Two weeks later, the fragile truce inside the Delgado mansion was still holding.
Ophelia had fallen into a routine—if captivity could be called that. Days blurred into one another, spent mostly in the mansion's library where the scent of old paper and polished oak wrapped around her like a memory. She devoured books the way a starving person devoured bread, desperate to feed a mind that had been left hungry for too long.
Sometimes, she would glance at the clock and remember that, in another life, she'd be out there—working, studying, laughing with customers she no longer had. But this life had been stolen. Rewritten. Caged.
Darren was a ghost. A shadow she felt more than saw. Their meals together were formal and brief, filled with silence thick enough to choke on. When he did speak, it was in short, deliberate commands. His presence dominated the air even when he wasn't in the room.
He had kept his word, though. Her enrollment had been confirmed. The email had arrived just as she'd hoped—and dreaded. She was still going to college. Still chasing the dream she'd worked for. But every reminder of that freedom came with another chain attached to it.
He had given her a lifeline. And he still held the other end.
This morning, the library was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages as she lost herself in a book about ancient Roman law—ironic, considering how much she thought about power, ownership, and freedom lately.
The creak of the door broke the silence.
One of Darren's guards stepped in, his posture rigid, his face blank. "Señor Delgado requests your presence."
Ophelia's stomach tightened. She hadn't broken any rules—or at least, she didn't think she had.
She closed the book, steadying her breath. "Now?"
"Yes, Miss."
The guard led her through the marble hallways and down the grand staircase to the foyer. Darren was waiting there.
He was dressed in dark jeans and a simple black T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders. No suits, no cufflinks—just casual, lethal simplicity. Somehow, that made him even more dangerous.
"We're going out," he said, voice low.
She blinked. "Going out? Where?"
"Shopping."
"Shopping?" she repeated, incredulous.
His gaze swept over her, lingering briefly on the elegant silk dress she wore—the kind his housekeeper had chosen for her. "Your wardrobe is made for dinner parties and galas. You'll need clothes that fit your new life. I won't have you showing up to class dressed like a debutante."
Her jaw tightened. "I'll wear what I want."
"No," he said simply, "you'll wear what's appropriate. We're leaving now."
He turned and walked toward the massive double doors, not waiting for her agreement.
The sleek black SUV waiting outside gleamed under the desert sun. She hesitated for a second, then climbed in beside him. A guard drove, silent and watchful.
For the first time in weeks, she saw the world beyond the iron gates.
Las Vegas stretched out before her—bright, loud, alive. Sunlight glinted off glass towers, people bustled through the streets, laughter and music spilled from passing cars. It was chaos. Beautiful, ordinary chaos.
A smile almost escaped her before she caught it.
Darren noticed. His lips curved faintly. "It's just the city, Ophelia. You act like you've never seen it before."
Her chest tightened. "I haven't," she said quietly. "Not since you stole my life."
The smirk disappeared. His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
The rest of the drive was silent, tension humming in the air.
They pulled up in front of an exclusive, glass-walled shopping center—one she'd only ever seen in glossy magazines. Everything about it screamed wealth. Power. Control.
She followed him inside, her pulse racing as they entered a designer boutique. The store manager practically tripped over herself to greet him.
"Mr. Delgado. Welcome back, sir."
Darren's nod was curt. "We'll need casual wear. Jeans, sweaters, sneakers. Everything in her size."
Ophelia frowned. "You can't just—"
"Try these," he interrupted, pulling a stack of clothes from a rack and handing them to her. "Now."
She stared at the pile, then at him. "You're not coming in with me, are you?"
That earned her a quiet laugh. "No, pequeña. My reputation's bad enough without being labeled a voyeur. I'll wait here."
Heat crept up her neck as she turned toward the fitting room.
The clothes fit better than she wanted to admit. A soft sweater that brushed against her skin like air, perfectly cut jeans that hugged her shape. She almost looked… normal.
When she stepped out, Darren's gaze lifted from his phone. His eyes trailed over her, slow and assessing.
"Good," he said finally, his voice low, deliberate. "We'll take them all."
"All?" she echoed, stunned. "That's insane. I can't—these are too expensive!"
He ignored her, handing his black card to the clerk. "She'll need a full wardrobe. Don't make her wait."
They moved through store after store. Casual dresses, shoes, jackets, even a backpack. He didn't hesitate once, didn't glance at the price tags.
Ophelia followed in silence, torn between indignation and something she didn't want to name. He was controlling. Possessive. Yet he was also giving her things she hadn't had in years—a choice, a glimpse of normalcy.
But it wasn't real freedom. It was curated. Paid for. Owned.
Their final stop was a bookstore—a massive one filled with students, the scent of paper and ink clinging to the air. For the first time since she'd been taken, her heart lifted.
This place, at least, felt familiar.
Darren spoke quietly with a manager at the counter, who handed him a printed list. Darren scanned it once before giving a curt nod. "Get all of these. Deliver them to my address."
The manager stammered, "Yes, Mr. Delgado."
Ophelia's pulse quickened. She knew that list. Her list. The textbooks and supplies she had meticulously written down months ago, back when freedom had been more than a dream.
He had gone through her things.
He had found it.
He had remembered.
When they returned to the SUV, the trunk filled with bags, she finally turned to him. "How did you get my list?"
He looked out the window, expression unreadable. "I have my ways."
"Why?" Her voice cracked despite herself. "Why would you do all this?"
A long silence stretched before he answered.
"Because you worked for it," he said finally. "You earned it. I may be many things, Ophelia, but I'm not the man who destroys what someone fought to build. I don't take dreams that were bled for." His gaze met hers then, sharp and dark. "At least, not this one."
Her chest tightened. His words shouldn't have sounded like mercy—but they did.
He turned back to the window. "Call it a… fair exchange. I give you the future you want, and you give me what I demand—obedience, presence, loyalty. A small price for freedom."
Freedom. The word tasted bitter.
When they returned to the mansion, the guards carried in the bags. A maid appeared to take them to her room, bowing low. Ophelia remained by the door, the weight of everything pressing against her ribs.
Darren pulled something from his pocket—a sleek matte-black card. No name. No numbers.
He held it out. "Take it."
She hesitated. "What is it?"
"An offshore account card," he said simply. "Untraceable. Unlimited. Use it for your small expenses."
Her eyes widened. "Unlimited?"
His mouth twitched. "You'll need it. School isn't cheap."
She didn't move. "And the catch?"
"No catch," he said, though his gaze darkened. "You are my asset, Ophelia. And I take care of what's mine."
She took the card slowly, the cool weight of it biting into her palm. A golden leash disguised as generosity.
"Thank you," she murmured, the words tasting strange on her tongue.
Darren's expression didn't change. "Don't thank me. Just do well. I expect nothing less from what belongs to me."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the vast foyer.
Ophelia stood there, clutching the black card, surrounded by bags of luxury and the illusion of freedom. The air felt too thick to breathe.
He had given her everything she needed to chase her dream—while reminding her that the dream itself now lived inside his cage.
He had given her a key.
But he still held the lock.