Naomi's hands flew to his wrist, her fingers scrabbling, trying to loosen his grip, but her attempts proved futile against his strength. She was completely at his mercy. Black spots began to dance in her vision as she gasped for air.
"Answer me!" he shouted again, his face inches from hers, his eyes burning with a rage that was terrifying to behold.
"Xavier... I... I can't breathe," she choked out, the words a strangled, desperate whisper.
For some apparent, sadistic reason, his grip seemed to tighten at her plea, a final, crushing demonstration of his power. Just when she thought she was going to pass out, her lungs burning for oxygen that wouldn't come, he let go of her.
The release was as violent as the attack. She fell to the floor in a heap, her body aching, her throat throbbing as she greedily sucked in ragged, painful breaths.
Naomi's hand flew to her throat, her fingers gently touching the skin there. It felt tender, bruised. She gasped and coughed, her lungs burning as they greedily sucked in air, each breath a painful, ragged effort.
Through a haze of tears and oxygen deprivation, she looked up to see him crouching in front of her, his face a mask of cold fury, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Never again will I be so lenient with you," he spat out, each word a venomous dart. "Breaking not one, but two of my rules." He stood up straight, his tall frame once again towering over her.
Naomi found herself confused, her mind struggling to catch up. Two rules? She broke into his office... that was one. What was the other? What did he mean?
"Get up," he commanded, his voice sharp, not even bothering to look back at her as he moved towards the door. "Get up now before I lose my temper." The threat was a live wire in the air. He unlocked the door, the sound of the mechanism a sharp, final click.
Adrenaline shot through her veins. Naomi scrambled to her feet, her legs shaky but obeying. She followed behind him, a pale, frightened ghost, her mind racing. As she walked, her feet silent on the carpet, the realization hit her like a second physical blow. The other rule. His words from that first night echoed in her mind, a chilling refrain: 'You may not address me by my name... it's sir or Master to you.'
She had said his name. In her desperation, she had forgotten. And for that, she had almost been choked to death. The full weight of her mistake crashed down on her, a crushing, terrifying understanding of just how uncertain her existence truly was.
He didn't speak another word as he strode down the long hallways, his back a rigid, angry line. Naomi followed close behind, a terrified shadow trying to make herself as small as possible. The silence was a heavy, suffocating blanket, more terrifying than any shouting match could have been. Each step was a countdown to an unknown but inevitable punishment. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, on his polished shoes, fearing that looking up would only provoke him further.
He led her all the way to the third floor, to the very door of her blue prison. He opened it and walked in, as if he owned the place—which, she realized with a sickening punch, he did. She followed him inside, the door left open, a final, mocking offer of escape she knew she couldn't take.
He turned to face her, his grey eyes like chips of ice. "I asked you a question," he said, his voice low and dangerously calm, "and I'll be asking for the last time. How did you get my combination?"
He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. "There is no recording of you in the camera until you entered," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was more menacing than a shout.
"So you're going to tell me how you got that code, and you're going to tell me now." The question hung in the air between them, a direct challenge. He had her cornered, and he was letting her know that he knew she had help, or at least a method she shouldn't have had. He was toying with her, waiting for her to slip up, to reveal the final piece of her pathetic little plan.
Naomi's hand went to her throat again, the skin there still feeling tender and bruised. She swallowed hard, the motion painful.
When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper, a ragged sound scraped from the bottom of her lungs. "I saw the combination when the maid would go clean," she confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush of defeat.
"I hid... I hid in the blind spots of the cameras." Tears pricked her eyes, hot and shameful, as she admitted her pathetic, amateur attempt at spying.
"Hmm," he said, a low, thoughtful sound. For a moment, a flicker of something that looked almost like impressed amusement crossed his face, as if he were acknowledging the ingenuity of a pet that had learned a new trick. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.
"Well, worry not about having to hide from cameras ever again," he said, his voice dropping to a chillingly casual tone. "Cause you're never leaving this room again."
The words hit Naomi like a physical blow. Her eyes shot up, wide with a new, fresh wave of horror, but she dared not speak. She dared not even breathe.
"I'll have a television and a bookshelf installed for you immediately," he continued, his tone as if he were discussing the decor of a hotel room.
"For comfort." The word was a mockery. "But you will be staying in here 24/7. Your meals will be brought to you by a maid." His words were final, a judge passing a life sentence.
He turned and walked out of the room without a backward glance. The heavy door swung shut behind him, and the sound of the lock engaging was a sharp, definitive clang that echoed in the sudden, deafening silence. It was the sound of her world shrinking to the size of this beautiful, blue room. A cage. Her cage. Forever.
Naomi
The click of the lock was so loud, so final, it echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of the room. For a second, I just stood there, my mind completely blank. The world outside that door had just ceased to exist. The mansion, the grounds, the hope of a plan... it was all gone.
And then the weight of his words crashed down on me. You're never leaving this room again. A sob, raw and painful, ripped out of my throat. It was followed by another, and another, until I was choking on them.
I sank to the floor, my body shaking with a force I couldn't control. I cried for my sister, for the hateful message he sent, for the phone he shattered. I cried for my freedom, for the life that was stolen from me. I cried until there was nothing left but a hollow, aching emptiness inside.
But even through the haze of tears, a tiny, desperate part of me refused to believe it. I scrambled to my feet, stumbling towards the door like a zombie. My hand was shaking so bad I could barely grab the knob. I twisted it.
Nothing. It wouldn't budge. Of course it wouldn't. I rattled it, a pathetic, frantic sound, but it was solid, unyielding. He had locked me in.
I somehow made it to the bathroom, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. I flipped on the light, my eyes drawn to the mirror over the sink. The girl staring back at me was a stranger. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and swollen from crying. And there, wrapped around her throat, was a dark, ugly ring of bruises. My bruises. A handprint. A brand.
Oh, crap. My own hand flew to my neck, my fingers tracing the tender, discolored skin. It was real. This was real. What the heck is happening to my life? The thought was a silent, terrified scream. The girl in the mirror, the one with the haunted eyes and the branded neck, was me. And she was trapped.
Xavier
The click of the lock was a temporary satisfaction, a bandage on a problem that required a more permanent solution. An annoyance. I pulled out my phone, my thumb moving with practiced efficiency. I didn't even need to look at the contacts.
I dialed Two guards. "Outside her door. No one goes in, no one comes out without my direct say-so. She doesn't leave that room." My voice was flat, cold. They knew better than to ask why.
Next call. "Get a flatscreen TV in there. The best one money can buy. A bookshelf, too. Stock it. I want it all installed today. Am I clear?" I didn't wait for an answer before hanging up. Let her have her comforts. It would make the cage feel all the more sugar-coated.
I strode out of the house, not looking back. The back door was already open, a sleek black car waiting for me, its engine a low purr. I slid into the back, the leather cool against my skin. The car pulled away, and I immediately dialed another number. The voice on the other end was gravelly, professional.
"There's a loose end," I said, my voice low. "Take care of it." A pause. "Shoot him." I didn't bother with names or details. He knew. I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the seat beside me.
As the car merged into the city traffic, my mind drifted, against my will, back to her. To Naomi. The irritation was a hot coal in my gut. Her saying my name. Xavier. The fucking audacity of it. She thought she had the right, thought we were equals in some twisted fairytale of hers.
But then, another part of me, the darker, more honest part, the part that enjoyed the look of horror on her face when I shattered her phone... that part wondered. It wondered how it would sound. Not in defiance. Not in anger.
But later, when I finally decided to truly break her. Sobbing my name. A desperate, broken prayer on her lips as I ruined her for anyone else. The thought sent a thrill, cold and sharp, straight through me. Damn, I was going to enjoy breaking her completely.
**
That afternoon, a maid brought Naomi lunch on a tray. It was a simple but delicious-looking meal, but Naomi just shook her head, turning her face to the wall. The maid didn't argue, simply setting the tray down and leaving with a quiet, "As you wish, Ma'am." The same thing happened in the evening when dinner arrived. The untouched food was a small, pathetic act of defiance, the only one she had left.
That evening, Xavier walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He expected to find her pacing, or perhaps crying, another dramatic performance. Instead, he found her asleep.
She was curled up under the duvet, her body a small, still lump in the bed. Her face, turned slightly towards him on the pillow, was pale and peaceful in the dim light.
He couldn't help but smirk at the submissive position she'd fallen into. She looked like a frightened animal that had finally exhausted itself and surrendered to its cage. Good, he thought. I'm starting to break her.
But Naomi wasn't broken. She was consumed. Sleep was her only escape from the relentless guilt that had taken up residence in her mind. Her thoughts were a constant, torturous loop, all filled with Anaya.
What happens when she sees the message? Will she believe it? Oh, God, of course she'll believe it. Why wouldn't she? The thought was a knife twisting in her gut. Will she hate me? The question wasn't a question; it was a conviction. Anaya would hate her.
Naomi blamed herself, a vicious cycle of self-hate. She blamed herself for being so stupid, for taking the risk, for thinking she could outsmart him. She blamed herself for disobeying Xavier, and now she was paying the price. But the price wasn't just her own freedom; it was her relationship with her sister. And that was a thousand times worse.
All she wanted, more than air, more than freedom, was to fix it. Not for Xavier, not for this sick game, but for Anaya. She had to let her know somehow that she didn't send that message.
She had to let her know that her husband was evil and cruel, that he was a monster. But how? She was locked in this beautiful blue room, a prisoner in a tower.
The thought was a crushing weight on her chest. I'll never get a chance. Can I? The hope was a tiny, flickering candle in a hurricane, and she knew, with a sinking certainty, that it was about to be snuffed out for good.