The naming ceremony was complete. The donning of the dress, a ritual of domestication. Now, Jure decided, it was time for her to understand the full scope of her new world, the dimensions of the gilded cage. He wanted her to see his power, not as an abstract concept, but as something tangible, something she walked through, touched, and lived within. He wanted the sheer, uncompromising scale of his wealth to become the unbreachable walls of her reality.
"Come, Mirna," he said, his tone that of a lord showing a serf his estate. "It's time you saw your new home."
She looked at him from the center of the room, a slight figure drowning in the simple cream-colored dress. Her violet eyes, still clouded with a fundamental disorientation, held a fresh layer of apprehension. The word "home" clearly had no anchor for her. But she obeyed, taking a few hesitant steps towards him, her bare feet making no sound on the cool, polished concrete.
He led her out of the guest room and into the main living area of the villa. The transition was deliberately dramatic. The guest room was soft, sheltered, a nest. The great room was a monument.
The afternoon sun streamed through the two-story wall of glass, so clear it seemed to be an open frame to the sky and sea beyond. The space was vast, a symphony in minimalist luxury. The floors were the same grey-veined white marble, so highly polished they reflected the sky like a still lake. The furniture was sparse and architectural—a massive, L-shaped sofa upholstered in a dove-grey linen, a low, raw-edged slate coffee table that looked like a slice of mountain, a single, towering sculpture of twisted, blackened iron that stood sentinel in one corner. There were no knick-knacks, no personal photographs, no clutter. It was a space designed to impress and to intimidate, to declare that the man who lived here required no sentimental props. His presence, and his wealth, were enough.
Mirna stopped just inside the doorway, her hand instinctively going to her throat. Her eyes widened, not with admiration, but with a kind of overwhelmed alarm. The scale of the room seemed to diminish her further, to emphasize her smallness and her strangeness within it. She looked like a forest creature that had wandered into a cathedral.
"This is the main living area," Jure announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He watched her, studying her reaction with the keen interest of a scientist observing a new specimen. "The view is best from here."
He guided her, his hand a firm pressure on the small of her back, towards the window. She flinched at the contact but allowed herself to be steered. They stood before the glass, looking out. The villa was perched so perfectly on the cliff edge that the line between the interior and the exterior blurred. The Adriatic stretched to the horizon, a breathtaking, impossible blue, dotted with the dark green smudges of distant islands. It was a view that commanded awe.
Mirna, however, did not look awed. She stared at the sea, and a profound, complicated emotion crossed her face. It was not the fear she showed him, nor the blank confusion of her amnesia. It was a deep, soul-wrenching longing, a homesickness so acute it was a physical pain. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, as if ashamed.
"You like the sea," Jure stated, a statement of fact, not a question.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, unable to tear her eyes away from the water. "It... it is familiar," she whispered, the rasp in her voice softening with emotion.
"Good," Jure said, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "It is your view. For as long as you are here." The conditional was subtle, but he knew it landed. Your continued presence is contingent on my will.
He continued the tour, his narration a dry recitation of facts and figures. He showed her the formal dining room with its table of reclaimed oak that could seat twenty, the walls adorned with a series of stark, expensive black-and-white photographs of weathered rock faces. He showed her his study, a room of dark wood and rich leather, lined with books he had mostly never read, a massive, monolithic desk commanding the center. This was his sanctum, the brain of the operation. He did not let her cross the threshold, merely allowing her to look in from the doorway, establishing another boundary.
He led her down a different wing, pointing out closed doors. "Guest rooms," he said dismissively. "And Mrs. Petrović's quarters." He wanted her to understand the hierarchy, the solitude. The villa was vast, but its inhabitants were few. He was at the top. She was somewhere below, a floating, undefined entity.
Finally, he led her back towards the master suite, his own domain. He did not take her into the bedroom, but instead to a door adjacent to it. He pushed it open.
"This," he said, with a hint of theatrical flourish, "is the bathroom."
It was less a bathroom and more a temple dedicated to water and stone. The entire far wall was glass, looking out over the same staggering sea view. The room was sheathed in slabs of dark, green-veined marble, its surface polished to a soft, liquid sheen. In the center stood a freestanding tub, a sculptural piece of rolled-edged black basalt, large enough for four people. To the left was a shower area, a vast, open space tiled in the same dark marble, with multiple showerheads set into the ceiling. The fixtures were brushed brass, warm and golden against the cool stone. The air smelled of sandalwood and clean, damp rock.
Mirna stood on the threshold, her body rigid. Her eyes scanned the room, not with appreciation for its luxury, but with the bewildered gaze of an archaeologist confronting a relic from an advanced, unknown civilization. The sheer, brutal opulence of it was alien to her. The tub, the multiple sprays of the shower, the polished stones—it all seemed to speak a language she didn't understand.
Jure watched her confusion, and the seed of an idea, dark and possessive, began to sprout. Her helplessness was a tool. Her innocence was an invitation.
As evening began to bleed the colour from the sky, painting the sea in shades of lavender and slate, he turned to her. "You've had a long day. You should clean up." He gestured towards the shower. "Here, you can take a shower. The water will make you feel better."
He said it kindly, as a caring host. But his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
Mirna took a hesitant step into the bathroom, the marble cold beneath her bare feet. She walked towards the open shower area as if walking towards a precipice. She stopped under the central, rainfall showerhead, a lost look on her face. She just stood there, staring at the brass fixture above her, then at the simple dials on the wall. She made no move to touch them. Her arms hung limply at her sides. The helplessness was absolute.
Jure felt a thrill course through him. This was the moment. The pretense of chivalry could now be deployed as a weapon.
He moved to stand behind her, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her body, could smell the faint, clean scent of her skin and hair, untouched by soap or perfume. "You don't know how, do you?" he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration near her ear.
She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement. She was trembling.
"It's alright," he soothed. "I'll help you."
His hands came up to her shoulders. She stiffened, every muscle in her body locking tight. His fingers, broad and capable, slid down her arms, then came to the tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons that ran down the back of the simple dress. He began to undo them, one by one. His movements were slow, deliberate, a parody of care. Each release of a button was a small victory, another layer of her defense being stripped away.
The dress loosened. He pushed it forward over her shoulders, and it slid down her body, a soft pool of cream-colored cotton at her feet. She stood before him, clad only in the simple white cotton undergarments Lena had provided. Her back was to him, pale and graceful, the delicate architecture of her spine and shoulder blades starkly visible.
He turned her around to face him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if by not seeing him, she could negate his presence. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow pants. Her arms were crossed over her chest, a futile, instinctual gesture of modesty.
"Shhh," he whispered, his hands moving to her wrists. Gently, but with undeniable strength, he pulled her arms away from her body. His thumbs brushed against the soft, tender skin of her inner arms. Then, his hands moved to the straps of her undergarment. He slid them down her shoulders. As he did so, the backs of his fingers, seemingly by accident, brushed lightly, fleetingly, against the upper curves of her breasts.
It was like touching a live wire.
Mirna gasped, a sharp, startled sound that was ripped from her throat. Her eyes flew open, those incredible violet pools wide with pure, undiluted terror. She took a stumbling step back, away from him, her body hitting the cool marble wall. She pressed herself against it, as if trying to merge with the stone, to disappear.
For a moment, a flash of raw fury crossed Jure's face. The rejection, however instinctive, was an affront to his authority. But he mastered it instantly. The predator could be patient.
He held up his hands, a gesture of mock surrender. "I'm sorry, Mirna," he said, his voice dripping with contrite concern. "I didn't mean to startle you. It was an accident. I was only trying to help."
He let the apology hang in the steam that was beginning to fog the air. He reached for one of the large, natural sea sponges that sat in a niche in the wall. It was coarse, porous, a piece of the very sea from which she came. He held it out to her.
"Here," he said, his tone now that of a slightly wounded benefactor. "Let me at least show you how the water works. Then I can help you wash. You're still weak."
He saw the conflict warring within her. The terror was battling a deep, ingrained sense of obedience, a fear of displeasing the only source of safety she knew. Her gaze dropped from his face to the sponge in his hand. She stared at it, this rough, organic object from her lost world. A flicker of something—recognition, not of memory, but of essence—passed through her eyes.
Her voice, when it came, was so quiet it was almost lost in the gentle hiss of the water he had now turned on, a warm, steaming cascade from the ceiling.
"I..." she whispered, her eyes fixed on the sponge. "I know how to use it..."
The statement was simple, but its impact was seismic.
Jure froze. It was the first thing she had ever claimed to know. The first spark of autonomous will, of a skill that predated him. It was a tiny, shy reclamation of a fragment of herself, a small patch of territory in the vast, empty continent of her mind.
He was silent for a long moment, the sponge held uselessly in his hand. The narrative of her complete helplessness had just developed a crack. The desire to crush this tiny rebellion, to insist on his help, was overwhelming. But he was a strategist. To force the issue now would shatter the carefully constructed illusion of his benevolence. It would transform her fear into active resistance.
He forced another smile, this one tighter. "Of course," he said, his voice a little strained. He placed the sponge carefully on the marble bench beside her. "I will leave you to it, then. The towels are there." He pointed to a stack of thick, white linen. "Take your time."
He turned and walked out of the bathroom, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
He did not go far. He stood in the hallway, just outside, his body thrumming with a volatile mix of frustration and a dark, renewed obsession. He could hear the faint sound of the shower, the patter of water on stone and skin. He leaned his head against the cool wall, closing his eyes, picturing her standing under the stream, the water plastering her dark blonde hair to her scalp, running in rivulets down her pale skin, over the curves his hands had almost touched.
She had defied him. In the smallest, most timid way imaginable, she had drawn a line. And in doing so, she had become infinitely more interesting, more maddening. The blank canvas had just revealed a single, stubborn pigment of its own. The challenge was no longer just about possession. It was about conquest.
Inside the shower, Mirna stood for a long time under the warm, relentless water, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the coarse sponge lying untouched at her feet. She was crying, the silent, racking sobs of a creature that knows it is trapped, but has just discovered, deep within itself, the first, faint whisper of what it means to be free.