Ella
His shoes clicked against the floor as he reached the stairs. I followed a step behind, but my mind was still trapped in that horrible grey room. My father’s fingers had been bandaged, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
I’d almost let him die.
Almost.
In the end, I hadn’t had the stomach for it.
My hands trembled at the sight of the tattooed man. Then there was the fake policeman in the suit.
I was such a fool.
Again.
We reached the car, and I walked around to the passenger side without being told. The lights flashed as I pulled the handle and climbed inside.
Everything I’d worked for—every effort I’d made to get where I was—felt erased. It always came back to one man.
My father.
The car pulled away. I stared out the window as the city slid past.
This was the last time I would ever bail him out.
The last time I would see him again.
I owed him nothing.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see were the dark-haired woman’s ruined eyes. Her throat.
The tears came—steady, certain.
Silent.
The man beside me lived by a different set of rules. My tears meant nothing to him.
Why was it always men?
“My name is Rowan Blackwood.”
I didn’t respond.
“As long as you obey,” he continued calmly, “no real harm will come to you.”
My eyes snapped open, but my body stayed frozen.
No real harm could mean anything.
I’d never heard of him. Never seen him. Our paths should never have crossed.
No wonder the tattooed man had appeared at the hospital. It had been intimidation.
That’s what people like this did. I’d only ever seen it in films.
I shivered.
This was real.
This was happening.
?
?
?
The drive passed in a blur. I had no idea which part of London we were in when the car slowed before tall black metal gates. Hidden lights along the wall ignited, catching gold along the spiked tips of each bar. A high white wall enclosed the rest of the property.
I’d arrived at my cage.
The car rolled forward again.
Rowan didn’t say a word when he stopped the car. He cut the engine, and the soft glow of the dashboard lights died instantly, plunging the interior into darkness. He stepped out without looking back.
I took a steadying breath before opening my door.
I watched his back as he moved toward the stairs, unhurried, like this was nothing more than routine. Four steps later, we stood before a dark grey door.
It wasn’t an ordinary door. It looked industrial—heavy-duty. Instead of a traditional handle, a long vertical strip of metal ran down its centre. When the lock disengaged with a dull, final thud, a chill ran through me.
I couldn’t tell whether it was meant to keep people out.
Or keep them in.
I didn’t know who Sophie was. I didn’t know what she’d done at the casino.
But I knew I didn’t want to end up strapped to a medical bed in a basement.
“Ella.”
The door was already open. He was standing just inside, waiting.
I stepped over the threshold. My fluffy pink slipper looked absurd against the dark, polished wood beneath my feet.
The house looked… normal.
Minimalist. Muted colours. No clutter. No warmth.
Cold.
“Follow me.”
He led me through the kitchen first—sleek counters, a cooking area, a dining space, then a lounge opposite wide patio doors that disappeared into darkness outside. Nothing personal. Nothing lived-in.
We returned to the hall. He gestured toward a closed door.
“That’s the living room.”
As we passed the front door, my gaze lingered there a second too long—but he was already heading upstairs.
My foot hesitated on the first step.
I swallowed and forced myself forward.
He was waiting at the top.
He opened a door and stepped aside.
“Your room.”
Relief flickered, brief and fragile, until I stepped inside.
The bed dominated the space.
Grey base. Grey headboard. Clean, sharp lines. A silver pole caught the light at the top, gleaming faintly.
It wasn’t the style that froze me.
It was the size.
The bed was enormous.
Big enough for six adults.
“It’s a guest room,” he murmured.
I couldn’t imagine rich people all piling into one bed.
This was… odd.
“The bathroom is to the right,” he said before closing the door.
I stood there, staring at the white door.
Then the bed.
No.
It was still humongous.
I scratched at my jaw as the face mask began to irritate my skin.
With a sigh, I went to the ostentatious bathroom to wash my face. My brain had reached its limit, and nothing made sense.