Three hours.
That's how long Elara waited after Kael vanished into his office, the soft click of the door behind him like a period at the end of a sentence. Three hours of pacing marble floors, testing the weight of the GPS bracelet on her wrist, counting cameras in the crown molding.
Fourteen visible. Probably twice as many hidden.
The penthouse felt different without him. Still luxurious. Still breathtaking. But hollow. Like a stage set waiting for actors to bring it to life.
Or like a trap waiting for prey to make a mistake.
She tried the obvious exits first. The front door, with its decisive electronic lock. The balcony doors—open, yes, but forty-three floors up. Beautiful, but unless she had wings, useless.
Think. Buildings this size have fire exits, service access, maintenance doors.
That's when she found it. A door at the end of a service corridor she'd almost missed. Hidden behind a decorative panel. Smaller than the others. Industrial hardware. Functional, not beautiful.
Service elevator. Has to be.
The lock was electronic, like everything else in Kael's domain, but older. Simpler. The kind of mechanism that might give way to someone who grew up fixing broken locks in a building where no one could afford repairs.
Thank God for Mr. Kowalski's busted doors and Mom's refusal to call a locksmith.
She'd learned out of necessity—jammed supply closets, apartment doors that wouldn't latch, the occasional bathroom mishap. Survival skills for people who couldn't pay professionals.
Never thought I'd be using them to escape a penthouse prison.
The first bobby pin snapped. The second bent but held. By the third, her hands were shaking with adrenaline and the certainty that she was being watched.
Don't think about cameras. Don't think about what happens if he catches you. Just focus.
The mechanism resisted, then yielded. Older system. Manual override tucked into its bones. Installed when the building was built, before everything became too smart to outwit.
Come on. Just this one thing. Please.
The lock clicked.
For a moment she couldn't believe it. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a narrow corridor lined with pipes and electrical conduits.
Freedom. Actual, honest-to-God freedom.
She stepped inside, heart hammering so hard it felt like thunder through the security system.
Don't run. Walk. Act like you belong here.
Three steps. Then a voice.
"Please return to the living area, Miss Elara."
Calm. Polite. Utterly devoid of warmth. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like the building itself had spoken.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
She scanned frantically. There—a small speaker near the ceiling, red LED winking like a mechanical eye.
"The service corridors are off-limits to residents for safety reasons," the voice explained patiently. "Please return to the living area immediately."
Safety reasons. Right. Safety from freedom.
For one wild second she thought of running anyway. The corridor stretched in both directions, shadows promising stairs, another floor, the street. Eight million free people who didn't even know she existed.
But then—footsteps. Multiple. Coordinated.
Security. They're coming.
"Miss Elara." The voice again. Still polite. But steel under the patience now. "Please return to the living area. Now."
She looked back toward the penthouse. Then forward into the dark. Freedom or another trap.
He planned for this. Of course he did. He plans for everything.
Her legs felt like lead. Her heart like a vise. Still, she turned. Walked back through the door she'd fought to open.
Stupid. So fucking stupid. Did you really think a man who kills people for a living wouldn't plan for his pet trying to escape?
The door shut behind her with a sound like a coffin lid closing.
The walk back felt like a funeral march—past priceless art, past windows offering views of a world she couldn't reach, past every beautiful thing that made her cage more elegant than concrete bars.
Maybe he's not back yet. Maybe I can pretend this never happened, that I never—
But of course he was there.
Kael sat on the leather sofa like a king holding court. One leg crossed. Crystal glass of whiskey in hand. He'd changed—dark jeans, a black sweater. Younger. More approachable.
More dangerous.
He knows. Of course he knows. Probably watched the whole thing live.
"Sit down, Elara."
Calm voice. Conversational. Like discussing the weather. But beneath it—something else. Disappointment, maybe. Or the cold calculation that came before very bad things.
I am so fucked.
She sat in the chair opposite him, as far as the furniture allowed. Hands shaking. She folded them into her lap, tried to look less like someone who'd just been caught.
Play dumb. Deny everything. Maybe he doesn't know for sure.
"Disappointing."
The word hit like a blow. Not angry. Not threatening. Worse—just disappointed.
He's not even surprised. He expected this.
He sipped his whiskey, eyes on her face with jeweler's precision, examining for flaws.
"I had hoped," he said, "that our dinner conversation might have clarified the parameters of your new life. Apparently, I was overly optimistic about your capacity for learning."
Parameters. Like I'm a science experiment.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, shocked her voice was steady.
His smile cut like frost. "Angel, I have footage of you picking that lock. High definition. Multiple angles. Timestamp and everything. Lying now is like convincing me the sky is green."
Of course he does. Of course.
"I was just exploring," she said weakly.
"Exploring." He repeated it like the word itself offended him. "With bobby pins. In service corridors marked restricted."
God, I sound pathetic.
"I was curious about the building's layout."
"Were you." Not a question. "And curiosity couldn't be satisfied by asking me directly?"
Because asking would've admitted I was planning to escape. Which defeats the point.
"I didn't want to bother you."
He laughed, low and dark. "How considerate. Though tell me—what was the plan if you made it to the street? No money. No ID. No way to support yourself."
I would've figured it out. People escape worse than this.
"And let's not forget Dmitri's people still hunting me. A lone woman on the street. Wearing a twelve-carat ring. Quite the tempting target."
The ring. Shit.
"I would have been careful."
"Would you." His voice dropped into that dangerous whisper she was learning to fear. "Careful, like in that parking lot? Careful, walking alone through the warehouse district?"
He's right. I don't know how to survive his world.
"This isn't about safety," she snapped, desperation cracking through. "It's about control."
"Yes," he said simply. "It is."
The honesty hung like a blade.
"I won't try again," she blurted. "I understand now, I won't—"
"You won't because you can't." He leaned forward, setting his glass down with precise control. "The service door? Lock upgraded. The other exits you haven't found yet? Also upgraded. The building's AI? Now tracking your biometrics."
AI security system. Jesus Christ.
"You've turned this place into a fortress."
"I've turned it into what it always was. A sanctuary for things I value." His eyes locked on hers, sharp as steel. "The question is whether you're valuable enough to deserve protection, or too much trouble to keep."
The threat landed in that same conversational tone, but it crushed her chest.
He's thinking about cutting his losses. Making me disappear.
"I won't cause trouble again," she said, hating how small she sounded.
"Won't you?" He rose, moving with predatory grace. "Because this tells me you still don't understand reality."
I understand perfectly. I'm trapped with a killer who thinks he owns me.
"I understand—"
"Do you?" He stopped in front of her chair, close enough she had to tilt her head back. "Because your behavior says you think this is a game. That you can outsmart me."
His hand dropped to the chair's arm, caging her in.
"Let me be clear, angel. There is no beating this system. No outsmarting me. No escape I haven't already blocked."
Then why keep me alive? Why not kill me and find another actress?
"Then why—"
"Because," he whispered, velvet soft, "despite your lack of judgment, you're still exactly what I need."
His hand lifted, tracing her jaw with devastating gentleness.
"But make no mistake. Try again, and you'll learn that golden cages can become very small, very dark, very lonely places."
The promise in his words made her shiver despite perfect climate control.
It was a test. I failed.
"I won't," she whispered.
"Good." His smile was beautiful. Terrible. "Because next time, the consequences will be much worse than a system upgrade."
He straightened, fluid and confident, as if he'd just solved a minor problem.
"Now," he said, settling back and lifting his whiskey, "shall we discuss your schedule for tomorrow? You'll need preparation before meeting my mother."