CHAPTER 9
THE RED OMEN
POV: IVY
I wake up to the sound of my own heartbeat.
It’s a slow, heavy thud against the mattress, echoing in the silence of the room. I keep my eyes closed for a moment, feigning sleep, pretending that if I don't move, the last twelve hours will dissolve like mist.
But the physical evidence is undeniable.
My body feels... different. There’s a strange, heavy lethargy in my limbs, a phantom warmth between my legs where his fingers were.
The memory hits me with the force of a physical slap—the way I arched off the bed, the way I screamed his name, the way I shattered under the touch of the man who owns me.
Shame floods my veins, hot and acidic.
I didn't just surrender; I collaborated. I let him dismantle me. I let him prove his point—that my body is a traitorous thing that will sell its loyalty to the highest bidder, even if that bidder is a monster.
I open my eyes.
The space beside me is empty. The black silk sheets are cool to the touch, smooth and unwrinkled, as if he was never there. But his scent remains. Sandalwood and dark, expensive tobacco linger on the pillow, infiltrating my lungs with every breath.
I sit up, pulling the duvet tight around my chest.
The penthouse is bathed in the harsh, gray light of a cloudy morning. The view of Manhattan is obscured by fog, turning the world outside the glass into a white void. We are floating in nothingness.
I slide out of bed. My legs feel shaky, not from weakness, but from the aftershocks of the nerve-shredding intensity of last night. I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the wardrobe.
I look the same. Same hair, same eyes. But I know I’m not. The girl who lived in the Lower East Side and worried about tuition is gone. In her place is Mrs. Silas Vane. A wife. A possession. A pet.
I walk to the bathroom. I need to scrub my skin raw. I need to wash the feeling of his hands off me.
The shower is scalding hot. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbing with a loofah until it hurts. But no matter how hard I scrub, I can't wash away the memory of his voice in my ear.
You’ll want the keeper.
"Never," I whisper to the steam. "I will never want you."
But the words sound hollow, even to me.
I dress in the clothes he left for me—a pair of cashmere leggings and an oversized sweater that feels like a hug I don't deserve. It’s soft, luxurious, and completely foreign. I leave the bedroom, stepping out into the silent, sprawling living area.
Silas is gone. The penthouse feels vast without his suffocating presence filling every corner.
On the kitchen island, just like yesterday, breakfast waits. Fresh fruit. Pastries. A pot of tea this time.
And a note.
*I have meetings. Don't leave the apartment. Check the second door on the left in the hallway.
● S*
I crumble the note in my fist. He orders me around like a subordinate. Eat. Stay. Check.
I drink the tea because my throat is dry, but I ignore the food. I’m not hungry for his charity.
My eyes drift to the hallway. The second door on the left.
Curiosity is a disease, and I am terminal.
I walk down the hall. The door is closed. I reach out and turn the handle. It’s unlocked.
I push it open and step inside.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s a studio.
Not just a room with a desk. It’s a professional-grade art studio. The north-facing wall is entirely glass, letting in the perfect, diffuse light for painting. In the center of the room stands a heavy, wooden easel—an antique, by the look of it, stained with the history of a thousand paintings.
But it’s the supplies that make my knees weak.
Tables lined with rows of Winsor & Newton oil paints, the tubes pristine and untouched. Jars of high-quality brushes in every shape and size. Stacks of stretched canvases leaning against the wall. A drafting table with a complete set of charcoal pencils and graphite sticks.
It’s a fortune. It’s everything I ever dreamed of having but could never afford.
I walk into the room, entranced. I run my fingers over the tubes of paint. Cerulean Blue. Alizarin Crimson. Burnt Umber. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine is faint but present, the perfume of my soul.
He did this.
He knew. He watched me sketching on park benches with cheap charcoal. He watched me staring at supplies in art store windows. He cataloged my desires just like he cataloged my fears.
I feel a tear slide down my cheek.
I hate him for this. I hate him for weaponizing my passion. He’s buying my compliance with beautiful things. He’s making the cage so comfortable, so tailored to my specific shape, that I won't want to fly away.
"I won't paint for you," I whisper fiercely to the empty room. "I won't create anything in this prison."
But my fingers are itching. My mind is already composing images. The gray fog outside. The black sheets. The scar on his eyebrow.
I turn around and flee the room, slamming the door shut. I can't be in there. It’s too seductive. It’s a trap.
I retreat to the living room, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. I need to talk to someone. My dad. Sarah. Anyone.
I find a landline phone on a side table. It looks sleek, modern. I pick it up. There is a dial tone.
I dial my father’s number.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service."
I hang up, my hand trembling. Of course. Silas said he made him disappear.
I dial Sarah’s number. She’s my only friend at Parsons.
Ring. Ring.
"Hello?"
"Sarah!" I gasp, relief flooding me. "Sarah, it’s Ivy. Oh my God, you have to help me. I’m—"
"Ivy?" Sarah’s voice sounds strange. Distant. "Wow, I didn't think you’d call."
"What? Sarah, listen to me. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m in a penthouse somewhere in the city. A man named Silas Vane—"
"Kidnapped?" Sarah laughs. It’s a brittle, confused sound. "Ivy, stop it. I saw your post. The elopement? The photos are incredible. I mean, I was hurt you didn't invite me, but seeing the ring... girl, I get it. He’s gorgeous."
I freeze. "What post?"
"On Instagram. You posted like, an hour ago. 'Married my soulmate. Going offline for the honeymoon.' It’s all over the department group chat. Everyone is freaking out."
My blood runs cold.
I didn't post anything. I don't even have my phone.
He hacked my accounts. He posted for me. He spun a narrative so tight that even if I scream for help, everyone will just think I’m on a romantic getaway.
"Sarah, that wasn't me," I whisper, panic rising in my chest. "Please, you have to believe me. Call the police. Tell them—"
Click.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. I tap the receiver. Nothing.
"Sarah?"
Silence.
The line wasn't cut by her. It was cut from here.
I drop the phone as if it burned me. He’s listening. He’s always listening.
Ding.
The elevator chime makes me jump a foot in the air.
I spin around, backing away toward the fireplace. Is it him? Is he back to punish me for trying to make a call?
The doors slide open.
It’s not Silas.
It’s a young man in a uniform I don't recognize. A courier. He looks terrified, clutching a massive arrangement of flowers.
He steps out hesitantly, looking around the expansive, intimidating room.
"Delivery for Mrs. Vane?" he squeaks.
Mrs. Vane. The name sounds like a curse.
"I..." I clear my throat. "Leave it. Leave it there."
He sets the vase on the floor near the elevator, nods once, and practically runs back into the lift. The doors close.
I stare at the flowers.
They are roses. Deep, blood-red roses. Dozens of them. A lush, thorny explosion of color in the monochrome room.
Silas?
No. Silas likes black lilies. Silas likes darkness. Red roses are too... conventional. Too passionate in a way he isn't.
I walk toward them slowly. The scent of them is overpowering, cloying.
There is a small white envelope tucked into the greenery.
I kneel down and pull it out. My fingers are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
I tear it open.
The handwriting is elegant, cursive, old-fashioned. Not Silas’s jagged, sharp scrawl.
I read the card.
My Dear Mrs. Vane,
A pretty title for such a pretty payment. Your father spoke highly of your assets, but I admit, the photos don't do you justice.
Enjoy the honeymoon. I look forward to collecting the interest on your father’s debt very soon.
Say hello to your husband for me.
— Nikolai Sokolov
The world tilts.
The card slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor.
Nikolai Sokolov. The brother of the men Silas killed. The Butcher.
He knows where I am. He sent flowers to the penthouse. He bypassed Silas’s security.
This isn't a gift. It’s a threat. It’s a promise.
He’s saying: I can touch you.
A sudden, sharp noise makes me scream.
The landline phone rings.
It’s piercing, demanding.
I back away from the flowers, back away from the phone. I don't want to answer. I want to curl up in a ball and disappear.
But it keeps ringing.
I pick it up, bringing it to my ear with a trembling hand.
"H-hello?"
"Step away from the flowers, Ivy."
Silas’s voice is ice. Cold, hard, lethal.
"Silas," I sob, the relief of hearing his voice shocking me. "Silas, there are flowers. They’re from—"
"I know who they’re from," he cuts me off. "I’m looking at them right now."
He’s watching the cameras. Of course he is.
"How did they get in?" I whisper. "You said I was safe. You said the building was a fortress."
"There was a breach in the lobby screening. The courier was a plant. He’s being... debriefed... as we speak."
I hear a sound in the background on his end. A wet, dull thud. Like meat being hit.
"Get away from them, Ivy," Silas commands. "Go to the bedroom. Lock the door. Do not come out until I get there."
"When... when are you coming?"
"I’m in the elevator."
Ding.
The doors slide open again.
Silas storms out.
He looks like the wrath of God.
He’s discarded his jacket. His tie is gone. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves are rolled up. There is a smudge of something red on his knuckles.
He doesn't look at me. He walks straight to the roses.
He grabs the vase—a heavy, crystal thing—and hurls it against the far wall.
SMASH.
Glass explodes. Water splashes everywhere. The red roses are decapitated, scattered across the floor like severed heads.
He breathes heavily, his chest heaving, staring at the destruction.
Then he turns to me.
His eyes are wild. The blue fire is blazing.
"Did you touch them?" he demands.
"I... I read the card."
He crosses the room. He grabs my hands, inspecting them, turning them over. checking for what? Poison? Dust?
"He knows," Silas snarls. "He knows you’re here."
"He said he wants to collect interest," I whisper, tears streaming down my face. "Silas, I’m scared."
He pulls me into him. Hard.
It’s not a romantic embrace. It’s a collision. He wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. He’s shaking. Not with fear, but with rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.
"Let him come," Silas growls against my skin, the vibration of his voice rattling my bones. "Let him try."
He pulls back, gripping my shoulders. His eyes search mine, intense and desperate.
"You were trying to call Sarah," he says. It’s not a question.
"I..."
"You were trying to tell her you were kidnapped."
He laughs, a dark, humorless sound. He gestures to the ruined flowers on the floor.
"Look at that, Ivy. Look at the reality."
He forces me to turn, to look at the carnage of red petals and shattered glass.
"Out there, you are prey. Out there, Nikolai Sokolov will peel the skin from your bones just to send a message to me."
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear.
"I am the only thing standing between you and the abyss. Do you understand that now?"
I look at the roses. I think about the card. Your father spoke highly of your assets.
I realize, with a sickening jolt, that he’s right. My father sold me. The world wants to consume me.
And Silas... Silas is the monster who kills the other monsters.
I turn back to him. I grab the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists.
"Don't let him take me," I beg. The words taste like ash, but they are true.
Silas’s expression softens, just a fraction. A dark satisfaction settles in his eyes. He has won another piece of me.
"Never," he vows.
He scoops me up into his arms, crushing me to his chest.
"We’re leaving," he says.
"Leaving? Where?"
"The penthouse is compromised. It’s not safe anymore."
He walks toward the elevator, stepping over the broken glass.
"We’re going to the Estate."
"The Estate?"
"My family home," he says grimly. "In the Hamptons. It has walls. It has guards. It has a basement where no one can hear you scream."
He looks down at me, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips.
"And it’s where we’re going to spend our honeymoon, Mrs. Vane."
The elevator doors close, sealing us in.
I rest my head against his shoulder, listening to his heart. It beats steady and strong, a rhythm of war.
I am terrified of where we are going. I am terrified of him.
But as the elevator descends, taking me away from the red roses and the threat of the Butcher, I realize something even more terrifying.
I am glad he is holding me.