At first, I fought. I screamed. I clawed at the locked doors, threw things, refused to eat. But nothing changed. The only thing that greeted me every morning was the suffocating luxury of this bedroom—if I could even call it that. It was more of a gilded cage.
The four walls were draped in silk curtains, a chandelier casting golden light over the space. The bed was massive, covered in thick, expensive sheets that still smelled like Bryant. I hated it. I hated that I was stuck here.
Bryant barely visited. He only came to check if I was still breathing, smirking when he saw me curled up in the same spot. "You’ll get tired of resisting, love," he’d say before leaving again.
And maybe he was right.
Weeks passed before something changed.
One morning, the door creaked open. I expected another one of his staff bringing food, but instead, I saw him.
Bryant leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning me with an amused look. “You’re finally calm,” he noted.
I didn’t reply. I just stared at him, my hatred simmering beneath my skin.
“Come.” He gestured for me to follow.
For the first time since I woke up here, I was allowed outside the room.