The world of Barišić Holdings, a complex and humming machine of acquisitions, negotiations, and leveraged power, began to feel like a distant, grainy transmission from a life Jure no longer recognized. The villa on the cliffs, once a sterile showpiece and a occasional refuge, had become the entire circumference of his universe. Its center of gravity was no longer his monolithic desk in the study, but the quiet, terrified girl in the south guest room.
He found himself, for the first time in his adult life, cancelling meetings. Not postponing, not delegating, but cancelling outright. His assistant, a impeccably efficient young man in Split, had stammered in confusion upon receiving the third such call in a week.
"But Gospodin Barišić, the consortium from Vienna… they've flown in specifically…"
"Reschedule them," Jure had snapped, his eyes fixed not on a spreadsheet, but on the terraced gardens below his study window. "Or don't. It's irrelevant."
He had ended the call, the silence of the villa rushing back in, a silence that was now filled with a singular, obsessive frequency: Mirna.
He became a prisoner of his own watchtower. The study, with its floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the descending tiers of the garden towards the sea, became his observation post. He would stand for hours, a crystal tumbler of amber rakija forgotten in his hand, his gaze locked on her form. She was a creature of slow, meandering movement, a pale ghost drifting through the vibrant greens and explosive colours of the Dalmatian landscaping.
He watched her as she wandered the paths of crushed white stone, her steps hesitant, as if she were afraid to leave a mark. He saw her hand, pale and slender, reach out to trail over the spiky leaves of a rosemary bush, her fingers pausing to crush a few needles, then lifting them to her nose. He saw her stop before a cascading bougainvillea, its magenta bracts a shocking burst of colour against the white wall, and simply stare, her head tilted, as if listening to a secret it whispered. But always, inevitably, her path would lead her to the low wall at the garden's edge, where the land fell away to the cliffs below. There she would stand, motionless for long, profound stretches, her body a tense line of yearning, her violet eyes fixed on the endless, shifting expanse of the sea.
The sea. It was her true companion, her confidant, her lover. A jealousy, cold and sharp, began to gnaw at him. The sea had possessed her first. It had known her nakedness, her mystery, in a way he had only glimpsed. His ownership felt incomplete as long as her soul was out there, tethered to that vast, blue emptiness.
It was this jealousy, this frustration at her psychological elusiveness, that birthed a new strategy. If he could not yet fully possess her mind, he would surround her body with tokens of his dominion. He would weave a web of luxury and obligation so fine she would not even feel its threads until she was utterly immobilized.
The first gift was a hairbrush. He didn't delegate the task. He drove into Dubrovnik himself, to a tiny, ancient shop tucked away in a shadowed street within the city walls, a place that dealt in antique silver and forgotten elegance. The brush he chose was heavy, solid silver, its back intricately carved with swirling Art Nouveau patterns of stylized waves and sea creatures. The bristles were pure, soft boar hair. It was an object of immense beauty and cold, substantial weight. A king's ransom for a tangle of hair.
He presented it to her that evening in the living room. She was sitting on the very edge of the massive sofa, back straight, hands folded in her lap, as if waiting for an execution.
"For you," he said, holding out the velvet-lined box.
Mirna looked at the box as if it were a snake. Slowly, she reached out and took it. She opened the lid. The silver gleamed in the soft interior lighting. Her eyes widened, not with pleasure, but with a fresh layer of confusion and fear. What was she supposed to do with this? Why was he giving it to her?
"It's for your hair," Jure explained, his voice a low, patient purr. "It will make it smooth. Beautiful."
The word "beautiful" hung in the air, a deliberate tool. She flinched, her gaze darting up to his, then back down to the brush. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the carved waves.
"Hvala vam," she whispered. Thank you. The words were a hollow, automatic formality. There was no gratitude in her eyes, only a quiet, fearful acceptance of this new, inexplicable rule of her existence. She accepted the gift not as a kindness, but as a command. She was now the owner of a silver hairbrush. It was another fact of her new life, another brick in the wall.
Her obedience, this absolute, terror-born submission, was a complex drug to Jure. It frustrated him because it was not born of affection or desire; it was the obedience of a hostage. Yet, it excited him precisely because of its purity. There was no negotiation, no hidden agenda. Her will was a void, and his was the only thing that filled it. It was a power more absolute than any he had ever wielded in a boardroom.
The next gift was a dress. He didn't buy this one in a dusty antique shop. He went to a sleek, air-conditioned boutique in the new port, a place frequented by the wives and mistresses of other wealthy men. He bypassed the elegant, floor-length gowns and the sensible linen shifts. His eyes were drawn to a tiny, simple shift dress made of raw silk the colour of a stormy sky. It was shockingly short. On the hanger, it looked like a tunic. On her, he knew, it would barely cover the essentials.
He brought it home and laid it on her bed while she was in the garden. When she came in, he was waiting.
"I thought you needed something new," he said, gesturing to the bed.
Mirna approached the bed slowly. She looked at the dress. Then she looked at him, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of something beyond fear and confusion. He saw a dawning, horrified understanding. The dress was not just a gift; it was a statement. It was a demand.
Her hands went to the hem of the simple, knee-length cotton dress she wore, a nervous, protective gesture.
"Try it on," he said. It was not a suggestion.
She hesitated for a single, breathless moment. In that hesitation, Jure felt a surge of anticipatory fury. If she refused… But she didn't. The habit of obedience, reinforced by weeks of terrified dependency, was too strong.
With movements that were stiff and robotic, she undressed, her back to him. She pulled the simple cotton dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. Then, she picked up the silk dress. The fabric whispered against her skin as she pulled it on. It slid over her body, the expensive material clinging to every curve, every plane.
It was shorter than he had even anticipated. The hemline ended high on her thighs, exposing the long, pale length of her legs. The silk draped softly over her breasts and hips, the colour making her skin glow with an unearthly luminescence. She stood before him, her arms held slightly away from her body as if contaminated by the garment, her entire being radiating a shame so profound it was like a heat.
Jure felt a jolt of pure, possessive triumph. She was transformed. The innocent, scared girl was now wrapped in an object of blatant, luxurious sexuality that he had chosen for her. The contrast between her terrified, wide violet eyes and the sophisticated, provocative dress was utterly intoxicating. He had not just given her a dress; he had re-clothed her in his own desire.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice thick. He took a step towards her.
Mirna took a corresponding step back, her hand instinctively moving to pull down the nonexistent hem. The fearful gratitude was back, but it was now laced with a new, sharper terror. She understood, on some primal level, that this gift was different. The hairbrush was a claim on her vanity. This dress was a claim on her body.
"Hvala vam," she whispered again, the words a barely audible plea.
He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. The victory was complete. He had moved the boundary post. The territory of her obedience now included wearing whatever he desired. Her body was his to adorn as he saw fit.
He left her standing there in the middle of the room, a stunning, terrified sculpture in storm-grey silk. He returned to his study and poured himself a rakija, his hand steady now, a smug satisfaction settling in his bones. He looked out at the sea, no longer with jealousy, but with a sense of challenge.
You had her first, he thought, raising his glass in a silent toast to the horizon. But I am remaking her. Piece by piece, gift by gift, I am pulling her away from you. Her body is here, in my silk. Soon, the rest will follow.
And in her room, Mirna finally moved. She didn't take the dress off. She walked to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door and looked at her reflection. The woman staring back was a stranger—pale, scared eyes in a face of delicate beauty, perched atop a body draped in a flag of ownership. She didn't see beauty. She saw a cage, exquisitely crafted, its bars woven from silver and silk. And she saw, with a clarity that chilled her to the bone, that the man who held the key was only just beginning to lock the doors.