Chapter 5: Eyes That Follow
For the first time since the wedding, Vierrah felt the mansion's walls closing in on her. Every corner, every flicker of a shadow—it all felt… watched.
When she walked through the grand hallway that morning, she caught a faint red light blinking above the doorframe. Small, almost invisible. But it was there. Watching. Recording.
Her fingers trembled as she traced the tiny lens. "Cameras," she whispered. "Everywhere."
"Ma'am?" The maid who had been dusting the table looked at her nervously.
Vierrah turned to her. "Who installed these?"
The maid froze. "S-sir Lucas's orders, Ma'am. For… your protection."
Protection. The word made her stomach twist. She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes and walked away, but her heart pounded like it wanted to escape her chest.
She passed through the living room—the one with the golden chandelier and glass walls overlooking the garden. Outside, two men stood under the oak tree, wearing black suits. They weren't talking, just… watching the mansion. Watching her.
She clenched her fists.
No. This isn't right.
By the time she reached her bedroom, her breath was uneven. She shut the door and leaned against it, eyes darting toward the ceiling corner. Another red light blinked there, faint but unrelenting.
"Lucas…" she whispered bitterly.
That night, when Lucas came home, his cologne announced him first—deep, musky, familiar. He entered the room with that effortless confidence that made everyone bow to him. But when his eyes landed on her, they softened.
"There's my wife," he murmured, brushing his thumb against her cheek. "Did you miss me?"
She flinched slightly but forced herself to meet his gaze. "Why are there cameras everywhere?"
His hand froze mid-air. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—one that didn't reach his eyes. "You noticed."
"Lucas, answer me."
He took a step closer, and she instinctively backed away until her spine hit the cold wall. His scent enveloped her, intoxicating, suffocating.
"I just want to keep you safe, baby," he whispered. "You know how dangerous the world can be. There are people who would love to hurt you—to take you away from me."
She stared at him, her throat tightening. "Or maybe you just don't trust me."
He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is," she said, voice trembling. "I can't even breathe without feeling your eyes on me."
His jaw flexed. For a moment, the softness vanished, replaced by something darker. Possessive. Dangerous.
He leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear. "And what's so wrong with that? You're my wife. I have the right to know that you're safe, that no one's touching what's mine."
Her chest tightened. "I'm not your property, Lucas."
He stepped back—just an inch—but the warmth in his eyes had vanished completely. What remained was cold steel.
"Say that again," he murmured, voice dangerously low.
Vierrah's breath hitched. Her instinct screamed at her to stop, to apologize—but her pride, her fear, her anger—all twisted inside her.
"I said, I'm not your property."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then he smiled—slow, dangerous. "You'll learn, my love. You'll see that everything I do is for you."
He brushed his thumb across her cheek, the gesture tender but possessive. "You'll thank me one day."
She wanted to scream, to push him away, but his hand lingered at her neck—gentle, yet commanding.
When he finally released her, he turned his back and began unbuttoning his cuffs. "I'll have the cameras adjusted," he murmured. "So they don't make you uncomfortable."
But she didn't believe him. His tone was too calm, too careful—like a man soothing a frightened bird just before closing the cage door.
That night, as he pulled her into his arms, she lay stiff and silent against his chest. His warmth felt foreign. His heartbeat was steady, but she could feel the tension beneath it.
"Don't ever doubt me again," he whispered into her hair. "I'd die before letting anyone hurt you."
Or before letting me go, she thought bitterly.
When his breathing deepened and he drifted to sleep, Vierrah's eyes opened to the darkness. The ceiling loomed above her—quiet, empty—except for that tiny red light blinking in the corner.
It never stopped.
Always watching.
She turned on her side and bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Every sound in the mansion—the hum of the air conditioner, the soft crackle of the lamp—felt amplified. Paranoia gnawed at her.
She thought of her friends. Of her old life. How she used to walk freely, laugh freely. Now, she couldn't even go outside without Lucas's men shadowing her every step.
Was this love?
Was this what it meant to be "safe"?
In the dim light, she reached for her phone on the bedside table. But the screen was blank—no signal. No messages. No world outside this golden prison.
She sighed shakily and turned her face toward the window. Outside, the two men were still there, silhouettes under the moonlight.
Her eyes stung with unshed tears.
Maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe Lucas really did mean well. Maybe this was his way of showing love. But if that was love… then why did it feel like drowning?
Her thoughts were interrupted when the man beside her stirred in his sleep, one arm instinctively tightening around her waist. Even in his dreams, he held her like a possession.
She stayed still, afraid to move. Afraid to wake him.
"Lucas…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Please… let me breathe."
But he didn't hear her.
He never did.
Outside, the red light blinked once more—steady, unblinking, eternal.
And deep in her heart, Vierrah knew: this mansion wasn't her home.
It was her cage.
A golden, beautiful cage—guarded by love that looked so much like obsession.
And the man who built it smiled sweetly every time she cried.
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