"Is that true?" Xavier asked, his voice dangerously calm, his eyes still fixed on the maid's rigid back. "Did she delay you?"
The maid gave a soft, almost unnoticeable nod. "Mrs. Thorne wished to freshen up, sir," she replied, her voice barely a whisper, a simple statement of fact that sealed her own fate.
"And did I not tell you to get her downstairs in fifteen minutes by any means necessary," Xavier continued, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl, "even if it means you have to drag her down kicking and screaming?"
"You did, sir," the maid confirmed, her voice trembling slightly now.
"Did you not know the consequences?" he pressed, each word like a deliberate, heavy stone.
"I did, sir," she said, the admission a final, quiet surrender.
"Be out by sundown," he said, the words a dismissal, a death sentence to her career in this household, and possibly worse. He didn't need to say anything more.
The maid nodded once more and stepped out, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The soft click echoed in the office, and Naomi could feel the air literally grow thicker, more tense. It was as if the maid's departure had removed the last wall between her and Xavier's raw, unfiltered fury.
Xavier stood up from his chair, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator stretching its body. He walked around the massive desk, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet, until he was standing right in front of Naomi. He looked down at her, his grey eyes like chips of ice, before his hand shot out.
He grabbed her by the hair, his fingers twisting into the strands with a brutal grip. He yanked her upwards, forcing her to stand from the chair with a sharp, violent tug.
A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips as she winced, her scalp on fire. Her hand flew up to his, her fingers trying to pry his grip loose, but it was like trying to bend steel. His hold was absolute. Any tighter, and she was terrified he would rip the hair right from her head, tearing her scalp open. She was completely at his mercy, her body arched in a painful, helpless bow.
"I thought that little attitude of yours from before was taken care of," he said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that vibrated through her skull, "but I take it I must deal with it myself."
His grip tightened, a fresh, burning wave of pain that made her gasp. Naomi could feel hot tears prick the back of her eyes, a humiliating, desperate response to the agony and the terror.
"I was told your sister had trained that attitude out of you," he continued, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he watched her face contort in pain. "But I guess I need to pay her a visit."
The mention of Anaya was like a jolt of ice water to her veins. Naomi's panic, already at a boiling point, erupted into a full-blown terror. She couldn't let him hurt Anaya. Her sister had sacrificed everything for her. The thought of him laying a finger on her, of punishing her for this, was more unbearable than her own pain.
"No, please..." she began, her voice a desperate, broken plea. But the words were choked off as his grip tightened another painful degree, pulling a sharp wince from her lips.
"Shut up," he commanded, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "I take it my rules were not clear enough. When I say them so, I'll enforce them." He held her there for a moment longer, letting the threat hang in the air, letting the pain and the fear of what he might do to Anaya sink in.
Then, just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, he let go. Her hair slipped from his fingers, and she stumbled back, her hand flying to her throbbing scalp, a wave of dizzying relief washing over her. But the respite was short-lived.
He held out his large, expectant hand, his palm open.
"Give it to me," he said.
Naomi looked at him, her mind a mix of pain and confusion. She rubbed her aching scalp, the throbbing a constant reminder of his grip. His outstretched hand was a demanding constant in the dim light of the office.
"Give me your phone," he repeated, his voice losing none of its cold edge. "You won't be needing it."
"But I... uhm," she began, the words catching in her throat. Her mind scrambled for a lie, any lie, a desperate, pathetic attempt to hold on to that one small piece of herself. "I left it in my room," she tried, her voice barely a whisper.
He saw right through it. A muscle in his jaw twitched as a sign of his impatience. His eyes, cold and grey, narrowed slightly, a flicker of dark amusement in their depths. He didn't believe her for a second.
"Give me the phone, Naomi, now," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. He took a half-step closer, his presence overwhelming. "Don't make things more difficult for yourself." He paused, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. "But if you love to see you try, it would be quite enticing for me."
The last part was a dare, a direct challenge. He was telling her that he wanted her to resist, that her defiance would be a source of entertainment for him. The thought was more terrifying than any physical threat. The last ember of defiance within her fluttered and died, extinguished by the cold, hard reality of his sadism.
With a trembling hand, she slowly reached into the pocket of her pajamas. Her fingers closed around the smooth, cool surface of her phone. It felt impossibly heavy, a stone weighing her down. She knew she had no choice.
With a hand that trembled so violently she thought she might drop it, Naomi hesitantly placed the phone into Xavier's open palm. It felt impossibly heavy, the last piece of her old life, a representation of the connection to Anaya, now being surrendered.
His fingers closed around it with a final, possessive grip. He didn't even look at it, her entire world reduced to a small, insignificant object in his large hand.
He turned and walked back around the massive desk, his movements calm and unhurried. He pulled open a top drawer of the desk.
The soft thud as he dropped it inside was followed by the sharp, definitive click of the drawer sliding shut. The sound echoed in the silent office, a lock turning on her prison cell.
He looked up at her, his gaze cool and assessing, a look that said, 'You are mine, and your world is now mine to lock away.'
As if to emphasize the point, he then pulled out his own sleek, black phone.
His thumb flew across the screen, typing something quickly and efficiently. He didn't look at what he was typing; it was an automatic action, a command being sent out into the world from his throne. Then, just as quickly, he slipped it back into his pocket, his attention once more fully on the terrified girl standing before him.
"Someone is waiting outside to accompany you back to your room," he said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Now you can freshen up all you want." The words were a mockery, a twisted permission that felt more like a threat. "At seven, someone will go get you and lead you downstairs to the dining room for breakfast."
With that, he dismissed her entirely, turning his attention back to his laptop as if she were nothing more than a tiresome interruption. The sudden shift from intense, terrifying focus to complete indifference was jarring.
Naomi walked out of the office, her body slightly trembling from the encounter. Every muscle felt twisted tight, a knot of fear and adrenaline. Outside, a different bodyguard stood waiting, his face as blank as the first one. He fell into step behind her as she made her way back to the bedroom, like a silent warden escorting her to her cell.
She was still shaken by his cruelty.
The scene with the maid replayed in her mind on a relentless loop. How could he fire that girl like that? So casually. No second chance, no mercy, nothing. It was a chilling display of power, a reminder that in this world, human lives were disposable, their fates decided by a man's moods.
How could anyone treat another human being like that? The thought was a desperate, silent scream in her mind. And then, an even more terrifying thought followed, one that made her feel cold all over: How could anyone treat their wife like this?
Back in her room, she felt no safer. She took a long, hot shower, letting the water flow down over her, as if she could wash away the memory of his grip on her hair, the sound of the maid's quiet dismissal.
She changed into a pair of the expensive sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, craving the comfort of the soft fabric, the feeling of disappearing inside them.
As she finished drying her hair with one of the plush towels, she heard a knock on the door. This time, there was no hesitation.
Now knowing the consequences people faced because of her hesitation and delay, she immediately put the towel down and opened the door. The same bodyguard from the office stood there. Without a word, she followed him downstairs, her heart a heavy, resigned stone in her chest.
When she got to the dining room, it wasn't a breakfast that awaited her; it was a spectacle. The long table, which had seemed so empty and menacing the night before, was now heavy under the weight of a royal banquet.
It was a feast fit for a king, a display of such overwhelming abundance it felt like a cruel joke. Silver platters held mountains of flaky croissants, golden-brown waffles, and stacks of pancakes drizzled with glistening syrup.
Crystal bowls were filled with vibrant fruit salads, and there were racks of toast, every variety of jam and preserve imaginable lined up beside them. You name it, and it was there. The air was thick with the conflicting scents of freshly brewed coffee, sweet maple syrup, and warm, buttery pastry.
Naomi heard her stomach growl softly, a betraying sound in the oppressive silence. It was a total reminder that she had barely eaten anything last night, her appetite stolen by fear and the weight of his threats.
As she approached the dining table, she realized he was already there. Dressed impeccably in a sharp black suit that looked more expensive than her father's car, he was calmly putting some toast and scrambled eggs onto his plate. The domstic way of the action was so at odds with the man he is that it was deeply unsettling.
Each step she took felt like a walk across a tightrope. As Naomi drew closer, he looked up at her through his eyelashes. It wasn't a full, direct stare, but a lazy, dismissive glance from beneath his brow, yet it held all the coldness of a winter morning.
His eyes were like chips of grey ice, devoid of any warmth or emotion. The look was a silent, chilling reminder. This feast wasn't a kindness. It was a meal from a cage, and he was the keeper who had just decided to acknowledge his captive.
Naomi looked away, the weight of his cold gaze too much to bear, like a physical pressure against her skin. Her eyes darted to the chair beside him, and her heart sank. It was already pulled out, waiting for her, a silent command that said he anticipated her every move. She gulped, a hard swallow against a throat tight with fear, but she approached the chair and sat down without once looking up at him, a perfect picture of the submission he had so violently enforced.
Her stomach growled again, and she reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and grabbed a croissant from a nearby silver platter. She began eating quickly, almost frantically. It wasn't for pleasure; it was a task. A desperate attempt to follow the unspoken rule: eat ro keep your strength up. The buttery, flaky pastry was tasteless in her mouth, a mere fuel to get through the next few minutes.
From across the table, Xavier watched her. He saw the way her shoulders were hunched, the way she avoided his gaze, the way she devoured the pastry as if she feared he would take it away at any second. This was the obedience he wanted. Not the broken spirit he'd been promised, but a fear-based compliance that was, in its own way, even more satisfying.
Seemingly intrigued and pleased by this newfound, immediate submission, a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face.