The silence in the villa had become a living entity. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of solitude, but a thick, pressurized hush, strained to its breaking point by the unspoken violence of the terrace and the terrified stillness that had emanated from Mirna ever since. She had become a ghost, flitting from her room to the solarium and back, her movements silent and furtive, her meals barely touched. When Jure entered a room, she would physically shrink, her violet eyes fixed on him with the wide, unblinking horror of a prey animal that has seen the wolf's teeth. This fear, which had once thrilled him, now began to grate. It was a constant, silent accusation, a reminder that his conquest was incomplete. Her body may have been frozen under his touch, but her spirit remained barricaded behind those astonishing, terrified eyes.
He was in his study, attempting to review a contract for a new hotel development on Hvar, but the words swam on the page. All he could see was the memory of her face, pale in the twilight, the feel of her rigid body against his. The frustration was a slow burn in his veins. He needed a distraction, a reassertion of his control over something, anything.
The sound was a violation so profound it took him a moment to even recognize it. The crunch of tires on the crushed stone of the driveway. Not the soft purr of a delivery van or Mrs. Petrović's aging Fiat. This was the robust, confident growl of a well-tuned engine, a sound that did not belong here.
Jure stood, his chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. He strode to the window, his brow furrowed in a deep, possessive scowl. A familiar, dusty blue Land Rover Defender was pulling to a stop, its boxy, utilitarian form an affront to the villa's sleek modernity. The door opened, and he stepped out.
Ante.
Jure's jaw tightened. His son. Twenty-eight, dark-haired, and infuriatingly handsome, he had his mother's kind, intelligent eyes and a build that spoke of physical work and time on the water, not in a gym. He wore faded jeans, a simple grey t-shirt, and a pair of salt-stained boat shoes. In his arms, he carried a duffel bag and a cooler box, no doubt filled with specimens or samples from his work. A marine biologist. A man who spent his life studying the very element Jure was trying to wrench Mirna away from.
Ante's arrival was more than an intrusion; it was a desecration. He was a gust of the fresh, uncomplicated outside world, a reminder of a life governed by ethics, curiosity, and a respect for nature that Jure had long since sold for power. He was living proof of a different set of values, and his presence threatened to poison the carefully controlled atmosphere of fear and dependency Jure had cultivated.
Jure watched as Ante stretched, rolling his shoulders, and looked up at the villa with a casual, proprietary ease that sent a fresh spike of irritation through his father. This was his sanctuary, his domain, and now his son, with his easy smile and his clear conscience, was trampling through it.
He met Ante at the front door, his body blocking the entrance, a deliberate barrier.
"Father," Ante said, his tone warm, if a little cautious. He leaned in for the brief, perfunctory hug that was their custom. "I got away a few days early. The research vessel came back to Split ahead of schedule."
"I see," Jure said, his voice flat. He did not step aside. "You should have called."
Ante's smile didn't falter, but his eyes, so like his mother's, grew a shade more watchful. He was used to his father's brusqueness. "I did. Your phone went straight to voicemail. I assumed you were on the boat."
Jure grunted, a non-committal sound. He had been ignoring the world, his focus entirely consumed by the girl trembling in his solarium. Reluctantly, he moved aside, allowing Ante to enter.
The difference in their energy was palpable as Ante stepped into the cool, stark interior. Jure was a creature of shadow and controlled intensity; Ante was all sun and open air. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and looked around.
"It's quiet," Ante remarked, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "I thought you had the Austrian consortium this week?"
"Rescheduled," Jure said shortly, his eyes already darting towards the hallway that led to the south wing, to the solarium. He had to get to her first. He had to warn her, to instruct her, to reinforce the walls before this foreign influence could seep in.
But he was too late.
"I'll just put this in the kitchen," Ante said, hefting the cooler. "Is Mrs. P. around?"
"She's in town," Jure said, his mind racing. He needed a pretext, a reason to keep Ante away from that part of the house.
But Ante, with the unthinking familiarity of someone who had spent summers here since he was a boy, was already moving. Not towards the kitchen, but down the wide, airy corridor towards the south wing, drawn by the light that always flooded from the solarium.
"Still the best room in the house," Ante said conversationally, his back to his father. "I always loved the sound of the sea in there."
Jure stood rooted to the spot, a cold dread and a hot fury warring within him. He could not physically restrain his son without revealing the depths of his madness. All he could do was follow, a silent, seething shadow.
The solarium was Mirna's only sanctuary. It was the one room where the vast, impersonal luxury of the villa felt softened. The walls were primarily glass, offering a 180-degree panorama of the sky and sea. The roof was a latticework of steel and glass, and during the day, it flooded the space with a pure, diffused light. Jute rugs were scattered over the terracotta tiles, and the furniture was a collection of comfortable, weathered wicker and deep cushions. Potted palms and ferns thrived in the humid, sun-drenched air, and the constant, gentle sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below was a soothing, rhythmic heartbeat.
Since the incident on the terrace, it was the only place Mirna could breathe. Here, curled on a thick, hand-woven rug the colour of sand, she could almost pretend she was outside. She could close her eyes and feel the sun on her skin and listen to the sea, and for a few precious moments, the memory of Jure's hard mouth, his grasping hands, would recede. She was curled in a tight ball, her knees drawn to her chest, her forehead resting on them. She was wearing the simple lavender dress, and her bare feet were tucked under her. She wasn't sleeping. She was just… existing, trying to fold herself so small she would disappear into the pattern of the rug.
The sound of the approaching footsteps did not register at first. They were firm, confident, masculine. But they were not the heavy, deliberate tread she had learned to dread, the tread that made her blood run cold and her muscles lock in anticipation of flight.
These footsteps were lighter, quicker. Unfamiliar.
Her head came up slowly, her body tensing. The footsteps stopped just outside the solarium's open doorway. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, caged bird. It was him. He was coming for her again. The sanctuary was being violated.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
Then, a man stepped into the room.
It was not Jure.
The relief was so immediate and so profound it left her dizzy for a second. But it was swiftly replaced by a new, sharp spike of fear. A stranger. Another variable in a world that was already a terrifying, incomprehensible prison.
He was tall and well-built, with tousled, dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck, bleached bronze at the tips by the sun. His skin was tanned a deep gold, and his face was open and handsome, with a strong jaw and a straight nose. But it was his eyes that held her. They were a warm, gentle brown, and they were looking at her not with possession or hunger, but with pure, unadulterated surprise.
Mirna shot up from the rug as if she'd been electrocuted. She scrambled back, her movements clumsy with panic, until her back connected with the cool glass of the wall. There was nowhere else to go. She was trapped. Her hands came up, crossing defensively over her chest. Her face, already pale, became a mask of pure, undiluted fear. Her violet eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on him, screaming a silent warning to stay away.
Ante stopped dead in his tracks. He had expected to find the room empty, or perhaps his father reading the paper. He had not expected a girl. A young woman of such startling, ethereal beauty that for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating. She looked like a spirit of the light and sea, a creature that had coalesced from the sunbeams and salt spray. And she was terrified. Of him.
His own surprise was instantly washed away by a wave of profound concern. He had seen fear in animals—seals caught in nets, dolphins beached and disoriented—but he had never seen such a depth of pure, human terror in a person's eyes. It was a visceral, heart-wrenching sight.
He didn't move. He didn't smile. He kept his hands visible at his sides, his posture relaxed and non-threatening.
"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice calm and soft, a stark contrast to the low, possessive growl she was used to. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm Ante. Jure's son."
He saw the name register, but it did nothing to calm her. If anything, it seemed to heighten her alarm. His son. The connection to her tormentor was immediate and damning in her mind. She pressed herself harder against the glass, as if she could phase through it and throw herself to the sea below.
Ante's mind was racing. Who was she? A guest? A… lover? The thought was instantly repellent. The way she was looking at him, the sheer terror… that wasn't the look of a willing partner. That was the look of a victim.
He took a slow, careful step back, increasing the distance between them, giving her space. It was a gesture of respect, one his father would never have considered.
"It's alright," he said, his voice still that same, gentle murmur. "I won't come any closer. I just… I didn't know anyone was in here. This was always my favorite room."
He was babbling, trying to fill the terrified silence with harmless, normal sounds. He kept his eyes on hers, trying to project sincerity, safety. He saw her breathing, which had been coming in sharp, panicked gasps, begin to slow just a fraction. Her wide, terrified eyes were still locked on him, but the sheer, panicked edge was softening into a wary, hyper-vigilant confusion.
In that suspended moment, as he stood bathed in the solarium's golden light and she stood trapped against the glass like a terrified moth, their worlds collided. Jure's controlled domain had been irrevocably breached. A new variable had been introduced, one not of fear and possession, but of kindness and curiosity. And in Mirna's terrified, violet eyes, a tiny, impossible spark of something other than pure dread flickered for the first time since she had awoken in this gilded cage: the faint, fragile ember of a hope that perhaps not every man in this world was a monster.