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“The cake is ready,” I say, my voice light—toolight. EvenI’msurprised by how steady it sounds.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at me.No.Heexaminesme. For a few agonizing seconds, it feels like myentire existencehangs in the balance. Then, finally—he nods.

I can’t tell if hebuysmy act or if he’s simply choosing tolet it go. He steps closer,

“Good,” he says. “Let’s see if they’re as good as you say.”

We head to the kitchen, where the chocolate cake sits on the table, perfectly covered.One of the maids must have done it.Two plates rest beside it, making it look like Ireally hadbeen waiting for him all along. I silently thank the universe.

We sit, and I cut us each a slice. Just as he lifts his fork, I stop him with a smile.

“I need to be sure first,” I say lightly. “Can’t have you mocking me.”

I take the first bite. It tastes likenothing. Guilt, fear, pain, regret—even hope—mangle together in my mind, twisting so tightly that I can’t focus on the flavor.

Across from me, Nicolas watches. His jaw tight. His eyes locked on mine, studying every movement like he’s trying todecodeme.

“Good?” he asks.

I force a smile. “Why don’t you try it?”

He chuckles, then lifts his fork and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Seconds stretch. Then, to my absolute torment, he smiles. Animpressedsmile.

A warm wave rolls through my chest—and it only makes me feel worse.

I’m afucking monsterat this point.

“That’s really good,” he says.

And I feel likethrowing up.

I manage to hold it together as we finish the cake. We wash it down with orange juice, the sweetness sitting heavy on my tongue.

When we’re done, we both agree we’re full for the day and head to the bedroom.

We talk for hours—or at least, hedoes. I force myself to respond, nodding at the right moments, offering small comments. But I barely hear a word. Because every time I shift, every time Imove, I feel my phone in my pocket.

After a while, I mutter something about feeling sleepy. He pulls me into his arms without hesitation. And like amonster, I find comfort there. Iletmyself slide closer, soaking in his warmth, his steady breath against my hair.

I’m playing a dangerous game.I know this.

* * *

Morning comes in golden streaks through the windows, spilling light across the bedroom floor. I slip out of bed carefully, every movement precise, controlled.Silent.

Nicolas doesn’t stir. My hands move automatically—jeans, blouse, flats—like muscle memory guiding me through an escape I don’t fully want to make sense of. When I step outside, the air is crisp, fresh in a way that shouldn’t feel suffocating—but does.

I nod briefly to the driver. “I need to go out.”

He doesn’t question me.

As the car pulls away, I stare out at the blurred cityscape, my pulse a steady drum against my ribs.

I tell myself that I may never see this house again. That once Marco grants me my freedom, I won’t want to see Nicolas again. And it’s not just because I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he finds out. It’s because I don’t think I’ll be able tolook him in the eyes.

When we pull up to Marco’s house, my fingers tighten around the door handle. The house looms ahead—grand, cold, suffocating. It looks the same as always. ButIdon’t.

I step inside, my heart pounding, my pulse a steady drum in my ears. Marco is in the sitting room, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, his sharp eyes narrow slightly as he studies me.