Elara's POV
The woman in the black suit didn't speak. She simply opened a door and stepped aside. Elara walked into the room, and the door shut behind her with a soft, final click. The sound of the lock turning was the loudest thing she'd ever heard.
She was in a bedroom. But it wasn't a bedroom. It was a museum exhibit. A display called "How the Rich Live." Everything was perfect. White carpets so thick her shoes sank in. A bed big enough for a whole family, covered in pillows that looked like clouds. A wall of windows showing the whole night. It was the most beautiful room she'd ever seen. It felt like a dream. A bad dream.
This is my room now. The thought didn't feel real. This is my cage.
She walked further in, her feet silent on the carpet. She touched the bedspread. It was smoother than anything she'd ever felt. How much did this cost? The question popped into her head and wouldn't leave. She thought about the peeling paint in the bakery's bathroom. The cracked tile by the oven. This one bedspread could probably fix it all.
A door led to a bathroom. It was all marble and shiny chrome. A giant tub. A shower with more nozzles than a car wash. She turned on a faucet. Water came out instantly, hot and strong. No waiting for the pipes to groan. No worrying about the water bill.
She turned it off. The silence came back, heavier than before.
On a long, low dresser, there were piles of clothes. Neat stacks. She picked up a shirt. It was soft, like the bedspread. The tag was still on. The price made her drop it like it was on fire. Two hundred dollars for a shirt? She looked at the other piles. Dresses. Pants. Sweaters. All with tags. All in her size. All cost more than a week of bakery supplies.
He bought me a whole new life. The thought was scary. He knew her size. He knew her style. He knew everything about her. How long had his men been watching her? Since the carnival? Since before? The idea made her skin crawl.
She changed into the softest pajamas she'd ever worn. They felt wrong on her skin. They weren't hers. Nothing in this room was hers. The only thing she had from her old life was the flour under her nails. She looked at her hands. She didn't want to wash it off. It was the last real part of her.
She climbed into the giant bed. It swallowed her. She felt tiny, like a pea in a princess story. But she wasn't a princess. She was a prisoner. She stared at the ceiling. It was dark. The city lights glowed outside the window, painting moving shadows on the walls.
What have I done?
The question echoed in the quiet. She had sold her life. She had said yes. For the bakery. For her parents. But now, lying in this soft, silent bed, the bakery felt very far away. All she could feel was the cold, empty space around her. The loneliness was a physical ache.
You're safe, she told herself. Viktor can't get you here. The bakery is saved. This is the deal. You made the deal.
But her heart hammered against her ribs, screaming that she'd made a terrible mistake. She was trapped. She couldn't leave. She had to do what he said. She had to be his fake fiancée. She had to smile and lie and live in this beautiful, empty box.
A sound broke the silence.
Pop. Pop-pop.
It was distant. Muffled. Like fireworks, but sharper. She sat up in bed, her ears straining. It came from outside, from the city below.
Then, sirens. Not one or two. A chorus of them. They wailed, getting closer, mixing together. Red and blue lights flashed against the buildings, painting the room in frantic pulses of color.
Gunshots.
The word landed in her mind like a stone. Those weren't fireworks. There were gunshots. Luca's war wasn't just words in an office. It was real. It was happening right now, down there in the streets. People were shooting. People were hurting each other. Because of him. Because of men like him.
And she was locked in a tower right in the middle of it.
She got out of bed and went to the window. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. From up here, it looked like a video game. Tiny lights. Tiny sirens. But she knew it was real. Blood was real. Bullets were real. The war was real.
He said he would protect me. But what did that mean? Did it mean keeping her in this room while the city burned below? Was this what protection felt like? Cold and lonely and scared?
The sirens faded, moving away. The lights disappeared. The city went quiet again. But the quiet was different now. It was quiet. A dangerous quiet.
She went back to bed, but she didn't sleep. She watched the shadows move on the ceiling. Every little sound from the building made her jump. The hum of the elevator. The faint creak of the floor. Was it a guard? Was it him?
She thought about Luca, in his part of the penthouse. Was he awake? Was he watching the same lights? Did he care that people were shooting down there? Or was it just business to him?
She pulled the soft covers up to her chin. They didn't make her feel safe. They just reminded her that she didn't belong here. She was a baker in a palace. A mouse in a cage. A pretend fiancée in a real war.
The night stretched on, long and dark. She watched the sky turn from black to dark blue. Morning was coming. A morning in her new life.
A soft knock on her door made her sit straight up, her heart in her throat.
"Miss?" A woman's voice, quiet. "Mr. Conti has requested your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes. He asked that you wear the blue dress."
The voice went away. Footsteps faded.
Elara looked at the piles of clothes. She found the blue dress. It was simple, but she knew it would fit perfectly. Another costume for her role.
She held it in her hands. This was it. The first performance. Breakfast with the king in his castle.
She had said yes to save her home. But as she put on the dress, looking at a stranger in the mirror, she wondered what she had really lost.
And what would happen when the king decided he was done with his toy?