I woke up to an oppressive heaviness in my body, my head pounding as though my thoughts were stuck in a vortex. The ceiling above me loomed unfamiliar, shadowy, and distant. My heart stumbled into confusion—this wasn't my room. The dark bedpost looming over me and the cold, expensive feel of the air confirmed that much. Where was I?

Trying to sit up, I winced at the sharp pull on my wrist—a thin IV needle anchored me to this bed like a puppet on strings. My muscles ached against movement, stiff  forcing me to collapse back onto the pillows. A wave of dizziness made the room spin until nausea threatened to claim me.

Where the hell am I?

My thoughts spiraled as an unfamiliar voice sliced through the haze, deep and ancient.
"I see you've woken up," it said calmly, as if this scene was perfectly ordinary.

I turned toward the voice and froze.
The old man from my hallucinations—the one I thought had only existed in my twisted imagination—stood before me, real and tangible. The shock made my chest tighten, panic clawing its way up my throat. I tried to swing my legs off the bed, but they refused to cooperate.

This has something to do with my memory gaps, I thought, certain as the pounding in my skull. The accident had stolen two years from me, but why did this man haunt both my mind and now my waking life?

He stood there serenely, sipping tea from an elegant cup. Golden-rimmed glasses perched on his wrinkled face, framing sharp eyes that seemed to assess me without mercy. His snow-white beard and sparse hair gleamed under dim lighting. Even his watch seemed to mock my disorientation, shining with a wealth I couldn't comprehend.

"Do I know you?" I managed to ask, my voice thin and disbelieving.

His lips curved slightly, ignoring my question entirely. "How are you feeling, Maeve?"

I recoiled as if struck. The name clawed through my confusion. No one in this city knew me by that name. How did he?
"How do you know that?" I whispered, horror creeping in. "Where am I? Did you kidnap me?"

The man remained unfazed. "You overdosed on your medication. Doctors had to intervene to prevent further damage," he said matter-of-factly. "You should rest now."

My pulse raced. "Who are you?"

But he turned away as a knock echoed through the room. "Come in," he called without looking back.

A small woman in a maid's uniform entered, a tray balanced in her hands. She avoided both our gazes, her eyes fixed on the floor. "The young master requested I bring this to Madame," she murmured.

The old man stood, placing his cup aside. "I'll leave now," he said smoothly.

"Wait!" I called after him, frustration breaking through my panic. "What's your name?"

He finally turned back, his eyes meeting mine. "You may call me Mr. Roosevelt," he said, his voice steady and unreadable.

Before I could protest, he strode toward the door and disappeared, leaving me with more questions than answers. The maid placed the tray on a table and made to leave, but desperation anchored me to her.

"Wait—where am I?" I asked urgently.

She looked startled. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't say," she whispered, clearly afraid. "If Master finds out I spoke to you, he'll punish me."

Guilt tugged at me, but I couldn't relent. "Who is your master?" I pressed.

Her expression remained neutral as if my ignorance were absurd. "Mr. Blackwood," she answered quietly.

The name stirred something faint in my memory, a wisp I couldn't grasp.
Blackwood... Why did that sound familiar?

I nodded numbly, dismissing her. "Thanks for the food."

She disappeared, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts.

Who was Mr. Blackwood? Why did I feel trapped in a place I didn't recognize? And most importantly, what did any of this have to do with my past?

The questions hung unanswered, dark and heavy, as I sat alone in this strange room cloaked in secrets.

.

.

.

The food spread before me looked almost too good to be true—so much that my first thought was it had to be drugged. But hunger silenced my paranoia. If I was doomed anyway, I might as well face death with a full stomach. After a few bites, surprising warmth pulsed through me. Strength I didn't realize I had lost returned, nudging me to stand up.

Not that it helped. The door was locked, and I had no key. I tried the balcony, only to find myself three floors above the ground. Jumping was out of the question unless I had a death wish. Beyond the wrought-iron railing stretched large manicured lawn, blooming gardens, and a glistening artificial lake. At least a dozen bodyguards patrolled the grounds like hawks. The scene was unnervingly picturesque—wealth on display in the form of nature bent to human will.

The urge to escape battled with a far more pressing need: the bathroom. Without thinking, I navigated the room effortlessly and found it. Only after relieving myself did I freeze. How had I known where the bathroom was? The room was vast, with identical balcony, closet, and bathroom doors. Yet I hadn't hesitated. No fumbling, no guesswork. My body moved as if it recognized the space intimately—a familiarity I couldn't explain.

My parents were long gone, and in these past two years, nothing had changed or so I hoped. I had no family, no connections to anyone who lived in a place like this. So how could I possibly know it?

The room itself was beauty in shadows, a dark harbor of money and wealth. Heavy drapes of expensive curtains covered tall windows, letting in only slivers of gray light. The air smelled faintly of leather and something sharper, more masculine. Black wood furniture stood stoically in its place, lending the room an imposing air. It was a bedroom built for someone purely evil but beautiful. But whose?

Curiosity took over. I opened the grand closet and immediately regretted it. Rows of neatly hung black suits lined one side, polished leather shoes gleaming beneath them.

 A separate contrasting section housed vibrant dresses and towering high heels, alongside shelves crammed with designer purses and accessories that screamed excess—Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. Does a woman lives here? Whoever owned this wardrobe had taste, wealth, and a penchant for luxury.

"Damn these rich people." I muttered to no one, but myself.

"Indeed" a noise behind me snapped me back to reality. My pulse raced as I spun around, only to lock eyes with a figure emerging from the shadows. His dark eyes held an unsettling emptiness, a void that sent my instincts into overdrive. My tormentor. My nightmare. My stalker.

"Done snooping?" His voice was deep, laced with amusement. "Time for your medication."

Panic laced my voice. "What do you want from me? Why are you stalking me? If you torment me again.... What are you even doing in here get out"

"Bold," he rumbled, stepping closer. "Throwing me out of my own house?" He slightly lifted his eyebrow.

My stomach twisted. "Your house?" My voice trembled. "Why the hell did you bring me here? Why did you kidnap me?"

"I haven't kidnapped anyone," he mocked, leaning closer. "We haven't been properly introduced. Zhenya Blackwood. Pleased to meet you, Reese."

"You know that's not my real name," I shot back.

Feigning ignorance, he tilted his head. "Reese is the only name I know."

"You called me by my real name before," I accused, heart thudding. "How do you know who I am?"

He smirked. "Intuition."

I glared. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet." His cryptic answer stoked my unease. He stripped off his coat, then pulled his shirt over his head, standing far too close for comfort.

"What the hell are you doing?" I pushed him, but he barely stumbled, laughing softly.

"You're feisty," he teased. "I like it." Grabbing fresh clothes from the closet, he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me simmering.

My eyes landed on his phone near the bed. I snatched it, desperate to call for help. Nothing worked. The screen remained locked, useless in my hands. The wallet was my next target, but before I could pry it open, the bathroom door creaked.

I jumped onto the bed, heart racing. He emerged shirtless, toweling off his hair. Dropping heavily onto the bed beside me, he stretched out without a care.

"I'm not sharing this bed with you!" I snapped.

"Then the floor's yours," he said nonchalantly.

I grabbed a pillow and blanket, settling onto the icy floor. 

But he crouched beside me, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"You're adorable when you're angry," he whispered, brushing his lips near my ear. "But how could I let my little flower sleep on the cold floor? Take the bed; I'll manage down here."

My temper flared, and I kicked at him. He chuckled, unfazed. "You think that'll hurt me?"

Rolling my eyes, I flipped him off and went to the bed. I needed to win their trust, find a way out. Zhenya Blackwood was dangerous—but escape from his fortress seemed almost impossible. Every step needed precision. Every move calculated.

Because if I failed, freedom might be forever out of reach.