Reece sat at the breakfast table, her posture deceptively relaxed despite the storm of thoughts racing through her mind. Before her, a plate of pancakes had been meticulously arranged—topped with butter and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. Maple syrup crisscrossed the stack, forming patterns she had no desire to decipher. Beside the plate stood a glass of orange juice, its condensation dripping lazily.

She reached for the knife, subtly turning it between her fingers as she tested its edge. Dull. Just like the last one. A sharper blade would be far more satisfying—not for cutting pancakes, but for something infinitely more useful.

Her gaze roamed the room, absorbing every detail. The polished wood of the table gleamed under soft morning light. A carved vase stood in a far corner—possibly hollow enough to conceal something important. Fifteen steps to the nearest door, assuming no interruptions. 

Across from her, Zhenya—if that was even his real name—ate his breakfast in precise, measured bites, a man of calculated control. His serene expression only faltered when she spoke.

"Where's Mister Roosevelt?"

The question dropped into the stillness like a stone into water. Zhenya froze, fork hovering midair, before setting it down with deliberate care. He dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin, eyes narrowing. "You know him?"

Reece shrugged, keeping her tone nonchalant. "Yeah, matter of fact. He was there when I woke up. Told me his name."

Zhenya's brow furrowed slightly, a rare sign of surprise. "That's unexpected. He's a grumpy old man. Doesn't meet anyone."

Without further explanation, he rose abruptly, his meal forgotten. His sudden retreat told her she'd struck a nerve. He snapped his fingers for a maid. "Clean this up," he ordered sharply. Then to another maid, "Escort her to her room. I have business to attend."

The second maid, a woman with a stiff demeanor and polite smile, gestured for Reece to follow. As they walked down the dimly lit corridor, Reece kept her mind sharp, memorizing every twist and turn.

The hallway smelled faintly of lavender and old stone. Every door looked identical except for small details she mentally noted—a loose hinge here, faint scratches near a lock there. Counting each step, she built a map in her mind of every possible escape route.

"You must know your way around well," Reece ventured casually.

"I suppose," the maid replied without elaboration.

They reached her room far too soon. The maid opened the door, stepping aside politely. As soon as Reece entered, the door clicked softly behind her, sealing her in solitude once again. She tested the knob, though she already knew.

Locked. Of course. What else did I expect?

Her eyes swept the room as a new determination took hold. Next time, I'll be ready—and I'll find something sharp.

---

She sat motionless in her room, every detail of the day carved into her mind like etchings on stone. She had memorized hallways, doors, and the footsteps of passing staff. The faint lavender scent lingering in the air felt sharper now, even the soft creak of the wooden floor echoed louder in her ears. Her senses, heightened by the relentless need to escape, finally began to dull under the weight of fatigue.

Despite her resolve, her body betrayed her—muscles aching, mind clouded by exhaustion. She sank onto the edge of the bed, deciding that perhaps a short nap was necessary to restore her strength. Just as her breathing steadied, a face flashed behind her closed eyelids.

Familiar. Too familiar.

Her heart clenched. No. Not now. Not again.

She fought to shove the image away, to lock it in the recesses of her mind where it belonged. But the more she resisted, the clearer his features became. Green eyes that once seemed to hold the world in their gaze, chocolate-brown hair dampened by rain. That single dimple on his cheek—once charming, now a curse—mocked her.

Reece swallowed hard, her throat tightening. You don't deserve to think about him, she scolded herself. You're stronger than that now.

But the memory didn't care for her resolve. It dragged her back, relentless and unforgiving.

There she was, standing in the rain, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin. The cold was biting, but the pain in her chest was far worse.

"I'm sorry, Maeve," he had said, his voice solemn yet detached. He used her real name, not the nickname everyone else did. That should have comforted her, but instead, it cut deeper. "But we can't continue this."

She remembered the way his brow furrowed, as if even he didn't believe his own words. But he had said them anyway. "My parents won't agree. They've already arranged someone for me. A rich girl. Only if you were... you know..." His voice faltered briefly before hardening again. "I'm sorry, babe."

With that, he turned away, his car door slamming shut. The engine roared to life, and before she could respond, he was gone—his taillights fading into the night, leaving her standing there, drenched and heartbroken.

The rain had mingled with her tears that day, washing away nothing but warmth and trust. And now, the memory clung to her like wet fabric, suffocating her spirit.

Reece's fingers curled into the blanket beneath her as she forced herself to breathe steadily again. The past would not claim her now. She had survived that betrayal, and she would survive this captivity too.

But that face, that voice, lingered. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, willing the image to dissolve. It wasn't Zhenya haunting her. It was a ghost she had vowed never to see again.

Her voice broke the silence, hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Never again."

And this time, she meant it.

.

.

.

The air in the dimly lit room felt heavy as Zhenya returned late in the evening. The strange thing was how quiet he was — so quiet that Reece hadn't even heard him come in. His usual composed demeanor was nowhere to be seen; disheveled hair, crumpled clothes, and a blank look in his dark eyes made him appear almost unrecognizable. A fresh cut stretched from his cheekbone to his eyebrow, blood trickling slowly down his face.

"Nothing he can't handle," Reece thought bitterly, rolling her eyes. But it didn't matter now. If she played her cards right, she could finally gain his trust and uncover why he'd kidnapped her.

Stupid ass. She muttered inwardly.

Outwardly, however, she gasped softly and ran toward him, her voice dripping with concern.

"Zhenya!" she cried, deliberately widening her eyes and making her voice quiver slightly. "You're hurt."

He swayed slightly, the scent of alcohol making her wrinkle her nose before quickly masking her distaste. Reaching up, she brushed her thumb gently along his cheekbone near the cut. "You're drunk," she murmured softly. "What happened to you?"

His tie was carelessly wrapped around his hand, blood dripping between his fingers. Reece grabbed it in mock concern, her brows knitting. "How did this happen?" she asked breathlessly. "Did you get into a fight? That's so childish of you."

His unfocused gaze softened before he suddenly touched her face, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek gently. His voice, low and hoarse, broke the silence. "You're real," he murmured, almost to himself.

Reece blinked. "Of course I'm real. What are you talking about?"

"That's what you always say," he whispered, slurring slightly. "And in the morning... you're gone." His thumb traced her cheek absently, as though convincing himself she wasn't a dream.

What a mess, Reece thought, suppressing an eye-roll despite maintaining her gentle facade. "I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, guiding him to sit down. "Let me clean that wound."

Zhenya allowed her to wipe the blood from his cheek and bandage his hand, his head lolling slightly as he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. "You're... nice," he mumbled, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

No kidding, Reece thought sarcastically. Best actress award goes to me.

"You should rest," she said gently. "You can have the bed tonight. I'll take the floor."

As she stood to leave, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down onto the mattress beside him. Before she could protest, he flopped onto his back, his weight pinning her against the sheets.

"Zhenya," she hissed, trying to wriggle free. "Move."

Instead, he mumbled incoherently, his voice soft and warm. "Don't go... always so stubborn." His breath hitched in what almost sounded like a chuckle. "Your eyes... pretty."

Reece froze, her heart pounding despite her irritation. "You're drunk out of your mind," she muttered under her breath. But his grip remained firm, his warmth unexpectedly comforting despite everything.

"Stay," he whispered, barely audible. "Just tonight."

Against every ounce of common sense, she sighed, relenting just this once. "Fine," she muttered, settling down awkwardly beside him. "But tomorrow, you're explaining everything, or I'm kicking your ass."

He let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment, already slipping into unconsciousness. Despite herself, Reece couldn't help but smile faintly. Idiot.