The silence after his smile was worse than his threats.
It lingered.
Heavy.
Intentional.
Like a promise.
Zarek didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't touch me.
He just stood there, watching me — as if memorizing the shape of my defiance, the structure of my resistance, the way my spine straightened when I refused him.
Then he turned.
And walked out.
No drama.
No final words.
No threats.
Just control.
The door closed behind him.
The lock clicked.
And the room felt smaller.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear alone.
From adrenaline.
From anger.
From the strange tension that still lingered in the air — something electric, unsettling, and unfamiliar.
Something that wasn't just terror.
Something that made my chest feel tight for a different reason.
I hated that.
I hated that my body reacted to him at all.
The door opened again.
But this time it wasn't Zarek.
A man entered — older, dressed in a grey suit, calm-faced, composed.
Behind him were two women pushing a tray.
Food.
Real food.
Fresh fruit.
Tea.
Water.
Warm bread.
A covered dish releasing steam.
The smell alone made my stomach twist.
Hunger hit me suddenly.
Violently.
The man spoke gently.
"Eat."
"I don't trust anything in this house," I replied.
He gave a small nod.
"Fair."
He took the glass of water first.
Drank from it.
Then broke the bread.
Ate a piece.
Then gestured to the food.
"No sedatives. No drugs. No chemicals. Not today."
Not today.
The words stuck with me.
I sat slowly.
My body was tired.
My mind was exhausted.
But my pride was intact.
I ate.
Not much.
But enough.
Silence filled the room again.
The man waited.
Then spoke.
"You will be moved to a different wing tonight."
"I'm not property," I said without looking up.
He didn't react.
"You will have access to a garden."
"I'm not a prisoner."
"You will have books."
"I'm not his wife."
Silence.
Then, quietly:
"No," the man said.
"You're not."
That made me look up.
He met my eyes.
And for the first time since I'd been taken…
Someone looked at me like a person.
Not a product.
Not a replacement.
Not a body.
Not a face.
Not an object.
Just… a girl trapped in something too big.
"You're a solution," he added calmly.
And just like that — it was gone.
That illusion of humanity.
The reminder of reality.
He left.
The women returned.
Escorted me.
Not dragged.
Not forced.
Not violent.
Controlled.
We walked through halls that looked like a palace and a fortress combined.
High ceilings.
Black marble.
Gold detailing.
Security everywhere.
Men everywhere.
Power everywhere.
But no warmth.
No life.
No softness.
Just luxury and control.
They led me into a new room.
Smaller.
Still expensive.
But quieter.
More isolated.
There was a balcony.
A glass door.
A view of the garden.
Real grass.
Real trees.
Real sky.
The door locked behind me.
Again.
I walked to the balcony and pressed my hands to the glass.
For the first time since being taken…
I cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Silently.
The kind of crying that hurts your chest and throat and bones.
The kind that doesn't ask for help — because it knows none is coming.
Hours passed.
I didn't sleep.
Didn't rest.
Didn't lie down.
I just sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the garden through glass I couldn't touch.
Until the door opened again.
Night had fallen.
Lights from the estate glowed softly outside.
Zarek entered.
No suit.
No jacket.
Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled up.
Relaxed.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Different.
Not the mafia king.
Not the boss.
Not the monster.
Just a man in the dark.
And that scared me more.
He closed the door behind him.
No guards.
No staff.
Just us.
I stood slowly.
Instinctively.
Defensively.
He didn't approach.
Didn't command.
Didn't threaten.
He leaned against the wall instead.
Studied me.
Quietly.
"You didn't eat much," he said.
"I'm not comfortable in captivity."
"You're not in a cell."
I laughed bitterly.
He didn't respond.
Silence again.
But it wasn't violent silence.
It was… heavy.
Charged.
Unspoken.
He walked toward the balcony.
Looked out at the garden.
Then spoke quietly.
"Do you know why you were chosen?"
"Because I look like her."
"Yes."
I waited.
"There were others," he added.
My chest tightened.
"Women who resembled her."
"Then why me?"
He turned his head slightly.
Looked at me.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Not dominant.
Something else.
Something quieter.
"Because you don't look broken."
That sentence landed differently.
Not threatening.
Not violent.
Not cruel.
Something almost… intimate.
Almost honest.
"I am broken," I said.
He studied me.
Then shook his head slightly.
"No," he replied.
"You're unclaimed."
The word sent a strange heat through my chest.
Not desire.
Not attraction.
Recognition.
Something dangerous.
Something possessive.
Something primal.
He walked closer.
Not invading.
Not forcing.
Just near.
Close enough to feel his body heat.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"I am," I answered.
"But you don't fold," he said.
"You don't beg."
"You don't perform fear."
"You don't submit."
Silence.
"I don't want you to love me," he continued quietly.
"I don't need your consent."
"I don't require your approval."
I swallowed.
"Then what do you want?"
He looked down at me.
His eyes dark.
Deep.
Unreadable.
"Presence," he said.
"Stability."
"Continuity."
Then, softer:
"Control."
The honesty was worse than a lie.
"I will never be her," I said.
"I know," he replied.
That surprised me.
"You will be something else."
Silence stretched between us.
Dangerous.
Intimate.
Heavy.
Then — slowly — carefully — he reached out.
Not my face.
Not my waist.
Not my body.
My hand.
Just my fingers.
A single point of contact.
Light.
Controlled.
Not possession.
Not force.
Not dominance.
Connection.
My breath caught.
Every instinct screamed to pull away.
But I didn't.
His thumb brushed lightly against my knuckles.
Not sexual.
Not aggressive.
Intimate in a quieter way.
Psychological.
Slow.
Calculated.
"You don't belong to me yet," he said softly.
The word yet echoed.
"But you will."
I pulled my hand back.
Stepped away.
"My name is Lumira."
A pause.
Then he said quietly:
"I know."
That shook me more than any threat.
He turned.
Walked to the door.
Stopped.
Looked back at me one last time.
"You can keep your name," he said.
"For now."
Then he left.
The door locked.
And I stood there in the soft light of the balcony doors, my heart racing, my body tense, my mind spinning.
Because something had changed.
Not safety.
Not freedom.
Not mercy.
But the game.
The tone.
The structure.
The dynamic.
This wasn't just captivity anymore.
It wasn't just control.
It wasn't just replacement.
It was something darker.
Slower.
More intimate.
More dangerous.
Because now…
It wasn't just power.
It was interest.
And that made everything worse.