Freedom
College was done! A 2 year degree I never wanted. College was a condition that my father had insisted upon. He paid tuition. Covered a small apartment. Sent four hundred dollars a month like clockwork.
Four hundred sounds generous until you count bus fare, groceries, textbooks, laundry, and the quiet humiliation of watching every dollar evaporate before the month ends. Conditional love wrapped in financial obligation.
Now it’s over.
The payments stop. The allowance stops.
“You’re on your own,” he’d said.
As if I hadn’t been on my own since I was eleven.
Since my mother died. Since he remarried. Since boarding school became easier than raising me.
So I worked. Saved. Waited.
And the moment I graduated, I bought a one-way bus ticket to New York City.
No plan.
Just movement.
Freedom.
The skyline rises slowly as the bus pulls in at dawn. Steel and glass cutting into the pale sky like something alive.
My chest tightens.
This is mine.
For once, no one knows where I am.
No one is managing me.
No one is watching—
I shake that thought off as I step onto the sidewalk.
New York smells like heat and concrete and ambition.
I smile.
By evening, my feet ache, but I don't care. Times Square overwhelms me in the best way. Lights flashing. Movement. People everywhere.
I love it.
I head towards Central Park. wanting to see it before dark. Then it happens.
I'm looking at the buildings, distracted, when I slam into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
A wall of a man.
I fall right on my ass. "Excuse me, I am so sorry" I rush out, scrambling to stand.
And then I look up.
He's tall. Taller than anyone has a right to be. Dark suit. Dark eyes. Expression carved from stone. Power radiates off him like heat.
“Watch where you’re going,” he says.
His voice is low. Controlled.
Not angry.
Worse.
I swallow. “You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.”
Behind him stands another man — bigger somehow, silent, assessing me like I’m an item on a shelf.
A flicker touches his eyes.
My skin prickles.
I straighten my shoulders.
“I said I was sorry.”
He studies me.
Not my body first.
My face.
Like he’s memorizing it.
Something tight coils low in my stomach.
I step around him.
His gaze follows me.
Dante
She doesn’t rush away.
Most do.
They apologize and scatter.
She challenges.
Corrects me.
Looks me in the eye.
Blonde hair loose. Backpack cheap. Clothes simple. No designer label. No visible protection.
Alone.
Tourist.
But not soft.
“Want her followed?” Luca asks quietly.
“Yes.”
I don’t move.
I let her walk.
Predators don’t chase immediately.
They observe.
Celia
I try to enjoy the park.
But the air feels heavier.
Every time I pause, I feel watched.
And then I see him.
Across the pathway.
Still.
Observing.
My pulse spikes.
I stand and walk faster.
He doesn’t follow close.
He follows strategically.
I exit the park, weaving through pedestrians.
By the time I reach a row of shops, my nerves are buzzing.
I duck inside one.
Count to sixty.
When I step back out—
I slam into a chest again.
Hard.
Strong hands catch my arms before I fall.
It’s the large man from before.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating.
“The boss wants you at dinner,” he says flatly. “The Mandarin. Seven.”
My brain short-circuits for a second.
“Excuse me?”
“The Mandarin. Seven o’clock.”
He doesn’t ask.
He informs.
I pull my arms from his grip.
“You don’t even know my name.”
“He doesn’t need to.”
Anger flares hot in my chest.
“Well, you can tell your boss to get fucked. If he wanted dinner, he should’ve asked.”
For the first time, something shifts in his expression.
Not anger.
Calculation.
“I’ll tell him,” he says.
I walk away without looking back.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From fury.
Who does he think he is?
Ordering me to dinner like I’m a reservation slot?
No.
Absolutely not.
Dante
“She told you to get fucked.”
Luca delivers it without emotion.
Silence stretches between us.
Refusal isn’t new.
But defiance?
That’s rare.
“She said if you wanted dinner, you should have asked.”
I almost smile.
She wants respect.
She thinks this is about manners.
“Where is she staying?”
“Hostel. West 47th.”
Temporary.
Alone.
I adjust my cufflinks.
“Bring the car.”
I was already in a foul mood when Luca returned. The moment he repeated her words, something cold settled in my chest.
She has no idea who she defied.
Men fear me. Women accommodate me. No one dismisses me.
And no one walks away.
A slow, deliberate calm replaces the anger. I don’t shout. I don’t rage. I decide.
“She’s not to be touched,” I say evenly.
Luca nods once. He understands.
No one puts their hands on her. No one looks at her twice. No one breathes too close.
She is mine.
Not for them to test. Not for them to handle. Not for them to claim.
Mine to discipline. Mine to keep.
And I always take what belongs to me.
Celia
By the time I reach the hostel, I’m still irritated.
I lock the door.
Then I lock it again.
I wedge a chair under the handle just in case.
Paranoid? Maybe.
But something about him wasn’t normal.
I shower quickly.
Every hallway noise makes my heart jump.
You’re fine.
He’s just a rich asshole who isn’t used to hearing no.
I collapse into bed fully dressed.
Sleep comes fast.
Something is wrong.
I feel it before I understand it.
I open my eyes.
The chair beneath the handle is tipped over.
My heart slams.
I sit up—
A shadow moves near the door.
“You should have accepted dinner.”
His voice.
Close.
I scream.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
Strong. Unyielding.
“Quiet,” he murmurs.
I thrash, but my limbs feel slower than they should.
The door opens.
The larger man steps inside.
Panic explodes in my chest.
“What do you want?” I choke out when his hand shifts.
“You,” he says simply.
Something presses briefly against my neck.
Sharp.
Cold.
“What did you—”
The room tilts.
My muscles turn heavy.
He catches me as I fall.
“You don’t walk away from me,” he says softly.
Darkness swallows everything.
Celia
I wake slowly.
My head throbs. My tongue feels thick. The room tilts when I try to sit up.
This isn’t my ceiling.
Panic hits before memory does.
I push myself upright—and metal bites into my wrist.
I look down.
Handcuffed.
Cold iron circles one wrist, secured to a carved wooden bedpost.
My breath comes too fast. Too sharp.
No. No. No.
I pull hard. The cuff rattles but doesn’t give.
The door opens.
I freeze.
He steps inside like he owns the air in the room.
Dark suit. Controlled posture. Calm expression.
The man from the sidewalk.
“Good morning,” he says.
Like this is normal.
“What the fuck am I doing here?” My voice cracks despite my effort to sound strong.
“You declined my invitation to dinner,” he replies evenly.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” I snap. “You sent your errand boy to summon me.”
His eyes darken slightly at that.
“I don’t summon,” he says quietly. “I offer.”
I laugh — short, disbelieving. “You broke into my room and drugged me.”
He steps closer to the bed. Not rushed. Not aggressive.
Measured.
“You walked away from me,” he says.
“And?”
His gaze sharpens.
“I don’t allow that.”
A chill moves down my spine.
He studies me for a long moment — like I’m a puzzle he intends to solve — then turns and walks out without another word.
The door shuts.
The click of the lock echoes.
I sit there, heart pounding.
This is real.
I need to think.
I need to—
I need to pee.
“Hey!” I shout toward the door. “I need the bathroom!”
Silence.
Then the door opens again.
The larger man enters. Expression blank. Massive shoulders filling the frame.
He unlocks the cuff without speaking.
“You won’t get far,” he says calmly. “Don’t try.”
He grips my arm to guide me.
“I can walk,” I snap, pulling free.
He lets me.
But he stays close.
The bathroom is obscene. Marble counters. Gold fixtures. Bigger than my old bedroom.
This isn’t some random apartment.
This is money.
Power.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Pale. Hair tangled. Eyes wide.
You are not weak.
I splash water on my face and scan the room for anything I could use as a weapon.
Nothing.
When I step back into the bedroom, he gestures toward the bed.
“Please,” I say before I can stop myself. “Just let me go.”
He doesn’t answer.
He reattaches the cuff.
Leaves.
The lock clicks again.
I sit there for what feels like hours.
Eventually exhaustion drags me under.
The door opens again.
He walks in like he owns the air in the room.
“I am Dante,” he says calmly. “And your name?”
I glare at him, but my stomach betrays me with a low growl. He’s holding a tray.
He waits.
“Celia,” I snap.
His mouth tilts slightly. Not a smile. Approval.
“Eat.”
It isn’t an invitation. It’s an order.
He sets the tray on the bed within reach but doesn’t untie me. Instead, he sits beside me—close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“I’m not hungry.”
His hand moves fast. He grips my jaw, not hard enough to bruise—but hard enough to remind me he could.
“You will eat when I tell you to eat,” he says quietly.
Not loud. Not angry.
Certain.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
He releases me and leans back slightly, watching.
Not admiring.
Assessing.
His gaze drags down my bare legs slowly, deliberately, as if inspecting something he’s already purchased.
A shiver crawls over my skin.
“Do as you’re told,” he says evenly, “and your life here will be simple.”
Here.
The word makes my stomach twist.
“And if I don’t?” I whisper.
His eyes darken—not with passion.
With calculation.
“Then you’ll learn.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and suffocating.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He doesn’t need to threaten twice.
He expects obedience.
And somehow, that’s far more terrifying.
