I woke up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The controlled kind.
The kind that feels watched.
The kind that doesn't belong to safety — only to ownership.
For a moment, I didn't remember where I was.
Then the bed reminded me.
Too soft.
Too large.
Too expensive.
The ceiling reminded me.
Too high.
Too perfect.
Too white.
And then reality returned in fragments.
The men.
The Cullinan.
The needle.
The portrait.
The name.
Zarek.
My body tensed instantly.
I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, my heart racing as my eyes scanned the room.
Nothing had changed.
Same marble floors.
Same silk curtains.
Same massive windows.
Same locked doors.
Same golden cage.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood slowly.
This time, my body obeyed.
The drug was fading.
Strength was returning.
Fear stayed.
But something else was there too now.
Anger.
Cold.
Sharp.
Quiet.
I walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
The view stole my breath.
An estate.
Not a house.
An empire.
Manicured gardens.
Black gates.
Armed men posted at every entrance.
Luxury cars lined like soldiers.
Stone walls high enough to keep the world out.
Or keep me in.
I pressed my palm against the glass.
No bars.
No chains.
No visible locks.
Just power.
Just distance.
Just control.
That's when the door opened.
Two women entered.
Not guards.
Not armed.
Not aggressive.
But not kind either.
Uniformed.
Professional.
Silent.
They carried folded clothes, boxes, and trays.
One of them gestured to the bed.
"Sit."
Her voice wasn't cruel.
Just empty.
I didn't move.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Silence.
"Where is Zarek?" I repeated.
The second woman answered.
"He will come when he is ready."
That sentence alone told me everything.
This wasn't a conversation.
It was a process.
A system.
A routine.
They approached me.
I stepped back.
"Don't touch me."
They didn't hesitate.
Didn't argue.
Didn't threaten.
Didn't raise their voices.
They simply reached for me.
Hands on my arms.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not violent.
Efficient.
I fought.
Not screaming.
Not panicking.
Just resisting.
Digging my heels in.
Twisting my body.
Trying to pull away.
"You don't own me," I said through clenched teeth.
They didn't respond.
They guided me — forced me — toward a chair in front of a massive mirror.
They sat me down.
One stood behind me.
The other placed the boxes on the table.
Then the process began.
Clothes removed.
Hair brushed.
Skin cleaned.
Makeup applied.
Not gentle.
Not rough.
Neutral.
Mechanical.
Like I was being prepared for display.
Like I was being reset.
Like I was being erased.
I watched my reflection the entire time.
My face.
My eyes.
My mouth.
My skin.
Still me.
Still Lumira.
Still the only thing I remembered.
The only word in my mind that felt real.
My name.
It was all I had.
The door opened again.
This time, the air changed.
The women froze instantly.
Not in fear.
In obedience.
Zarek entered.
The room shifted around him.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
Authority has weight.
He carried it effortlessly.
Black shirt.
Dark trousers.
No tie.
No jewelry.
No unnecessary detail.
Just presence.
Power.
Control.
His eyes went to the mirror.
Met mine through the glass.
I felt it in my spine.
Not attraction.
Not desire.
Awareness.
Ownership.
Assessment.
The women stepped back.
Silently.
Zarek walked closer.
Stopped behind me.
I could see him in the reflection.
His face was calm.
Unbothered.
Cold.
"Leave," he said.
The women exited immediately.
The door closed.
We were alone.
The silence between us was thick.
Oppressive.
Intentional.
He studied my reflection.
Not my eyes.
Not my expression.
My face.
My structure.
My features.
Comparison.
Measurement.
Replacement.
"You fight inefficiently," he said.
"I don't fight to entertain you," I replied.
His gaze lifted.
Met mine in the mirror.
For the first time, something flickered there.
Not anger.
Not humor.
Interest.
"You will learn," he said.
I stood up.
Turned to face him.
"I'm not staying here."
"Yes, you are."
"I won't become her."
He stepped closer.
One step.
Just one.
But it closed the space between us completely.
"You don't understand your position," he said quietly.
"I understand that I'm being held against my will."
"No," he replied calmly.
"You're being prepared for your role."
I laughed.
A sharp, broken sound.
"You think I'll wear her dresses and her name and her life and just disappear?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He studied my face again.
Then he said the words slowly.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
"You will no longer answer to Lumira."
My blood turned cold.
"That name is not useful here."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I don't care what you think," I said. "That's my name."
He looked at me.
Truly looked at me.
Not my face.
Not my body.
My defiance.
My attachment.
My resistance point.
"The name you will use," he said,
"is Camilla."
The word hit me like a blade.
"No."
Simple.
Final.
Absolute.
He tilted his head slightly.
As if curious.
As if studying the reaction.
"You will respond to it."
"No," I said again. "That's not me."
Silence.
Heavy.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"You don't get to decide your identity here," he said calmly.
"Yes, I do," I snapped. "It's the only thing that's mine."
That sentence changed something.
Not visibly.
Not violently.
But internally.
I saw it.
The calculation.
The shift.
The interest.
The strategy forming behind his eyes.
The predator recognizing the weak point.
The leverage point.
The pressure point.
"Your name," he repeated slowly,
"is Camilla."
I shook my head.
"My name is Lumira."
He stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel his breath.
His presence.
His shadow.
His dominance.
His voice lowered.
Dangerously calm.
"You will answer to Camilla," he said.
"You will sign as Camilla."
"You will be addressed as Camilla."
"You will be introduced as Camilla."
"I will not," I whispered.
He leaned in slightly.
Not touching me.
Not threatening me.
Not raising his voice.
Just control.
Just certainty.
Just dominance.
"You will," he said quietly,
"because I will remove everything else until that is all you have left."
Silence swallowed the room.
I felt it then.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Not despair.
Something colder.
Something sharper.
War.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Psychological.
Slow.
Strategic.
Because he wasn't trying to break my body.
He was trying to erase my identity.
And I wasn't going to let him.
Not my name.
Not my self.
Not the last thing I remembered.
Not the last thing I owned.
Not the only thing that was mine.
I looked him in the eyes.
And said it clearly.
Slowly.
With everything in me.
"My name is Lumira."
For the first time…
Zarek Volkov smiled.
Not warm.
Not kind.
Not amused.
A predator's smile.
A strategist's smile.
A man who had just found the game.
"Then we begin," he said.