The first night in Lucien's mansion felt like stepping into another universe. Isla had imagined wealth before, rooms filled with silk and gold, but nothing prepared her for this—vast halls that swallowed sound, shadows that seemed alive, and the subtle, omnipresent tension of people who understood fear as currency. Every glance, every footstep, reminded her that she was no longer merely a girl in a small apartment—she was a possession, and possessions came with rules.
Lucien watched her from across the grand hall as if studying a rare painting. His presence was a constant, unyielding gravity. She caught him looking and felt a prickle of irritation mixed with something far more dangerous—a spark of fascination she hated herself for noticing. He didn't speak much, at least not directly, letting his aura suffocate and intrigue in equal measure.
"You will follow the rules," he said finally, his voice smooth and sharp, echoing just slightly off the marble. "Curfew. Movement. Silence. And your… lessons."
"Lessons?" Isla asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
He smirked faintly, a predator savoring a puzzle. "Yes. Lessons. You have… tendencies, emotions, that must be channeled. Otherwise, you will destroy yourself or worse, bore me."
She flinched at the implication, but forced herself not to retreat. "I don't belong to you," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands.
"Technically, you do," he replied, stepping closer, so close that she could smell the faint trace of leather and spice clinging to him. "But emotional ownership is different. That, my dear Isla, is earned."
He turned, walking toward a room lined with canvases—some complete, some in chaos. Shadows of colors swirled across the floor as the dim light hit the half-finished paintings. "Paint," he said. "Tell me what you feel, not what you see."
Isla hesitated, gripping her brush like a lifeline. She'd never painted under scrutiny, and never under someone whose gaze felt like it could strip her bare. But she obeyed, dipping the brush in deep crimson, letting the first strokes emerge as chaotic streaks of anger and fear, a raw reflection of the life she'd lost.
Lucien didn't move, didn't speak. He simply watched. And Isla felt, for the first time, the unnerving thrill of being seen completely. Her hands shook, her chest heaving, but a part of her—terrified, exhilarated—craved that gaze.
When she finally stepped back, the canvas was a riot of shadowed red and black, splashes of silver catching the candlelight. Lucien stepped closer, circling the painting, then turned to her. "Powerful," he murmured. "You hide so much fire beneath your calm. I like that. You'll learn to control it… and perhaps, in time, to wield it for me."
Fear coiled in her stomach, but so did an odd thrill. She wanted to hate him, to push back against his insinuating words and the heat behind his eyes. And yet… she couldn't deny that in this suffocating mansion, under his gaze, she felt alive in a way she hadn't before.
Lucien's expression softened just slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Rest now," he said. "Tomorrow, your lessons begin in earnest. And Isla… remember. Chains can be velvet. They can also cut."
Alone in her room later that night, Isla stared at the silk sheets and the locked door. She felt caged, trapped in a gilded prison. But even as fear threatened to crush her, a tiny spark of rebellion flickered. Lucien might own her body, her movements, but her mind—her art—was still hers. For now.
And in that defiance, that fragile ember of control, she realized something terrifying: she was already… drawn to him.