The ride felt endless, even though Ophelia could feel every mile that separated her from San Francisco, from her father's memory, from everything she thought was still hers. The black SUV sped down long stretches of highway, neon blurring past her window until finally the glittering lights of Las Vegas rose up in the distance like a cruel mirage. It wasn't the city of her dreams, of academic triumph and independence; it was a cage of light and noise.
The men hadn't said a word after the last comment. Their silence pressed against her skin like a suffocating blanket. Her wrists ached from where one of them had grabbed her too tightly earlier. She sat stiffly, fists curled into her lap, nails digging half-moons into her palms to keep her from screaming. She had fought—God, she had fought with everything in her—but in the end, brute strength had overpowered her. She imagined the sound of her stepmother's laugh as she signed those papers, the flash of red nails closing around the pen, sealing away Ophelia's freedom like it meant nothing. That betrayal still burned hotter than the desert sun.
When the SUV finally slowed, Ophelia pressed her forehead to the glass. The sight that met her eyes stole the air from her lungs.
The mansion rose like a fortress against the night sky. Set back from the Strip, it towered above its manicured grounds, a sprawling estate of glass, steel, and carved stone. Spotlights lit the facade, catching on pillars and archways that gave the place the air of a modern palace. Wrought iron gates swung open with a whisper, and the SUV rolled through as though entering another world.
Ophelia couldn't look away. The driveway alone was longer than her father's entire street back in San Francisco. Imported palms lined the path, their shadows stretching across marble fountains where water shimmered under moonlight. Expensive cars were lined in neat perfection in front of the garage wing—sleek sports cars, polished black SUVs, and one vintage model that glowed like jewelry under the lights.
The SUV stopped beneath a grand portico. White stone steps led up to double doors of black wood inlaid with gold, doors so tall they seemed built to intimidate anyone who dared to cross them.
The door opened, and one of the men nodded for her to get out.
Ophelia didn't move at first. The air in her chest felt sharp, thin. Every nerve screamed at her to run, but where? She forced herself to slide out of the SUV, her legs unsteady.
The heat of Nevada wrapped around her, dry and suffocating compared to San Francisco's coastal chill. She tipped her head back to take in the mansion again. From here, the windows gleamed like watchful eyes.
One of the men touched her elbow, guiding her up the steps. His grip was firm but not cruel, though the reminder of control made her flinch.
The doors opened soundlessly into a foyer that stunned her into stillness.
The inside was even more extravagant than she could have imagined. A chandelier of crystal and gold cascaded from the ceiling like frozen rain, light scattering across marble floors so polished she could see her reflection. The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted with a mural of desert skies and stars. Two sweeping staircases curved upward on either side of the room, their banisters carved into intricate shapes of roses and thorns.
The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something darker—cologne, maybe, but heavy, like a presence she couldn't see.
Her sneakers squeaked softly against the marble as she was guided across the foyer. To her right stretched a sitting room lined with velvet couches in shades of deep crimson. Golden candelabras flickered softly beside shelves of books and rare spirits. To her left, tall glass doors revealed a courtyard with a pool that shimmered like liquid sapphire beneath the night sky.
Everywhere she looked, wealth announced itself shamelessly. The paintings were originals—she recognized a Van Gogh on one wall, a Picasso sketch framed beside it. Sculptures stood in alcoves like sentinels, some abstract, some Roman, each worth more than her father's house had ever been.
And yet… beneath the beauty, the mansion felt cold. The perfection was suffocating. Every surface gleamed too clean, too sharp, as if warning her this wasn't a home. This was a kingdom, and she was an intruder.
The men led her down a long hallway, their footsteps echoing off marble and glass. The deeper they walked, the heavier her chest grew. Her fingers brushed the wall as she passed—a defense, a way to anchor herself.
Finally, they stopped before a set of tall doors. One man opened them with a twist of his wrist.
"This is your room," he said, his voice deep and without inflection.
Ophelia blinked as she stepped inside.
It wasn't a prison cell. Not in the literal sense. The room was large—larger than her entire apartment had been. A four-poster bed stood in the center, draped with silken sheets the color of champagne. A chandelier of frosted glass cast a soft golden glow over plush carpets. A vanity carved from mahogany gleamed against one wall, and a balcony opened out to a breathtaking view of the Vegas skyline in the distance.
Everything about it screamed luxury.
And yet it was the most terrifying room she had ever seen.
Because it wasn't hers. Because it was meant to keep her.
Her throat burned. She turned on the men, her hands curling into fists. "You can't just leave me here. You can't just—"
One of them cut her off, his tone curt. "You'll stay here until the boss says otherwise. Get some rest. Someone will bring you food."
"I don't want food!" Her voice cracked with anger. "I want my house back. I want my life back. I don't belong to anyone!"
The man's expression didn't flicker. "Rest," he repeated, then nodded to his partner. The door shut with a heavy click that echoed through the room.
Ophelia rushed forward, grabbing the handle, yanking hard. Locked.
Her heart thundered. She pressed her forehead against the wood, her breath ragged. The chandelier hummed faintly above her, mocking her with its serene glow.
She stumbled back and turned in a circle, trying to take it all in—the velvet curtains, the glinting gold trim, the ridiculous vanity stocked with perfumes she would never use. It was all a cage.
Her chest heaved as tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give them that victory.
Instead, she moved to the balcony doors. They opened easily, and the night air rushed in, cooling her sweat-damp skin. She stepped outside, gripping the railing so hard her knuckles ached.
Vegas stretched beneath her in a dizzying panorama. Neon lights pulsed against the horizon, casinos and hotels glittering like jewels. Somewhere out there was the university she had fought to reach. Somewhere out there was the life she was supposed to have.
Her father's voice echoed in her memory: Fight, Ophelia. Never stop fighting.
She clutched the balcony rail tighter, whispering into the night. "This isn't the end. I'll get out. I'll get out, no matter what it takes."
Behind her, in the silence of the room, the mansion seemed to breathe, waiting.
And somewhere deep inside, she felt it—someone was already aware of her arrival. Watching.