After Alexander Kane left, the suffocating sense of oppression didn't fully dissipate. Like his icy pheromones, it stubbornly lingered in every corner of the "Silence" suite. Isabella White remained curled up on the sofa, like a fledgling battered by a storm, feathers ruffled and trembling. Silent tears fell, soaking into the upholstery and leaving dark stains.
Humiliation, anger, fear, and the most hated sensation—a faint, forcibly awakened physiological tremor—raged within her, colliding in chaotic waves that threatened to tear her apart. How could he… how dare he treat her like that? With those dissecting, playful, and utterly controlling eyes, as if every thought and resistance she had was merely transparent and laughable glass before him.
"You need me.""You'll get used to it."
These words pierced her ears and heart like poisoned ice spikes, over and over. She clenched her fists tightly, nails digging into her palms, trying to use the sharp pain to counter the surging despair and the alien, instinctive weakness that stirred within her.
No. She would never get used to it. Never.
Time passed without her realizing it. Outside, darkness fully fell, and the smart lighting system adjusted the room to a soft night mode. The false warmth could not mask the underlying coldness. A dull, persistent ache at her ankles reminded her of the harsh reality she was trapped in.
Slowly and with great effort, Isabella sat upright. She lifted a hand and violently wiped the tears from her face, a near-self-destructive force in her movement. Her teal eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but deep within, the stubborn spark that had briefly flickered out now burned fiercely once again.
She couldn't give in like this. Submit to the pull of pheromones? Submit to the oppression of power? Become a caged bird, waiting to be marked? And then, like her mother, wither away in silent despair?
Never!
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. Anger and fear solved nothing; she needed thought, observation, strategy. Alexander's words, as cruel as they were, revealed a fact to some extent: before meeting him, her so-called "freedom" had indeed been fragile, a mere self-deception. The White family was like relentless vultures, and her hidden identity was a ticking time bomb.
But now, the situation was no better than jumping out of a fire pit into an even more luxurious, sturdier prison, with a master stronger than before. Escape… she had to escape… The thought screamed in her mind like a cursed chant.
She moved her body cautiously, enduring the stabbing pain in her ankles, and stood up. The icy calm induced by the high-efficiency suppressant kept the fluctuations of pheromones at bay, allowing her to temporarily resist the dizzying physiological effects and think more clearly.
She began to limp carefully, methodically inspecting the suite—living room, dining area, kitchen… every corner was obsessively clean, stripped of any unnecessary items. The kitchen knives were made of specially designed safe materials, unusable as weapons. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows were double-layered, with a mysterious material sandwiched inside, exceptionally sturdy, completely sealed, with no mechanisms to open them. She tried knocking; the sound was dull and heavy.
She opened the bedroom door. The style was equally minimalist, with an excessively large bed at the center, immaculate gray bedding without a single wrinkle. The walk-in closet held a few freshly prepared garments for her—soft, expensive, but conservative sleepwear and loungewear. The bathroom was spacious, dry and wet areas separated, with a massage bathtub and a separate shower. Every fixture was fixed; nothing could be disassembled to serve as a weapon.
There were no communication devices, no internet access. The internal phone David had mentioned sat alone on the bedside table, a cold mockery—it could only connect to the people guarding her.
Despair tried to claw at her again, but she shook her head violently, forcing it away.
She walked to the giant, now fully frosted, floor-to-ceiling window and slapped the cold glass with her palm. Outside, Star City sparkled in a dazzling, dizzying nightscape; the lights scattered like stars yet seemed far away, like another world. Freedom was so close, yet separated by an insurmountable chasm.
Hunger and thirst gnawed at her. She glanced at the meticulously arranged food on the dining table, already cold. Her stomach churned—not from desire, but from rejection. Eating his food felt like surrender, like accepting her fate.
Yet she knew she had to maintain her strength. Without it, all else was meaningless.
After a brief struggle with herself, reason overcame the emotional resistance. She approached the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. The food was cold and tasteless, but she ate mechanically, bite by bite, merely to replenish energy and complete a necessary task. She drank the cold milk as well.
When finished, she pushed the plate away as if it were something repulsive.
Time crawled in extreme silence. There was nothing to occupy her mind—no books, no TV, no music. This place existed solely as a prison and a display. She could only sit on the sofa, listening to her heartbeat and breath, silently resisting Kane's pervasive pheromones.
This silence itself was a form of torture.
She had almost reached the brink of madness from the boundless emptiness and quiet when the suite's door opened again.
Isabella immediately tensed, eyes alert toward the entrance.
It wasn't Kane,it was David, accompanied by two servants. The servants pushed in a new meal cart, steaming hot dinner, even more sumptuous than lunch, with a small, delicate dessert included.
"Miss Isabella, it's time for dinner," David said in his usual calm tone. He signaled the servants to remove the cold lunch and replace it with the new meal. "Mr. Kane has a cross-border meeting tonight and will not be coming. Please, enjoy your meal."
Hearing that Kane wouldn't be coming, Isabella felt the tension in her nerves loosen by a barely perceptible fraction, but immediately a more complex emotion surged—was it relief? Or… a trace of absurd disappointment that even she was unwilling to admit? The thought frightened her, and she immediately crushed it.
The servants arranged the dinner and silently withdrew. David, however, did not leave immediately. His gaze fell on Isabella's still swollen ankles.
"The doctor will come again tomorrow morning to check your injuries. In the meantime, please try to avoid walking," he said, pausing before adding, "Mr. Kane has instructed that if you feel bored, we can provide some books or carefully selected audiovisual content. If you have any preferences, you may let me know."
A charity? A slap followed by a sweet? Isabella sneered inwardly. She lifted her head and, for the first time, looked David directly in the eye. Her blue eyes carried no emotion, only a cold detachment.
"No need," she said, her voice hoarse but exceptionally clear and cold. "Tell me, how long does he plan to keep me here?"
David pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind the lenses showed not a flicker of emotion. "Mr. Kane's arrangements are not for me to question. Your safety and comfort are currently the most important."
A standard, flawless official answer.
Isabella turned her head, no longer looking at him. Communication was futile.
David nodded slightly. "Then please, have your meal. If you need anything, you may call me via the internal phone." Having said that, he turned and left. The door closed behind him.
The new food gave off an inviting aroma, but Isabella had no appetite. She simply watched the rising steam and calculated in her mind.
Books? Audiovisual content? Perhaps… it was an opportunity. Even if it was just a way to access a bit of the outside world, it was better than being completely cut off like this.
But she immediately suppressed the thought. She could not actively request anything. Any need could become a bargaining chip for the other side. She had to appear even colder, even more resistant, and must not let him think that these small favors could soften her.
In the end, she still did not touch the dinner. She stood up, limping slightly, and moved to the bedroom, flopping heavily onto the overly soft, enormous bed. The blankets were fluffy and warm, yet carried a faint scent of the kind of wood fragrance Kane often used, which made her extremely uncomfortable, as if he still enveloped her invisibly.
She sat up irritably, kicking the blankets aside and pulling over only the pillow that looked the cleanest and most sterile, curling up in a corner of the bed.
Night had deepened.
The suite was deathly silent, with only the extremely faint hum of the climate control system, and the neon lights outside casting blurred and distorted shadows through the fogged glass, swaying like phantoms.
Isabella felt no sleepiness; everything that had happened during the day replayed in her mind like a revolving lantern—Kane's cold gaze, his forceful touches, the possessive words… and her own uncooperative, responsive body. Each memory made her feel as if she had needles on her back.
She subconsciously raised her hand to touch the cold, high-efficiency suppressant patch on the back of her neck. It was his thing, cutting off her pheromones and also a part of her connection to the outside world. A strong impulse surged in her heart—tear it off! As if doing so could rip away the mark he had imposed on her.
But reason stopped her. David's warning was not without cause; exposing herself without other guarantees would be extremely foolish.
At that moment, an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible sensation came from deep within her glands, like a cold needle lightly pricking her, carrying a faint, hollow ache.
Was it a side effect of the suppressant? Or… was it her heat cycle, arriving early due to the intense emotional fluctuations during the day and the strong stimulation from a top-tier Alpha's pheromones?!
This realization instantly made Isabella's scalp tingle, a shiver running from her feet to the top of her head. No! Absolutely not at this moment! In this place! So close to him!
She hugged herself tightly, her body starting to shake uncontrollably, fear gripping her like never before. If the heat cycle really arrived, the suppressant's effect would be greatly reduced, her pheromones would go out of control… and that man… she could hardly bear to imagine the consequences.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the top floor, in the study.
Alexander Kane ended his hours-long transnational video conference, rubbing his slightly throbbing temples. Only a desk lamp was on in the study, the dim yellow light outlining the cold, hard contours of his profile. The computer screen displayed more detailed background information on Isabella White, including additional details of her mother's tragic past.
He picked up a tablet on the desk, the screen showing the real-time surveillance of the "Silence" suite . On the screen, the small figure curled up in the corner of the large bed looked incredibly fragile and lonely, seeming not to sleep peacefully, her body slightly curled.
His fingertips traced her blurred outline on the screen, the emotions deep within his gray-blue eyes dark and unclear.
He saw the report that she hadn't touched her dinner at night, an expected act of defiance, stubborn like a young beast stretching out its tender claws to scratch.
This silent resistance did not anger him; on the contrary, it made him feel… somewhat amused, far more interesting than those around him who only knew obedience or flattery. Taming a wild, unruly precious bird—the process itself was full of challenge and pleasure.
His gaze fell on the suppressant patch on the back of her neck, his possession, marked on her body. This realization brought a deep, dark sense of satisfaction.
Her pheromones… a trace of it from the brief encounter during the day flickered in his cold eyes, enough to give his restless blood, stirred for years, a moment of calm. That soul-deep resonance and desire was a powerful attraction he had never experienced, almost uncontrollable.
He had to have it, completely, utterly.
Not just the soothing of pheromones, not just the possession of her body, but her obedience, her… everything.
But the details of her mother's fate in the files, like a subtle warning, suggested that force and confinement might not be the optimal solution? Perhaps… a different approach was needed? Slowly eroding her defenses, making her willingly depend on him, until she could never leave?
He turned off the surveillance feed, leaning back in the wide leather chair, closing his eyes. The tip of his nose seemed to catch again the cool, pure scent of the white night-blooming cereus, intertwining with his cold, fiery pheromones, forming a strange and enticing harmony.
In the Silence cage was a captive bird, tormented by fear and the unknown, struggling to maintain consciousness and stubbornness.
In the study throne was the hunter, strategizing, patiently laying nets, savoring the prelude to the hunt.