Ariana woke with a jolt, her heart hammering against her ribs. For a disoriented second, she didn't know where she was. The sheets were silk, the air was cool and still, and the silence was absolute. Then it came crashing back: the boardroom, the kiss, the chilling vow whispered in the dark.
She was in Damien Black's mansion. His prison.
She got out of bed, her bare feet sinking into a plush grey carpet that swallowed all sound. The room was a sprawling suite, with a wall of glass that looked out onto a restless, grey ocean. It was beautiful, luxurious, and utterly devoid of life. A gilded cage.
A walk-in closet stood open, and her breath caught in her throat. It was already full. Racks of designer dresses, shelves of shoes, drawers of silk lingerie. It was a wardrobe fit for a queen, all in her exact size. He had prepared this for her.
A cold dread washed over her as she looked closer. A deep blue evening gown that was eerily similar to the one she'd worn on their first anniversary. A simple white sundress just like the one she'd had on during a picnic that now felt a lifetime away.
It wasn't a kind gesture. It was a message. A sick, twisted reminder: I remember everything about you. I own your past just as I own your present.
A sharp knock on the door made her jump. An older woman with severe, grey hair pulled back tightly and a face carved from granite entered without waiting for a reply. She wore a crisp, black uniform.
"Good morning, Miss Lin," the woman said, her voice as starched as her collar. "I am Mrs. Davenport, the head of household. I will be overseeing your needs." Her eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Ariana. "Mr. Black has left instructions. Your breakfast will be served at 8 a.m. sharp. Your schedule for the day is on the tablet by the bed."
Ariana felt a spark of defiance. "And if I have my own plans?"
Mrs. Davenport's lips thinned into a bloodless line. "You will find, miss, that your plans are now Mr. Black's plans." The woman's gaze was full of a zealot's loyalty. She wasn't just an employee; she was a guard. "He has also asked me to convey a rule. The most important one. You are forbidden from entering the West Wing of the manor. An attempt to do so will have... severe consequences. Is that clear?"
Before Ariana could answer, the devil himself appeared, leaning against the doorframe as if he'd been there all along.
"I trust my hospitality is to your liking, Ariana?" Damien asked, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. He strode into the room, dismissing the housekeeper with a flick of his wrist.
He stopped in front of her, his presence sucking all the air from the room. His eyes roamed over her simple pajamas, a flicker of something dark and possessive in their depths.
"I have a welcome gift for you," he said.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small, velvet box. Ariana felt the blood drain from her face. She knew, with a certainty that made her physically sick, what was inside.
He opened it.
There, nestled on a bed of black silk, was the silver locket. The one he had given her in their first life. The one she had been wearing when she died.
"I saw it and thought of you," he said, his voice a soft caress that felt like a razor blade against her skin. He was enjoying this, watching the terror dawn in her eyes, watching her struggle to keep her composure. This was his power. This was his punishment.
"It's... lovely," she managed to choke out, her voice a strained whisper.
"I'm glad you think so," he purred. He took the locket from the box, his fingers brushing the cool metal. "Turn around."
It was a command, not a request. Her body moved before her mind could protest. She felt his warm fingers against the cold skin of her neck as he fastened the chain. The weight of the locket was like a millstone, a physical reminder of his ownership, of the death he had given her and the life he now controlled.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Wear it always," he whispered, his voice a venomous promise. "So you never forget that you belong to me."