The days that followed were different.
Kiki had started drawing attention at school — the kind she didn't ask for, but couldn't escape.
Everywhere she went, someone wanted to talk to her.
Boys lingered by the gate, waiting to help her carry her bag. Some brought her snacks, others found reasons to sit beside her in class. She didn't flirt — she only smiled politely — but that was enough to make Eric's blood boil.
He told himself he wasn't the jealous type. But lately, every time he dropped her off and saw another guy standing too close, he gripped the steering wheel harder, his knuckles pale.
One afternoon, he drove to pick her up earlier than usual.
When he arrived, she was at the school park, laughing softly with a tall, brown-haired boy holding her notebook. Her laughter was light — the kind she rarely showed him.
Eric froze.
For a moment, something inside him twisted painfully.
He didn't even wait for her to notice him. He started the car again, the engine growling like his temper.
That evening, Kiki came home smiling, still thinking about her day. But when she saw Eric in the living room, his jaw clenched and eyes cold, she felt the tension.
"You're late," he said flatly.
"I had extra lessons," she replied, trying to sound calm.
"With that guy?" His voice came sharp, almost like an accusation.
Her eyes widened. "What guy? Oh— you mean my classmate? He was just helping—"
"Helping," Eric repeated slowly, standing now. "Funny how every guy suddenly wants to help you."
"Why are you angry?" she shot back, crossing her arms. "You said this whole thing was fake. Contract girlfriend, remember? I'm just playing the part you paid for."
That hit him harder than he expected.
He looked away, the words caught in his throat. "Forget it," he muttered, walking away before she could see the pain in his eyes.
Later that night, Eric sat at the dining table, pretending to eat, though the food barely touched his lips.
In the quiet of the house, he heard her voice — soft and distant, coming from the hallway near her room.
He didn't mean to listen, but her laughter pulled him in like a magnet.
"Yes, I'm fine," she was saying over the phone. "He's still cold, but I think he's getting softer. Maybe… maybe I'll soon be free from all this."
His heart dropped.
Free from all this?
For a long moment, he just sat there, frozen.
He had imagined maybe she felt something too — that her smiles weren't just acting. But hearing that… it crushed him.
He got up quietly and went to his study. He poured himself a drink and stared out the window, the city lights blurring through his tears he would never admit to.
"She just wants to be free," he whispered. "And I'm the cage."
The next morning, Kiki came down, cheerful as always, unaware of what he'd heard. But Eric wasn't at the table. His chair was empty, his plate untouched.
When she asked the maid, she was told he had left early for "a trip."
No one knew when he'd be back.
Kiki stood there, confused and strangely hurt.
She didn't know why her chest felt heavy — or why she suddenly missed his voice, even when it was scolding her.
She sighed softly and whispered,
"Why does it feel so empty without him?"
For three days, Eric didn't return.
The mansion felt painfully quiet — every sound echoing against the walls that once carried his voice.
Kiki tried to keep herself busy — reading, walking through the garden, pretending not to care — but she couldn't ignore the heaviness inside her. Every morning, she still looked toward the stairs, half-expecting him to walk down in his dark suit, one hand tucked into his pocket, eyes sharp and unreadable.
But he never did.
At night, she found herself staring at the clock, wondering where he was.
Was he angry? Or did he finally get tired of her?
One evening, she walked into his study. It still smelled faintly of him — warm cologne and the woodsy scent of his whiskey. His jacket hung on the chair, and there was an unfinished glass beside it. She sat there, tracing her fingers around the rim of the glass.
"I miss you," she whispered softly, almost ashamed of the words.
Just then, her phone buzzed — a message from her classmate, the same guy who had helped her days ago.
"Kiki, are you okay? You've been quiet."
She smiled faintly and replied, "I'm fine. Just… thinking about something."
But even as she typed, her mind wasn't on her phone. It was on Eric.
⸻
That night, she dreamt of him — the way his eyes darkened when he was angry, the sound of his voice when he called her "Kiki" like it meant something more.
When she woke up the next morning, her chest ached.
And then — as if her thoughts had called him — she heard the deep growl of a car engine outside.
Her heart skipped.
She ran to the balcony and saw him — stepping out of his black car, his shirt slightly open at the collar, his hair tousled like he hadn't slept well. He looked tired, but still dangerously captivating.
Kiki hurried downstairs, but the moment she saw his face, she stopped.
His eyes were cold — distant.
"Welcome back," she said quietly.
He only nodded. "Thanks."
There was no warmth in his tone, no teasing remark, nothing. He walked straight past her into his study, slamming the door behind him.
Kiki stood there, feeling a lump rise in her throat.
He stayed locked in that room for hours. When he finally came out, it was late — and she was in the living room, curled up on the couch watching TV.
"Eric," she called softly.
He stopped. "What?"
"Are you… okay?"
He gave a low chuckle, bitter and tired. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You just seem—"
"Don't," he cut her off sharply. "Don't pretend to care. You don't have to. You'll be free soon, remember?"
The words stabbed like a knife.
Kiki stood up, her eyes glistening. "You heard me that night, didn't you?"
He turned, his expression unreadable.
"I didn't mean it that way," she whispered. "I just meant I wanted to be free from the lies, not from you."
Eric looked at her — really looked at her — for the first time in days. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, his mask slipped.
"Then why does it hurt every time I look at you?" he said quietly.
Kiki froze.
Before she could speak, he turned away, walking toward the door. But she caught his hand — trembling, desperate.
"Because maybe you feel the same way I do," she said, her voice breaking.
Eric stopped. His fingers tightened around hers, his body stiff with emotion he couldn't hide anymore.
The silence between them was electric. The air felt heavier — charged.
And when he finally turned, his gaze softened — like something inside him finally surrendered.
He cupped her face slowly, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You drive me insane, Kiki," he murmured. "I told myself this was just an act. But every time you smile, every time you look at someone else—"
He paused, his voice low, his breath warm against her lips. "I forget everything."
Kiki's heart pounded. "Then stop pretending."
He looked into her eyes — the walls breaking, the anger fading — and this time, when he kissed her, it wasn't from impulse or control.
It was because he couldn't hold back anymore.
The moment their lips met, time seemed to stop.
It wasn't like the first time — the one born from anger and confusion.
This one was slow… hesitant… almost fragile, like both of them were afraid to break whatever had just been built between them.
Kiki froze at first, her breath caught in her throat.
But when Eric's hand slid gently to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw as if memorizing her, she felt her resistance melt away.
She kissed him back.
The tension that had always lingered between them — sharp and dangerous — softened into something real.
He tasted of warmth and longing, like a man who had been starving for something he could never admit he needed.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, both breathing hard.
"Eric…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Don't say anything," he murmured back, his voice hoarse. "If I let you talk, I'll regret what I'm about to do."
She smiled faintly, her eyes glistening. "And what's that?"
He looked into her eyes — and for the first time, the ruthless, unshakable Eric Reigns looked… vulnerable.
"This," he said simply, before kissing her again — deeper, rougher, filled with everything he'd been trying to hide.
Later that night, neither of them could sleep.
They sat together on the couch, the soft glow of the fireplace flickering against their skin.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he didn't move away.
His hand brushed through her hair absentmindedly, as if touching her helped him breathe easier.
"Why do you keep running from me?" she asked softly.
He let out a quiet laugh. "Because every time I get close, I forget who I am."
"And who are you, Eric?"
His eyes lingered on the fire. "A man who doesn't deserve peace. Not after the things I've done."
Kiki turned to him, her expression gentle but firm. "You're not what they say you are. You just stopped believing anyone could love you for who you really are."
He looked at her then — really looked — and something inside him cracked open.
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You talk like you know me."
"Maybe I do," she said, smiling softly. "Maybe I've always seen through you."
He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. "And if I don't want you to stop seeing me?"
She felt her breath catch. "Then maybe I won't."
He kissed her again, slower this time — not out of control, but out of need. The kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was low and unsteady.
"You don't understand, Kiki. You make me want to be… better."
She smiled faintly, her hand resting over his heart. "Then be better — for you, not for me."
He swallowed hard, his gaze softening. "You'll be the end of me, you know that?"
"Maybe," she whispered with a shy smile. "But at least I'll make it worth it."
They both laughed quietly — a sound that felt like healing.
And for the first time since she was taken, the mansion didn't feel like a cage.
It felt like something else entirely — something dangerous, but alive.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, falling in golden ribbons across Kiki's face.
For a moment, she forgot where she was. The warmth, the peace, the faint scent of cedar and spice that lingered on her skin — it all felt unreal.
Then she turned her head and saw him.
Eric Reigns.
Already dressed, already standing by the window, his back to her.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong arms and faint traces of last night's bandages — the marks she had cleaned herself.
Her heart ached at the sight.
"Good morning," she said softly, sitting up and clutching the blanket closer to her chest.
He didn't answer immediately.
For a man who always knew exactly what to say, silence felt louder than any word.
Finally, he turned, his dark eyes unreadable. "You should get dressed. I had the chef make breakfast."
Just like that. Cold again.
Last night erased.
She swallowed, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Right. Of course."
Downstairs, the dining room was quiet except for the soft clinking of plates.
The long table was set beautifully — croissants, pancakes, strawberries, even her favorite tea.
Kiki blinked in surprise. "You… remembered?"
He didn't look up from his coffee. "You talk in your sleep."
That was a lie.
But she didn't call him out on it.
As she took a bite, she caught him glancing at her from the corner of his eye. The same man who'd held her like she was fragile glass now hid behind his arrogance again.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked suddenly.
He frowned. "Doing what?"
"Pushing me away after pulling me close."
His jaw tightened. "Because I don't mix feelings with responsibility, Kiki. And right now, you're my responsibility."
Her heart clenched. "Is that all I am to you?"
He didn't answer.
She stood, grabbing her bag. "Fine. I'll be late for class."
"I'll drive you," he said immediately.
She sighed but didn't argue.
When they pulled up at her university, all eyes turned toward the sleek black car.
The kind of car only someone like Eric Reigns could own — luxury, power, and danger wrapped in steel.
As Kiki stepped out, whispers followed her.
"Is that her?"
"She's dating him?"
"Look at that car!"
She felt her cheeks heat up.
Before she could say anything, a familiar voice called her name.
"Kiki!"
She turned — and there he was.
Ryan. Her classmate.
The one who always made her laugh when exams felt impossible.
He ran up to her, grinning, and pulled her into a friendly hug.
Eric's eyes darkened instantly.
From inside the car, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
Kiki pulled away quickly, awkwardly smiling. "Thanks, Ryan. I'll see you later."
Eric's window slid down. His voice came out smooth, low, dangerous.
"Five minutes late next time, and I'll have your car towed."
Ryan froze, blinking in confusion. "Uh—sorry?"
Kiki glared at Eric. "You didn't have to say that!"
He smirked faintly. "I did."
That evening, he couldn't focus on anything.
Not the business reports.
Not the meeting he had with his father.
Not even the call from the underground team reporting trouble.
All he could see was her — laughing, smiling, hugging someone else.
He hated that it bothered him.
He hated even more what it meant.
Later, when he walked past her room, he heard her voice.
Soft. Warm. On the phone.
She was laughing again.
He stopped.
Listened.
"…I'm fine, really. He's not that bad once you get used to him."
Then a pause.
"…No, I don't think he sees me that way. He's too cold for that."
Something in his chest twisted sharply.
He stepped away before she could notice, his face expressionless — but inside, a storm brewed.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He stood by the window again, glass in hand, watching the rain pour outside.
Maybe he should have been angry.
But all he felt was pain.
The kind he hadn't felt since he was a boy.
He told himself it was weakness.
That it would pass.
That she was just a distraction.
But every time he closed his eyes… he saw her.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Looking at someone else the way he wanted her to look at him.
And that's when he realized —
He wasn't her captor anymore.
He was her prisoner.