CHAPTER 4 — THE MANSION PRISON
Aiden Blackwood was a wall of muscle and unwavering resolve.
He did not flinch, he did not lower the terrified girl he held, and his gaze remained locked on Detective Harris with the quiet certainty of a hunter who knew his prey was already caught.
Elara was a weightless, agonizing burden in his arms, suspended between the threat of the law and the terrifying reality of the man who now held her life. Her world had narrowed to the frantic, shallow breaths she sucked past her smoke-seared lungs, and the rough, soot-stained fabric of Aiden's shirt pressing against her bandaged ribs. Every beat of her racing heart sent a fresh throb of pain through her side, but she dared not utter a sound. The cold, metallic scent of his cologne, mixed with the acrid smell of burnt wood and ash, had become the new, haunting aroma of her fear.
Detective Harris's face was red with frustration and rage. He was trapped between his professional duty and the untouchable power of the Blackwood dynasty. "I will charge you with assault and battery, Blackwood! We are investigating arson and double homicide, and you are obstructing justice by kidnapping a primary eyewitness and potential suspect!"
Aiden shifted Elara slightly, pulling her closer against the lethal curve of his body. "You have no charges, Harris. You have circumstantial evidence and a girl who claims to be an eyewitness. I have the legal right, under the guise of an executive decision, to transfer my sister's rescuer—or her killer—to a secure, private medical facility. This hospital cannot guarantee her safety, nor can it guarantee her silence."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr that chilled Elara to the core. "Your choice is simple, Detective. Call your captain, watch him confirm that I have just purchased the silence of everyone on this floor, and keep your job. Or pull that weapon, create a public incident, and ensure you never work in this city again."
The threat was a perfect piece of cold, surgical leverage. Blackwood money didn't just buy things; it bought obedience.
Harris froze, his hand tightening into a fist at his side. He knew he was beaten. The system had already failed Elara Hayes before the investigation even began. With a defeated curse, he backed away, slamming his hand against the wall instead of reaching for his gun.
"You'll regret this," Harris bit out.
"I only regret that I didn't get to her sooner," Aiden replied, turning his back on the detective.
He walked out, never breaking his stride.
The escape from the hospital was executed with the chilling precision of a covert operation. Aiden eschewed the main entrance and the elevators, carrying Elara down a rarely used emergency stairwell that smelled of stale disinfectant. Each heavy, rhythmic footfall of his expensive leather boots was a hammer blow against Elara's fragile composure. The jarring descent made her ribs ache, and she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood to keep her pain a secret from the monster holding her.
Aiden didn't speak. He treated her not as a person, but as an object—a confiscated item of evidence that must be secured.
The cold night air hit her face as they burst onto a back loading dock. A sleek, black, armored SUV, tinted so deeply that the interior was invisible, waited, engine idling quietly. A man in a dark, severe suit, whom Aiden addressed only as 'Tim,' moved with the speed of a well-trained operative, leaping out to open the passenger door.
Aiden slid into the back seat, holding her across his lap for a dizzying moment before gently, almost tenderly—and this was the terrifying part, the absence of rage—lowering her onto the plush leather seat.
"Keep driving until I give you coordinates," Aiden commanded Tim.
The amoved with immediate, brutal speed, tires spitting gravel as they left the sterile glow of the hospital and plunged into the darker streets of the city's heart.
Elara lay curled on the seat, trying to make herself smaller, her eyes darting between the impenetrable window glass and the profile of the man beside her. Aiden sat ramrod straight, his silhouette rigid with unspent rage, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The silence was suffocating, a vacuum of judgment. She wanted to scream her innocence, to explain the ghost client, the missing bag, the terrifying truth of the fire, but the words felt like iron weights in her mouth. She knew any sound, any defiance, would only accelerate his retribution.
The drive lasted nearly an hour, a journey from the center of human commerce into the isolated, sprawling blackness of the ultra-rich countryside. The city lights faded into pinpricks until only the vast, starless blackness of the night remained, broken occasionally by the harsh illumination of the SUV's headlights.
Finally, they slowed before an imposing, twelve-foot wall topped with razor wire, concealed by dense, black trees. A high-tech gate slid open silently, revealing not the sprawling, traditional manor that had burned, but a sharp, clean, modernist estate. It was all angles, steel, and massive slabs of polished black marble. It didn't look like a home; it looked like a highly-secured bank vault.
My prison, Elara realized, heart sinking. He didn't bring me to his old home. He brought me to his fortress.
Aiden pushed the door open before the vehicle fully stopped. He reached across the seat and, with effortless power, lifted her again. She felt the painful shift in her bruised body but remained silent.
He carried her across a perfectly manicured lawn, the scent of fresh-cut grass incongruous against the tragedy of their situation. Inside, the estate was a minimalist's dream and a prisoner's nightmare: polished stone floors, towering, cold sculptures, and an abundance of sharp, angular architecture. It was a place designed to showcase wealth, not warmth.
They entered a private elevator, all polished chrome and mirror. As they ascended, Elara could see her own reflection: a small, bruised girl, entirely enveloped by the hulking shadow of the man who held her captive.
He stopped at the end of a long, silent corridor, the heavy door secured by a keypad. After he punched in the code, the lock clicked with a chilling, mechanical sound of finality.
The room was immense. It was a space designed for a king, and she was merely the spoil of war. The king-sized bed was dressed in white silk; there were deep blue velvet armchairs, and a private, glass-railed balcony that offered a spectacular, but entirely secured, view of the dark forest.
Aiden placed her down on the bed. The softness of the sheets momentarily comforted her aching body, but the comfort was a poisoned gift.
She immediately noticed the subtle details of her captivity: the sleek, almost invisible bars set into the window frames, the thickness of the glass, the faint camera lens she spotted tucked into the corner of the ceiling.
He stood over her, his shadow dark and consuming.
"This is your room, Elara," he announced, his voice formal, clinical, as if reading a corporate memo. "Your new home. You will not leave this space. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will eat what the staff provides, and you will understand that they are deaf to your pleas and blind to your movements."
He gestured to the heavy, secured door. "The door is reinforced. The window is soundproof. There are no communication devices. If you attempt to damage anything, or yourself, you will find my patience exhausted immediately."
Elara pushed herself onto her elbows, the act itself an immense effort. She searched his face for any human mercy, any flicker of doubt, but found only the cold, hard certainty of a man driven by grief and vengeance.
"Why?" she finally croaked out, tears of despair finally welling in her eyes. "Why are you doing this? I didn't hurt anyone."
Aiden leaned down until his eyes were inches from hers, his gaze a deadly, intense burn.
"Because, Elara Hayes, I need to know why you murdered my family. And you will remain here, in this room, until you confess the truth and give me the name of the monster who hired you. Every detail."
He straightened up, his form overwhelming. He took one final, cold look at her trembling, bruised body, the innocent fragility of her face failing entirely to pierce his conviction.
He reached the door, his hand resting on the knob.
"Scream, pray, try to break the glass," he said, his voice flat and void of emotion. "It will make no difference. No one will ever hear you."
He walked out.
The lock clicked into place, the sound a monstrous, final period to the chapter of her freedom.
Elara was alone in the golden cage, listening to the hollow echo of the deadbolt. She was owned by the wrong billionaire, already convicted, and her terrifying captivity had begun.