CHAPTER 6
ROSE P.O.V.
The heavy door to Liam’s office had swallowed him, leaving me alone in the vast, echoing silence of the penthouse.
My knees were still shaking, but my spine felt rigid, stiffened by a fresh surge of defiance.
He thought he’d reminded me of my place.
He thought he’d put me back in my gilded cage.
But the bitter kiss, the blatant possessiveness, had only solidified my resolve.
I wouldn't break. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I walked slowly back to my room, the expensive carpet muffling my footsteps, each one a silent act of rebellion.
The glittering city outside the panoramic windows no longer mocked me; it challenged me.
This was New York. My city. And I wasn’t some delicate flower to be plucked and confined.
I was Rose Collins, a woman who had always found beauty in the broken, and strength in the forgotten.
If this monstrous man thought he could dim my light, he had another thing coming.
Sleep didn't come. How could it? My mind raced, replaying every moment of the last two days – the warehouse, the car, the kiss.
The horrifying reality of my situation was a heavy weight on my chest, but beneath it, the ember of my fury glowed hotter.
I paced the luxurious expanse of my room, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug.
I needed a plan. I needed information. Liam Morozov had dragged me into his dark world, and now I would learn its contours, its weaknesses.
I would find a way out, or I would burn his kingdom to the ground from the inside.
The first rays of dawn painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and angry orange when Natalia finally arrived, her usual stoic demeanor unchanged. She offered coffee and a plate of fresh fruit, which I accepted, needing the caffeine to sharpen my wits.
"Mr. Morozov requests your presence in his office in precisely fifteen minutes," she stated, her Slavic accent crisp, her eyes unreadable. "He expects punctuality."
My jaw tightened. "Of course. Anything else?"
"He also instructed me to inform you that a selection of his personal wardrobe has been delivered to your closet.
He prefers you wear something... appropriate for our discussions.
" Her gaze flickered to my simple black pants and silk blouse. A fresh wave of indignation washed over me. He wasn’t just dictating my life; he was dictating my damn clothes.
"Tell Mr. Morozov I am perfectly capable of dressing myself," I snapped, my voice laced with venom.
Natalia merely inclined her head, a hint of something that might have been amusement, or simply professional indifference, in her dark eyes. "I will relay your message, Ms. Collins. Fifteen minutes."
She turned and left, leaving me to seethe. The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of the man. But despite my anger, a perverse curiosity tugged at me. What exactly did a mafia boss consider "appropriate"?
I stalked to the walk-in closet. Inside, nestled amongst my own meager possessions, was a new rail of clothes.
My breath hitched. They were beautiful. Expensive.
Silks, cashmeres, tailored dresses that hugged curves I didn't even know I had.
Dark colors, mostly black, deep navy, rich emerald green.
They were elegant, powerful, undeniably sensual.
And every single piece screamed 'Liam Morozov'.
He was branding me, even in the clothes I wore.
My fingers brushed against a deep green silk dress, its fabric slithering against my skin. It was cut to cling, to reveal just enough while hinting at more. A dangerous dress. A dress that screamed I was his, but also a dress that made me feel... powerful. Strong. A weapon.
Fuck him. I would wear it. I would wear it and turn his own game against him.
I stripped quickly, letting my few clothes fall forgotten to the floor.
The cool silk slid over my skin, molding itself to my body.
It felt illicit, seductive. It was unlike anything I had ever worn, far from the comfortable, paint-splattered jeans and oversized sweaters of my old life.
But as I looked in the mirror, I saw not a victim, but a woman.
A woman draped in his power, yes, but a woman who could wield it herself.
My blue-green eyes, usually soft, now held a sharp, calculating glint.
Fifteen minutes later, precisely, I stood before the imposing, dark wood door of Liam’s office. I took a deep breath, letting the anger fuel me, straighten my spine. This was a battle, and I wouldn’t enter it trembling. I knocked once, sharply.
"Enter," his voice rumbled, low and dangerous, from within.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the cavernous space.
The office was all dark wood, polished metal, and a severe, almost brutalist aesthetic.
A massive desk, black marble, dominated the center, and behind it sat Liam, a king on his throne.
He was dressed in a pristine black suit, perfectly tailored, his dark hair immaculate, his steel-gray eyes fixed on me the moment I entered.
The room smelled of expensive leather, cigar smoke, and his potent, masculine scent.
His gaze swept over me, a slow, deliberate appraisal that started at my head, lingered on the curve of my breasts under the silk, trailed down my hips, and finally settled on my legs, visible through the subtle slit in the dress.
A familiar, unwanted heat pricked my skin, mixing with my fury.
He was looking at me like a piece of art, a valuable acquisition.
And I hated it. And a traitorous part of me, deep inside, thrilled at the intensity of his gaze.
"Good morning, moya roza," he said, his voice a low, rough purr that made the hairs on my arms stand up. The corners of his mouth tilted in a faint, humorless smile. "I see you chose wisely."
"You seem to have forgotten my name is Rose," I retorted, my chin lifting in defiance. "And I chose what was available. As your prisoner, I have little other option, do I?"
His smile widened slightly, a flash of white teeth.
"Clever. But you are not just my prisoner.
You are my... intended. And soon, you will learn to enjoy the benefits of that position.
" His eyes, cold as ice, held a predatory gleam that made my stomach clench.
"Sit." He gestured to one of the dark leather chairs opposite his desk.
I didn't move immediately. "I prefer to stand."
His gaze sharpened, hardening. "I said, sit." His voice dropped, losing its purr, becoming an implacable command. It wasn't a request. It was an order, one that vibrated with an implicit threat.
My jaw clenched, but I sat. Slowly. Deliberately. Not out of obedience, but out of strategy. I would choose my battles. And this wasn't the hill to die on. Yet.
He leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders filling the expensive fabric of his suit. He picked up a solid gold pen, turning it in his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your father's debt. We discussed it. You are the payment. This is a fact you must accept."
"And what happens after this 'payment' is made?" I asked, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, hidden in my lap. "Am I simply to be a decorative object in your fortress? A reminder of my father's foolishness?"
He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his steel eyes.
"Initially, yes. But I have... other plans for you.
" He leaned forward, placing the pen precisely on a leather-bound notebook.
His gaze intensified, making me feel as though he could see right through my carefully constructed facade.
"I am aware of your... profession. Your passion for art. Restoration, history."
My breath hitched. How did he know? Had he been investigating me? Of course, he had. He was Liam Morozov. He knew everything.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, feigning indifference, though my heart was beginning to pound.
"This penthouse," he began, gesturing with a sweep of his hand, encompassing the entire opulent space, "is filled with art.
Much of it... acquired. Some of it, however, is centuries old.
Pieces that require a certain... delicate touch.
An expert eye. A hand that understands their history, their value beyond mere price.
" His eyes fixed on me. "I want you to manage my collection.
Catalog it. Restore what needs restoring.
Advise on new acquisitions. Make it... yours. In a sense."
My mind reeled. Manage his art collection?
This was... unexpected. A strange concession.
It tapped into the very core of my being, my passion, my life’s work.
My first thought was a cynical one: it was another form of control, a way to keep me occupied, to give me the illusion of purpose while still being his prisoner.
But then, another thought, a more dangerous one, surfaced. A glimmer of opportunity.
"Why?" I asked, suspicion lacing my voice. "Why me? Why now?"
"You are intelligent, Rose. Resourceful.
You have a skill set I require." His gaze was unnervingly direct.
"And it keeps you busy. Less time for...
foolish endeavors. Like attempting to escape through service elevators.
" A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, a chilling reminder of last night’s humiliation.
"And if I refuse?" I challenged, testing the waters, pushing back against the sudden, dizzying possibility.
"You won't." His voice was flat, absolute.
"But if you did, your days here would be far less...
fulfilling. And far more tedious. You would spend them confined to your room.
With no purpose. No outlet. Nothing but your own thoughts for company.
" He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.
"I believe that would break you faster than any physical constraint, wouldn't it, little historian? "
He was right. The thought of being confined, stripped of my work, my passion, was a torment worse than any physical pain he could inflict. My art was my identity. My lifeline.
"And what exactly does 'managing' entail?" I asked, my voice still guarded, but a spark of something else, something akin to desperate hope, began to flicker within me. "Full access to your collection? A studio space? Resources?"
"Whatever you require." He watched me, his expression unreadable, but I could feel his assessment, his calculation.
He knew he had found my weakness, my lever.
"Consider it a... privilege. A small corner of my empire that will be solely yours.
To mold as you see fit." He paused, a strange glint in his eyes.
"But know this, Rose. Every piece of art in this collection has a story.
Some of them are... dark. Dangerous. And some are intimately connected to my world.
To my past. Be careful what you uncover. "
My breath hitched again. This was it. Not just a job, but a path.
A way to understand this man, his world, and perhaps, the mysteries surrounding my family's debt. A strange, twisted form of investigation, cloaked in the guise of my life’s passion.
He thought he was giving me a gilded cage with a new, shiny toy. But I saw an opening. A weapon.
"I accept," I said, my voice firm, a new resolve hardening in my eyes. "But I have conditions."
His eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of genuine surprise. "Oh? And what might those be, moya krasavitsa?"
"Full autonomy over the collection. No interference. And a dedicated workspace – a proper studio, not just a corner of a room." I met his gaze, my defiance burning fiercely. "And I will not wear clothes chosen by you. I will dress as I see fit."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that was both amused and dangerous.
"Full autonomy? Little flower, you are pushing your luck.
But your spirit, I admit, is... invigorating.
" He leaned back again, his eyes narrowing, studying me.
"As for the clothes... we will discuss that later.
But the studio, and autonomy over the collection itself, yes.
You may have it. For now. Consider it a test."
He rose from his chair, his powerful frame unfolding, dominating the room. "Come," he commanded, his voice back to its usual gravitas. "Let me show you your new domain. And the depth of my... acquisitions."
He walked from behind his desk, circling it to stand before me. His shadow fell over me, as it always did, consuming me. He reached out, his hand sliding to my elbow, his touch possessive, undeniable, sending a jolt through me. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't harsh either. Just a firm claim.
"You will find, Rose," he murmured, his voice close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin, "that my world is full of beauty and shadows. And now, you will be intertwined with both."
He led me out of his office, his grip firm on my arm.
My legs, though still shaky, moved with a newfound purpose.
He thought he was giving me a distraction, a way to keep me contained.
But he had just handed me a key. A key to his secrets.
And I would use it. Oh, I would absolutely use it.
The game, I realized with a fierce, dangerous thrill, had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.