The isolation was immediate and absolute. Elara lay on the silk sheets long after the final metallic click of the deadbolt had faded, her body paralyzed by shock. The vast, luxurious room felt less like a prison and more like a mausoleum for her freedom. She was too terrified to move, too bruised to cry, and too disoriented to process the terrifying reality: she was entirely at the mercy of a man who believed she was a killer.
The air conditioning hummed, a monotonous sound that amplified the silence. She slowly pushed herself upright, the pain in her ribs a dull, constant anchor. She forced herself to scan the room, searching for any vulnerability, any crack in the gilded cage. She checked the closet, the heavy drawers, the sealed door to the balcony, and the windows. All were secured with military-grade precision.
Her mind spun in desperate cycles: Call the police. Tell my mother. Find a way to prove I was framed. But she had no voice, no phone, and no advocate. She was stripped bare, reduced to the small, pathetic figure reflected in the polished metal accents of the room. She was entirely dependent on her captor.
Aiden Blackwood returned precisely two hours after locking her in. He didn't bother knocking. The heavy door simply swung inward, revealing him and the professional nurse who followed silently.
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with detached, severe eyes, moved with chilling efficiency. She ignored Elara's presence entirely, moving only to check her vitals, adjust the flow of the IV drip that remained in her arm, and place a small, clinical tray of broth and bland food on a side table. She was a silent, professional component of the prison, and Elara's desperate, unspoken plea for help went entirely unnoticed. The moment the IV was secure, the nurse left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Aiden filled the void.
He had changed from his soot-stained clothes into a crisp, charcoal-gray tailored suit that accentuated the width of his shoulders and the controlled precision of his movements. He looked less like a grieving victim and more like a CEO preparing for a hostile takeover. His eyes, however, were still ravaged, holding a clarity that was frightening—the clarity of a man who had chosen his path of vengeance and would not deviate.
He walked past the untouched food tray and sat on the edge of the velvet armchair opposite the bed. He crossed one leg over the other, radiating a dense, oppressive stillness. He didn't speak immediately; he merely observed her, his gaze systematic, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Elara felt the intense focus of his eyes dissecting her every twitch, her every breath. She retreated against the pillows, instinctively trying to disappear into the white fabric.
"You're hungry," he stated finally, his voice flat, emotionless. "And you are still in pain. The nurse ensures your health is maintained. You require strength, Elara, if you intend to survive the interrogation."
Elara found her voice, thin and defiant. "I won't eat anything you give me. I won't give you anything."
Aiden's lip curved into a terrifying, humorless smirk. "A hunger strike? Against a man who just watched his family burn alive? You mistake me for someone who cares about your comfort, or your life. Do you believe I'm going to poison you? That would be too quick. You owe me too much for a clean exit."
He leaned forward, planting his forearms on his knees, his massive form filling her vision. "We have established that you were there. We have established your proximity to the incendiary devices. What remains is the motive, Elara. Not the how. The why and the who."
His focus narrowed to a lethal point. "Let's start with the money. Who paid you? Were you hired for the initial attack, or just for the cleanup? Give me the name of the person who put the fire in my home."
Elara shook her head, tears of desperation finally gathering in her eyes. "No one. I'm an artist. I work in a small studio. I have debts, not contracts with criminals. I don't know who your enemies are."
"Don't insult my intelligence," he countered, his voice rising, edged with steel. "The Blackwood family has vast wealth and complex rivalries. My mother and sister were not random targets. This was a message, executed with brutal precision. Were you the foot soldier sent by a rival CEO? Was it a power play by one of the syndicates we squeezed out of the market?"
He listed names with chilling precision, the names of powerful, dangerous men: "Was it Sterling? Did the Ivanov family finally retaliate? Or was it someone with a personal, deeper vendetta against my mother? Tell me which family paid you to burn mine."
His words tore at the fragile defense of her mind. She truly had no knowledge of these powerful people. She knew only canvases and charcoal, paintbrushes and the smell of turpentine.
"I don't know those people," she choked out, holding her bruised ribs. "I swear. I don't know your family's enemies. I had an appointment. An art commission. A fake client named K. M. sent me the address. Someone set me up."
Aiden's jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with fury at the persistence of her story. "A ghost client. The lighter with your initials, 'E.H.', found in the ashes. A picture repair painting that puts you near the property at the moment of the fire. You are a bad conspiracy theorist, Elara. And a worse murderer."
"And the petrol?" he continued, his voice dropping to a low growl. "The jerry can with your clear fingerprints on the cap? Did your 'client' ask you to move that too? Did they ask you to pour the accelerant?"
The word petrol hit her with a sudden, violent jolt of memory—not of the fire, but of an earlier day. A garage. A strange, metallic smell. A woman with blonde hair smiling politely, asking her to move a heavy container because she had a "sore wrist."
The name flashed through her mind, but it was too fragmented, too fleeting to grasp. She had met the lady briefly , but why would that memory matter?
"I… I smelled gas," she stammered, grabbing at the elusive memory. "I remember a strange smell earlier that week. Someone asked me to move a container. I didn't know what it was."
"Save your creative writing for your painting," Aiden said, rising slowly to his full, towering height. The movement was predatory, dominating. "You'll be here until the truth is extracted. Every detail. Every memory. Every piece of information you are attempting to hide behind your innocent eyes."
He walked toward the door, his shadow elongating across the polished floor.
"I don't want your apologies. I don't want your tears. I want the name," he stated, his voice ringing with absolute, chilling command.
He reached the door, his hand pausing on the heavy brass handle.
"You will sleep. You will eat. You will heal. And you will understand that your life now belongs to me. You are not a person, Elara Hayes. You are a debt. A tool of vengeance."
With one final, killing glance that promised unending retribution, he closed the door.
The heavy, metallic sound of the deadbolt sliding home was the sound of her world collapsing.
Elara didn't scream or fight. She collapsed back onto the silk pillows, the pain in her ribs momentarily eclipsed by the terrifying certainty that she was entirely lost, alone, and trapped in the vengeful grasp of a broken, lethal billionaire. She was his property now, and only a name—a name she didn't know—could buy her freedom.
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