Seven days.
That was how long Ophelia Smith had endured the gilded prison Darren Cruz Delgado called a mansion.
Seven days of cold marble floors, of maids who never made eye contact, of guards stationed at every hallway. Seven days of being patient like Maria said. Seven days of silence stretching between meals, of pacing the confines of her "assigned" room, staring at the barred gates through tall windows she couldn't open.
By the end of the first night, she had realized something bitter and cruel—she was surrounded by everything a girl from her background might dream of: silk sheets, hot baths, closets lined with designer dresses, food plated like art. Yet she'd never felt poorer, hungrier, more suffocated.
And Darren? Darren Delgado drifted in and out like a ghost. He was there for breakfast sometimes, or dinner, sitting at the head of the long oak table like a king on his throne. He barely spoke to her. When he did, his words were clipped, low, commanding. He didn't shout—he never needed to. His power was in the way the entire house bent around him.
But tonight… tonight, Ophelia decided to push.
She sat at the far end of the long table, the chandelier's glow catching in her hair, the golden cutlery gleaming untouched on her plate. The dishes smelled incredible—grilled sea bass, roasted potatoes, vegetables seasoned with lemon and garlic. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it.
Her eyes flicked to Darren. He sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled back just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms, his knife slicing through the fish with slow precision. He ate with the composure of a man who'd never rushed for anything in his life. But tonight there was something else in him too—an edge. His jaw tight, his movements sharper, as if he were carrying the weight of some invisible battlefield.
The whole house felt it. The guards were tenser, the staff quicker to bow out of sight. Even the air seemed wired with unspoken dread.
Ophelia wasn't intimidated. Or at least, she pretended not to be.
She dropped her fork loudly against the porcelain plate. The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
Darren's eyes lifted—slow, measured.
Ophelia leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You know, it's funny."
He arched one brow. "What is."
"I mean, my scholarship starts in a month. I worked too hard for it to give it all up." She let the words hang in the air like a taunt, her tone dripping with mockery. "But hey—look at me now. Sitting in a palace with a man who probably thinks education is overrated, right?"
Her sarcasm sliced through the air, deliberate, mocking.
Darren set down his knife with a quiet clink. His gaze rested on her, heavy, unreadable, like he was deciding whether to crush or to indulge.
His empire was under attack from the shadows—counterfeit chips, dead middlemen, enemies sending messages—and now this girl wanted to test him too? On top of that, there were the hunters. Two men, faceless phantoms, leaving bloodied warnings in their wake.They were after her. The thought of Ophelia as prey unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
"Go on," he said finally, voice low, smooth.
Ophelia's pulse quickened. She hadn't expected him to let her continue. But she wasn't about to stop now.
"See, here's the thing," she went on, her smirk sharpening. "I'm assuming you'll be dropping me off in a few weeks? Or will you be sending a car service? I don't want to be late for orientation. So whatever this—" she waved her hand around the table, the mansion, the invisible bars "—is supposed to be? Temporary. A little detour before I get back to real life. Because unlike some people, I actually earned my place in the world."
It was a direct jab, and she knew it. His jaw tightened, barely perceptible. The silence stretched. The clink of silverware from a servant clearing dishes seemed deafening. Even the air felt charged, vibrating with invisible tension.
Finally, Darren leaned back in his chair, his dark gaze fixed on her. "You won't be going anywhere."
Ophelia laughed, a brittle, jarring sound. "Oh? And why is that? Did you not get the memo? The whole 'belonging to you' thing expires when my classes start. I have a life. A career to plan. I have a future."
He studied her as though she were an unsolved puzzle. Then, with maddening calm, he picked up his glass of wine, swirling the deep red liquid before taking a slow sip.
"Your future is here. With me, pequeña gatita."
She shook her head, her brown eyes wide with mock innocence that was pure provocation, her chin high. "I don't think you understand, Señor Delgado. I'm not a contract. You can't just… repossess me. I have rights. I have a scholarship. I worked years to claw my way out of my stepmother's life. I have dreams. I'm not a debt to be collected."
Darren chuckled softly. The sound was low, dangerous, a predator amused by its prey's boldness. "You really believe a piece of paper and a dorm room can protect you."
"I believe in myself," she snapped, her sarcasm slipping into something sharper, rawer. "Which is more than I can say for someone who hides behind guards and gold."
That hit. She saw it, the flicker in his eyes. Not anger—something colder, deeper. The same look she imagined he gave men who crossed him in casinos, the look that came before blood was spilled.
Darren rose slowly from his seat. He didn't slam his chair back or storm. He moved with terrifying composure, the quiet power of a man who never needed to raise his voice to command fear.
Ophelia's breath caught, but she didn't flinch. She met his gaze head-on, nails digging into her palms beneath the table.
He stopped at her side, looking down at her with eyes like onyx. "One month," he murmured. His hand came down on the back of her chair, fingers brushing the carved wood. "You think you'll walk out of here and return to your neat little campus life. When it was your stepmother who sold you to pay off debts."
His tone was deliberate, but there was something in his eyes—a shadow, a question—that made the words feel less like fact and more like bait.
"And you're a simple man if you believe that," she shot back, her voice low and furious. "I am not a thing to be traded. I'm a person. I am Ophelia Smith. I am not some piece of property. My life, my studies, my future—they are mine."
Darren bent slightly, his lips near her ear. His cologne—dark and expensive—wrapped around her, thickening the air. "Careful, Ophelia. The world has a way of punishing people who believe freedom is owed to them."
Her skin prickled, every nerve screaming at the nearness of him. She hated the way his voice sank under her skin, hated the heat it sparked in her veins. But she refused to let him see it.
"Then I'll make sure it's worth punishing," she whispered back.
For a moment, silence. Then he straightened, eyes still locked on hers. A dangerous smile tugged at his lips. Not amusement—something darker.