against the panel. Nothing happens. I tap it. I punch it.
"Come on!" I hiss, frustration rising like bile.
A small red light blinks on the panel. ACCESS DENIED.
I spin around, scanning the room for the fire stairs. Every building has fire stairs. It’s code.
I find a nondescript gray door near the kitchen. I yank the handle.
It opens.
A wall of sound blasts me—a piercing, shrieking alarm that sounds like a banshee screaming.
WEE-OOO-WEE-OOO.
I slam the door shut instantly. The sound cuts off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
My heart is thundering in my ears. He wasn't lying. I can't leave. The elevator is biometrically locked. The stairs are alarmed. I am trapped in a glass box a thousand feet above the ground.
I back away from the door, trembling.
I need to think. I need to find a weapon. I need to eat.
My stomach growls, a loud, angry reminder that I haven't eaten since a granola bar yesterday afternoon.
I turn toward the kitchen. It’s a chef’s dream—stainless steel, black marble, an island the size of a landing strip.
On the counter, sitting on a pristine white placemat, is a tray.
I walk over to it cautiously, half-expecting it to bite me.
There’s a silver thermos of coffee, a bowl of fresh berries—blackberries and raspberries, dark and ripe—and a plate with an omelet that is somehow still warm under a glass dome.
And a note.
It’s written on thick, cream-colored cardstock in black ink. The handwriting is jagged, sharp, assertive.
*Eat every bite. I will know if you don't.
● S*
I stare at the note. The arrogance of it makes my blood boil. He thinks he can just leave me here like a pet, put out a bowl of food, and I’ll just obediently consume it?
I want to throw the plate against the wall. I want to smash the glass dome and use the shards to slit the throat of the leather sofa.
But I’m starving. And I’m weak.
If I’m going to fight him—and I am going to fight him—I need energy.
I sit on one of the high stools and lift the dome. The smell of eggs, spinach, and feta hits me, and my mouth waters traitorously.
I eat. I hate myself for it, but I eat. I devour the eggs. I drink the coffee—it’s black, strong, and expensive. It tastes like fuel.
As I eat, I look around the room. It’s impersonal. Cold. There are no photos. No knick-knacks. No sign that a human being lives here, let alone a monster.
Except for one door.
It’s down a short hallway off the kitchen, separate from the bedrooms. The door is dark wood, heavy, solid.
Curiosity pulls at me.
I finish the last blackberry, wiping the juice from my lip with my thumb. I slide off the stool and creep toward the hallway.
The door is closed. I reach out and turn the knob.
Locked.
Of course.
I lean my ear against the wood. Silence. But there’s a faint hum coming from inside. Like the hum of electronics. Servers?
I kneel down, peering through the keyhole, but it’s dark.
I stand up, frustrated. I turn to leave, but my foot catches on something at the base of the doorframe. I look down.
A key.
It’s lying on the floor, half-hidden under the edge of a runner rug. It’s silver, small, nondescript.
Did he drop it? Did it fall out of his pocket?
Silas Vane doesn't seem like the kind of man who drops things. He seems like a man who calculates every breath he takes.
But maybe... maybe he was distracted last night. Maybe carrying a kidnapped woman threw him off his game just enough.
I pick up the key. My hand is shaking.
This feels like a trap. It feels too easy.
Don't do it, Ivy.
But I have to know. I have to know who he is. I have to know what I’m dealing with. Knowledge is the only weapon I have left.
I slide the key into the lock. It fits perfectly.
I turn it. Click.
The mechanism slides back.
I take a deep breath, push the door open, and step inside.
The room is dark. Heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight across the windows, blocking out the sun. The only light comes from the glowing LEDs of a massive computer server rack in the corner and the standby lights of several monitors mounted on the wall.
It smells like him in here. Concentrated. Sandalwood and ozone, but sharper.
I fumble for a light switch on the wall. I find a dimmer and slide it up.
Track lighting floods the room.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.
It’s an office. There’s a massive mahogany desk, leather chairs, shelves of books. But that’s not what draws my eye.
It’s the wall opposite the desk.
It’s a corkboard wall, spanning at least ten feet. And it is covered in me.
Hundreds of photographs.
I walk toward it, my legs feeling like they’re moving through molasses. I can’t look away. It’s a mosaic of my life, stolen and pinned up like butterflies in a display case.
There’s a photo of me walking out of my art history lecture in September. I’m wearing a yellow scarf. I remember that day. I was laughing at something my friend Sarah said.
There’s a photo of me buying apples at the bodega on the corner.
There’s a photo of me sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, sketching.
There’s a photo of me through the window of a coffee shop, biting my lip as I read a textbook.
They are candid. Voyeuristic. Some are blurry, taken from a distance. Others are terrifyingly clear, taken with a telephoto lens.
But then... then I see the others.
The ones taken at night.
My breath hitches, turning into a painful wheeze.
There are photos of me sleeping.
Grainy, black-and-white images taken from a high angle. I recognize the angle. It’s from the ceiling. From the smoke detector.
I scan the dates scribbled in black marker on the corners of the prints.
Oct 12. Nov 04. Dec 25.
Christmas. He watched me sleep on Christmas. I spent the day alone, eating Chinese takeout and watching movies, feeling sorry for myself. I thought I was alone.
He was there. He was always there.
I reach out and touch a photo near the center. It’s different. It’s not a photo.
It’s a sketch.
It’s a charcoal drawing of a gargoyle perched on a cathedral ledge.
My heart stops.
I drew this. I drew this back in October. I remember being frustrated with the shading on the wing. I crumpled it up. I threw it in the trash can in the park.
He dug it out of the trash.
He smoothed it out. He kept it.
"Oh my God," I whisper, tears blurring my vision. "You’re sick. You’re completely sick."
I back away from the wall, revulsion churning in my stomach. This isn't just a debt payment. This isn't business. This is a shrine.
I bump into the desk.
I turn around, needing to get out, needing to leave this room before the weight of his obsession crushes me.
But then I see the monitors.
There are six screens mounted on the wall behind the desk. They are all active.
Screen 1: The kitchen. The empty plate where I just ate his eggs. Screen 2: The living room. The view of the city. Screen 3: The hallway outside. Screen 4: The master bedroom. The unmade bed with the black sheets. Screen 5: The bathroom. The stone tub.
Screen 6.
I stare at Screen 6.
It shows a woman standing in a dark room, illuminated by track lighting. She is wearing blue silk pajamas. Her hand is covering her mouth. Her eyes are wide with terror.
It’s me.
I’m watching myself watching the screen.
There is a small red dot in the corner of the monitor. REC.
He’s recording this.
Wait.
If he’s recording... is he watching?
My gaze drops to the desk. There is a sleek laptop sitting closed on the leather blotter. Next to it, a notepad.
I lean over and read the top page of the notepad.
It’s a list.
1. Nutrition. She is underweight. 1800 calories/day minimum. 2. Clothing. Throw away everything from the apartment. Replace with silk/cashmere. Nothing rough against her skin. 3. Art supplies. Order the oils she likes. The expensive ones. 4. The Father. Locate him. Ensure he suffers.
I read the last line again. Ensure he suffers.
He promised my father he could walk away. He lied.
A sudden sound cuts through the silence of the penthouse.
Ding.
The elevator chime.
It’s soft, melodic, and terrifying.
He’s home.
I freeze. I’m in the one room I shouldn't be in. The door was locked for a reason. The key... the key was a test.
And I failed.
I hear the heavy tread of footsteps on the concrete floor of the hallway. They are slow. deliberate.
"Ivy?"
His voice is deep, echoing through the apartment. It sounds different than last night. Less monstrous. More... domestic. Which somehow makes it worse.
I can't move. I’m trapped in the office, standing in front of the wall of my stolen life.
The footsteps get closer. He’s walking toward the kitchen. He’s going to see the empty plate. He’s going to look for me.
I hear him pause.
Then, the footsteps change direction. They are coming down the short hallway. Toward the office.
He knows. He saw the door unlocked. Or he checked the camera on his phone before he even came up.
The door pushes open wider.
Silas stands there.
He looks devastating in the daylight. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit today, tailored to within an inch of its life. His tie is loosened. He’s holding a leather briefcase in one hand and a paper bag from a bakery in the other.
He looks like a husband coming home from work.
Except for the look in his eyes.
His gaze slides from me to the wall of photos behind me, then back to my face. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look embarrassed.
He looks satisfied.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
"You found your gallery," he says smoothly, setting the briefcase on a chair.
"My gallery?" I choke out, gesturing frantically at the wall. "This... this is psycho! You’re a stalker! You’ve been watching me for months!"
"Six months, three weeks, and two days," he corrects me, walking around the desk.
He leans back against the mahogany, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his biceps.
"You went through my trash," I accuse, pointing at the sketch.
"I saved your art," he counters. "You have talent, Ivy. You shouldn't throw your work away just because it’s not perfect. Perfection is boring."
He pushes off the desk and walks toward me. I back up until I hit the corkboard wall. The pins dig into my back through the silk of the pajamas.
He stops inches from me. He reaches out and plucks a pin from the wall, right next to my head. He holds up the photo attached to it.
It’s the one of me sleeping on Christmas.
"Do you know why I took this one?" he asks, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
I shake my head, unable to speak.
"Because you were crying in your sleep," he says. "You were dreaming about being alone. And I wanted to reach through the screen and wake you up. I wanted to tell you that you weren't alone. That I was right there with you."
He pins the photo back up. His hand lingers near my face.
"I left the key for you," he admits.
I blink. "What?"
"I dropped it on purpose. I wanted to see if you were brave enough to look." He traces the line of my jaw with his knuckle. "I wanted you to see the depth of my devotion. I want there to be no secrets between us, Ivy. This..."
He gestures to the wall, to the hundreds of stolen moments.
"...this is how much I want you. This is how much I own you. Does it scare you?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Good."
He leans in and brushes his lips against my forehead. A chaste, possessive kiss.
"Fear keeps you sharp. Now come." He grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "I brought you a croissant. And we have work to do."
"Work?" I ask, stumbling as he pulls me toward the door.
"Yes. We need to measure you for your wedding dress."
I dig my heels into the carpet. "My... my what?"
He looks back at me, his blue eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
"We’re getting married, little bird. It’s the only way to legally protect you from your father’s other creditors. And besides..."
He pulls me out of the room, shutting the door on the shrine of my past life.
"...I think 'Mrs. Vane' has a nice ring to it, don't you?"