The knocking pulled Ophelia from a restless half-sleep, her body tangled in the silken sheets of the room she still refused to call hers. The sound was firm, insistent, each rap echoing like a demand rather than a request.
She groaned and pressed her palms to her face. "Go away."
The door creaked open anyway, and a maid in a crisp black-and-white uniform stepped inside, head bowed respectfully. She looked no older than her late twenties, with dark hair coiled neatly into a bun. Her name was Maria, a fact Ophelia had learned from the brief and terrifying introduction from the men who had brought her here.
"Miss Ophelia," Maria said softly, her accent lacing each syllable with warmth. "You must wake. Mr. Delgado requests your presence at breakfast."
Ophelia sat up slowly, her hair a tumble around her shoulders, eyes narrowing. The politeness of the request was a mockery. This wasn't a request. It was a summons. "Mr. Delgado can choke on his breakfast for all I care."
The maid's eyes flickered, though her tone remained even, a testament to her professional training. "Please, miss. You should bathe and dress. There are clothes prepared for you in the wardrobe."
Ophelia swung her legs out of bed, ignoring the alien softness of the carpet against her bare feet. The thought of putting on some designer gown hand-picked by whatever an old perverted man thought he owned her made her blood boil. It was an act of submission, a symbol of her new life as his property. She would not bend.
"I don't take orders," she said firmly, her voice raw with indignation. "Not from strangers. Not from criminals. And definitely not from some old perverted man who thinks money means he can collect people like property."
The maid's lips pressed together, though her gaze softened with something like pity, a strange, knowing sadness. "You'll understand once you see him," she murmured, her words a cryptic warning. Then she dipped her head, a silent acknowledgment of her place. "Breakfast is in the east dining room. Please… don't keep him waiting long."
The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving Ophelia alone with the echo of those words. You'll understand once you see him.
She scoffed and shook her head, a violent toss of her hair. No man—no matter how powerful—could make her bend just by showing his face. She wasn't built for submission. She had clawed her way through grief, through hunger, through loss—and no rich monster was going to unravel her.
Still, something gnawed at her. Curiosity, unwelcome but relentless. She was a woman of logic, of facts, and the mystery of this man was an itch she couldn't ignore. Who was this person who had bought her? The old, leering predator in her mind's eye felt… too simple. The men who had taken her weren't monsters out of a horror movie; they were cold, professional, and terrifying in their efficiency. This was a business, not a fairy tale.
She bathed quickly, scrubbing the grime of the road from her skin, but when she stepped out, she ignored the wardrobe full of carefully chosen dresses. Instead, she yanked on the clothes she'd worn yesterday—jeans and a loose T-shirt. They smelled faintly of sweat and asphalt from the long ride, but at least they were hers. A small act of defiance.
Let him see her like this. Let him see she wouldn't dress up like a doll for his amusement. She wouldn't be his perfect little purchase.
The mansion's hallways stretched before her like veins of marble and glass, every turn lit by chandeliers and sconces. She followed the faint scent of coffee and something richer—smoke, spice, roasted meat—until she reached a set of double doors already propped open.
The dining room was larger than most restaurants she'd worked at in San Francisco. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the desert skyline beyond, sunlight spilling in golden rivers across a table that seemed to stretch endlessly. It was set with crystal glasses, fine china, and enough food to feed an army: baskets of pastries, platters of fruit glistening with dew, carafes of fresh juice, silver trays steaming with eggs and bacon.
But it wasn't the food that made her stop short.
It was him.
Darren Cruz Delgado sat at the head of the table, and the world tilted.
He wasn't the man she'd imagined. Not the wrinkled, leering predator her mind had conjured during a night of restless anger.
He was… dangerous in a different way. A way that stole her breath.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark open-collared shirt that hinted at a body forged from power rather than vanity. His hair, thick and dark, was swept back with a careless precision. A neatly trimmed beard framed lips that seemed carved for both command and sin. He had the face of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
But it was his eyes that undid her. Piercing, deep dark eyes that locked onto her the moment she stepped inside, holding her as if he'd been waiting his entire life for her to walk through that door. Eyes that assessed and consumed in equal measure. Eyes that promised he had already measured her, already decided what she was worth.
Ophelia's spine stiffened instinctively, her pulse stumbling in a betrayal of her resolve. She hated the heat that crept up her neck.
Darren set down his coffee cup with deliberate calm, the faint clink echoing through the cavernous room.
"So," he said, his voice low and rich, carrying an accent that curled around his words like smoke. "The girl who fought my men like a cornered tigress finally decides to join me."
His tone wasn't mocking. It was amused, yes, but laced with something deeper—respect, perhaps, or intrigue. He looked her up and down, and for the first time in her life, she felt truly seen, not as an object, but as an opponent.
Ophelia forced her chin up. "I didn't decide. Your maid said breakfast. I don't take orders."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and devastating, the dimples so damn sexy flashing. "Clearly. You came in yesterday clawing and cursing, and today you come in dressed as though you're about to wage war. Jeans at my table." He let his gaze slide over her—not in a leer, but in a deliberate sweep that made her skin burn. "Interesting."
She crossed her arms, willing her legs not to tremble. "What do you want from me?"
Darren leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling as if he had all the time in the world. "Want? That's a dangerous question, chica. One that deserves a long answer. But for now…" He gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit. Eat."
The command in his tone bristled against every nerve. But beneath it was something else—an invitation, almost gentle, like a test.
Her stomach growled, traitorous and loud. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.
Darren's smile deepened at the sound. "Your body is wiser than your pride."
Ophelia flushed, heat storming her cheeks. "I'm not hungry."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You're lying. But I admire your stubbornness. Few people lie to my face without trembling." His voice dropped, softer now. "I like that about you."
Her heart pounded. She hated that part of her thrilled at his words. It was a dangerous game, this, and he was a master player.
She forced her arms tighter across her chest. "I'm not here for you to like anything about me. I'm not here for you at all."
Darren's gaze sharpened. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shift, power pressing down like gravity. Then he chuckled, low and smooth, easing the air again.
"Sit, Ophelia," he said, her name rolling from his tongue like a caress and a command at once. "You'll find that breakfast with me is never just about food."
And in that moment, despite every wall she tried to build, Ophelia knew she was in trouble. And Maria had be right.
Because Darren Cruz Delgado was nothing like she'd prepared for. He wasn't a monster in the shadows. He was flesh and blood, power and charisma—and he had already begun to unravel her resolve. The man who had bought her was a monster, but he was a beautiful one, and that made him infinitely more terrifying.