Ophelia woke with a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The night had been a blur of half-dreams and restless turns beneath the sheets. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again — Darren stepping from the shower, towel hanging low on lean hips, water gliding over skin that looked carved from stone and arrogance. His smirk had followed her into her dreams, carved deep and taunting.
She told herself she despised him. Despised the control, the games, the way he could turn silence into command. But hatred did nothing to cool the heat that lingered in her body. It only made it worse — because the part of her that reacted wasn't listening to reason.
By the time Maria arrived to summon her for breakfast, Ophelia had given up on sleep altogether. Her reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger — hair tangled, eyes shadowed. Pull yourself together, she ordered silently, smoothing her hair back and straightening the pale blouse one of the maids had laid out. He doesn't get to see you unravel.
The walk to the dining hall felt longer than it should have. The mansion's marble floors gleamed under the morning sun, and yet every corridor felt cold. She could hear her own pulse, quick and uneven, echoing in her ears.
When she entered the room, Darren was already there. Of course he was.
He sat at the head of the long oak table, the morning light spilling across him like a painter's brushstroke. A cup of coffee steamed in his right hand, as he takes a sip of it newspaper folded beside it. He looked calm — infuriatingly calm — as though last night had never happened.
"Good morning, mi cielo," he said lazily, eyes lifting to meet hers. "I trust you slept well?"
The endearment hit her like a spark. My heaven. As if she were something soft in a world made of his steel.
"Like a baby," she lied, sliding into the chair opposite him. Her tone was sharp enough to cut.
He smiled, dimples flickering. "Hard to rest with certain images burned into your head, isn't it?"
Her cheeks flamed. "You're disgusting."
"Honest," he corrected smoothly, setting down his cup. "Don't confuse the two."
She stabbed at the eggs on her plate, metal scraping porcelain. Every small sound seemed amplified between them. Darren ate unhurriedly, every motion deliberate, composed — as if even lifting a fork was part of some performance.
Minutes stretched before she spoke again, voice tight. "How much?"
He didn't look up. "How much what?"
"How much did she sell me for?" Her stepmother's name caught in her throat. "How much was I worth?"
That made him pause. He set his fork down, interlaced his fingers, and regarded her. The playful mask slipped, replaced by something quieter, heavier.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes."
A beat passed — long enough for her to hear the faint clink of the spoon against his cup. Then, softly: "Two million."
The words struck like a blow.
Two million. That was the price of her freedom. Of her body. Of every dream she had scraped together since the night her father died.
A bitter laugh almost escaped her. "That's all?" she said, her voice trembling around sarcasm. "I would've thought I'd fetch at least ten. Maybe I should be insulted."
Darren's dimples appeared again, faint but real. "There's that tongue I enjoy." His eyes glinted. "Careful, pequeña gatita. One day it might get you into more trouble than I can save you from."
She set her fork down with a sharp click. "Please. You live for it."
"Guilty," he admitted easily, lifting his mug of coffee as if toasting her. "You're far more entertaining than anyone else in this house. I'd almost thank your stepmother for the deal."
Her stomach turned. "She didn't sell me for your amusement. She did it because she hated me."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Her reasons don't matter. You're here. That's what matters."
The calm in his voice terrified her more than shouting ever could. She drew a breath, gathering what pieces of courage she had left.
"As I said yesterday," she said, forcing her tone steady, "school starts in a month. I'm going."
His brow arched, amused.
"I worked for that scholarship," she pressed on. "I took jobs no one wanted. I stayed up nights studying while she—" Ophelia stopped, swallowing hard. "You can cage me all you want, Señor Delgado. But I'm not giving that up."
He leaned back, eyes never leaving her. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint clink of silver. Then, to her surprise, he smiled — slow, deliberate, dangerous.
"Who said anything about stopping you?"
Her fork froze midway to her mouth. "What? But said I'm not allowed to go"
"I know what I said." He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I've watched you fight," he said. "You don't know how to surrender, even when you should. It's… entertaining. So, mi cielo, go to your classes. Chase your degree. Consider it a test of loyalty."
It was too easy. Her instincts screamed trap. "And the catch?"
He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, voice lowering until it was almost intimate. "You go. But when the day ends, you come back here. Every night. No excuses. This mansion is your home now."
She stared at him. "That's it?"
"That's it." His gaze softened, just for a breath. "You've worked hard, Ophelia. Think of this as… a gesture of goodwill."
But his eyes betrayed him — that flicker of something unspoken, almost worry. She couldn't name it.
To her, it looked like control — another leash dressed up as freedom.
Her chest tightened. "Fine," she said finally. "But don't think for a second you own my mind just because you own my nights."
Darren's chuckle was low, velvety, curling through her like smoke. "Sweetheart, I already own more of your thoughts than you'd like to admit."
She looked away quickly, pulse jumping. The silence that followed was suffocating. Every rustle of linen, every faint drip of coffee into porcelain felt too loud.
He rose first. "One of my men will handle your enrollment. The paperwork, the dorm cancellation — consider it handled."
Her head snapped up. "I can do that myself."
"I'm sure you could," he said, strolling past her. "But you won't. You have a tendency to run toward trouble, gatita. I'd rather not test my patience."
His hand brushed her shoulder as he passed — a fleeting touch, deliberate enough to freeze her in place. She told herself not to flinch, but her breath still caught.
He stopped at the doorway, glancing back. "Buy some notebooks," he said, dimples flashing. "After all, you'll be coming home to me every night. Consider it your real education."
And then he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of cedar and smoke.
Ophelia sat there long after the sound of his footsteps faded. The sunlight felt cold on her skin.
He'd given her what she wanted — freedom to study, to step beyond these walls — and yet every word, every condition, tightened the invisible chain between them. She could breathe, yes, but only inside the boundaries he allowed.
Her gaze drifted toward the tall windows. Beyond them lay the world she'd fought for — campus lawns, crowded lecture halls, a life that belonged to her. She would have it again. Even if she had to drag it back inch by inch from the man who believed he owned her.
Somewhere in the mansion's west wing, Darren paused at the balcony, coffee in hand. His reflection stared back at him in the glass — controlled, unreadable. The promise he had made still echoed in the back of his mind, a vow sealed in secrecy.
She will be safe, he had said. Whatever it takes.
And so she would go to her university. She would think the decision his whim. She would hate him for it.
That was fine. Better hatred than fear. Better control than chaos.
Darren's jaw tightened as he watched the sun rise higher. He told himself he could keep the distance. That the heat coiling in his chest whenever she looked at him was nothing more than fascination.
But deep down, he knew the truth: obsession was just another kind of cage.