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I jolt awake, disoriented by the lavish bed and velvet linens wrapped around me.

This isn’t one of my father’s grimy hideouts, where worn sofas double as mattresses and guards hover outside every door.

It takes me a minute, but once the memory returns, my heart plummets into my stomach.

Dimitri Barkov and his men stormed the warehouse.

Gunshots. Shouts. Then the moment he told me in that icy voice, I was coming with him.

I sit up and rest my back against a tufted headboard.

Everything in this room screams wealth: gilded frames on the walls, an ornate chest of drawers, and a thick rug underfoot to complete the opulent picture.

I’ve spent so long on the move, never comfortable, never safe, and certainly never surrounded by anything this pristine, and it makes me want to tear the room apart to find its hidden rot.

There must be rot. Nothing so beautiful can be genuine.

A rap on the door startles me, making me flinch. “Who is it?”

No immediate reply. Then a muffled voice says, “Breakfast is here. May I enter?”

I consider refusing, but my growling stomach betrays me. “Fine.”

A bodyguard enters, holding a tray with a covered plate and a glass. He places it on a small table and then steps back. ”Is there anything else you need?”

My feet sink into the rug as I move to the table. “Where am I?”

“The Barkov estate.”

“Where’s Dimitri?”

“In a meeting.”

“Then tell him I want to see my sister. Now.”

The man gives a stiff nod and steps out, leaving me alone with the tray. I lift the lid and find eggs, toast, and fruit—simple enough to look safe. It smells tempting, but I only nibble a corner of the toast. It’s all I can stomach right now.

I cross to the window, where thick drapes block any clear view of the grounds. When I slide the fabric aside, I see an expanse of green, neatly trimmed hedges, and a tall fence in the distance—a fortress disguised as a mansion—luxury and danger, side by side.

I remember the moment Dimitri’s men led me out of the warehouse.

How Dimitri kept his hand on my arm, guiding me to a black SUV as if I had no say in the matter.

He’s tall, with lean muscle and effortless control, built for action, not excess.

With a broad chest and defined arms, he possesses a kind of strength that doesn’t need to be flaunted to be felt.

His dark brown hair is cropped short, framing a face that looks like it was carved from stone—strong jaw, hard mouth, and pale gray eyes that miss nothing.

He moves with a sense of purpose. He has a destination. Me.

My heart races just thinking about him. The man is dangerous.

Every fiber in me knows that. It was obvious in the way he handled his pistol.

And the fact that he’s one of the most good-looking men I’ve ever seen doesn’t matter.

Not a bit. He’s not the type of man a woman should notice, not unless she’s prepared to face the consequences.

He never offered an apology for the violence, never said a word about my father’s men left bleeding on the floor. In his world, that was routine.

A slow anger builds in my chest. My father’s thirst for destruction and the Barkovs’ savage response are two sides of the same twisted coin, and I’m caught in the middle. Before I can determine my next move, the door opens again. This time, it’s Dimitri.

I glare at him. “Where’s Seraphina? I assumed when you took me here, I’d get to see her.”

“She’s secure.”

I stand now and stomp closer to him. “I want to see her.”

“Not possible.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“You’re right. It’s Aleksei’s, and he’s made it. Your father is at large, and I have no doubt his men will track you here. Seraphina is in a safehouse with Grigor watching over her. I won’t compromise that location by letting you wander wherever you please.”

My next breath comes out more like a growl than an exhale. “You’re just as controlling as he is. All this talk about ‘safety’ is merely another chain.”

“I’m nothing like your father. He used you like a chest piece. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I screech as I point at the door. “Then let me go. You said you rescued me from him, so I should be free.”

“If I let you walk out, Thorne will scoop you up again. You know it.”

He’s right, but I refuse to concede. “Maybe you want me here to hold over his head.”

“Do you honestly believe your sister would tolerate that? She asked us to find you because she wants you safe.”

“Safe from him or safe for you?” My voice rises, and I jab my finger into his chest. “I’ve seen how you operate. You’re not some benevolent savior.”

The man doesn’t even blink at me as I poke him a third time. He just watches me as though my tantrum is a mildly interesting television program. Jesus. Doesn’t anything rattle him?

He takes my wrist, stopping the next jab.

The grip isn’t painful. I could pull free if I tried.

He doesn’t even tighten his fingers, but the sheer strength behind the hand makes the point.

If he wants, he could snap the bone. I feel his rough skin, the power there.

It’s not like the violence my father’s thugs displayed, but it’s no less deadly.

“Someone will come by to take you on a brief tour of the estate,” he explains. “I assume you’d rather not be cooped up here all day.”

He waits, but when I don’t respond, he leaves without another word. My anger makes my cheeks burn. That man’s arrogance makes me want to throw something, and I’m not the hot-headed type.

I stride over to the door and test the handle.

Locked from the outside. Naturally. I clench my teeth and pace the room.

Is this really any different from my father’s hideouts?

New prison, same bars. I’m not so naive as to believe the Barkovs do anything out of pure goodwill.

Not even if my sister is technically one of them now.

The hours seem to crawl by, but eventually, there’s another knock, and after a click, a different man steps in. He’s older than Dimitri, with graying hair. “I’m Mr. Watley, the Barkovs’ butler. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ve been asked to show you around, Miss Thorne.”

I follow him out, if for no other reason than that I’m going stir-crazy in this room.

The estate is exactly what I expected—too polished, too perfect.

Everything is curated, from the art on the walls to the perfectly arranged furniture.

The design is meant to impress and intimidate, and it succeeds.

The guards stand at doorways and along the perimeter. Their presence is as much a part of the décor as the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Some wear suits, while others are dressed casually, but they all share the same demeanor—watchful, armed, and ready.

This is not a home. It is a fortress.

The older man leads me past a dining hall with an impossibly long table, a sitting room with a marble fireplace, and a library filled with books I doubt most of these men have ever touched. Everything is immaculate, without a speck of dust or a cushion out of place.

“This way.” Watley gestures toward another corridor.

I keep moving, memorizing every exit and possible escape route. Cameras sit at key points, barely noticeable but there. The windows are large, but the thick curtains suggest they are meant for show, not function. I can already tell they won’t open easily.

I file away every detail because, at some point, I will need them.

At the far end of the hall, we stop at a set of double doors. He nods toward them. “This leads to the gardens. You may walk the grounds during daylight, but security will be present at all times.”

In other words, I am allowed outside, but I will never be alone.

I push open the doors and step out onto the porch.

The estate’s grounds are just as fussy as the view from my room suggested.

The lawns are trimmed to perfection, and the hedges have been shaped down to the last detail.

Stone paths curve through flower beds that look like something out of a magazine.

If I were anywhere else, I might have admired it.

A few guards stand near the gate, and when I move, their focus shifts toward me. One stands by the main path, and another loiters near the tall iron fence. Their stance may be casual, but it is not careless.

I stroll toward a stone bench near a fountain, and as I do, I take my time. If they plan to watch me, then I will let them. I refuse to pace the bars of this cage like a restless prisoner. This place was designed to keep people in just as much as it was meant to keep threats out.

Movement near the entrance of the house draws my attention, and when I glance up, I see Dimitri standing on the steps, just watching me.

I force myself to look away first. I refuse to let him think he affects me, even though awareness prickles at the back of my neck like an unwelcome guest. I hate the way he carries himself, how his presence shifts the entire energy of a space.

I hate the way he looks at me, as if he has already decided I belong here.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself, and rise from the bench. That is enough exploring for now.

As I walk back toward the house, I keep my chin high and my expression blank, and Dimitri’s gaze follows me the entire way inside.

The older man leads me back to my room, and after he nods once, he disappears down the hall. The walls feel closer now. The locked doors, the guards, the invisible barriers—everything presses in at once until I’m gasping for air.

I need to get out of here.

Not just for me. For Seraphina.

I don’t believe for a second that she’s safe just because the Barkovs say she is. She’s in a safehouse , which means she’s still a target. And I don’t trust these men to protect her.

My frustration builds until I have to stop moving.

I press my hands against my temples, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling.

Before I can regain control, a knock sounds at the door.

I whirl around, and it opens just enough for Watley to step inside.

He carries something small in his hand, and as he approaches, he holds it out.

“A call for you, Miss Thorne.”

I stare at the phone, and when I realize what he’s saying, my heart hammers against my ribcage. “From who?”

“Your sister. Mr. Barkov asked that I connect you with her for a moment.”

A part of me wonders about Dimitri’s sudden generosity, but the desire to hear Seraphina’s voice drowns out any doubts. I snatch the phone from his hand, and when I see Seraphina’s name on the screen, my breath catches in my throat.

“Seraphina.”

“Oh my god.” Her voice is saturated with relief. “Cecily. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I let out a shaky breath. “I’m fine.” My fingers tighten around the phone. “Where are you? Tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you.”

“Cecily…you can’t.”

My stomach knots so tight I think I might double over. “What do you mean I can’t?”

“It’s too dangerous,” she explains. “Dimitri told me you’re at the estate, and that’s the safest place for you right now.”

“ Dimitri told you ?” Heat flashes through me. “And we’re just supposed to listen to him?”

“Yes.” She exhales, and the sound grates against my nerves. “Cecily, I know you don’t trust them, but you should. Grigor—”

“I don’t give a damn about Grigor.” My voice rises, and my legs refuse to stay still. I pace faster. “I care about you . You’re my sister, and they’re keeping us apart. How am I supposed to trust them when they won’t even let me see you?”

“They’re doing it to protect us.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “You sound just like them.”

She falls silent for a long moment before she says, “I know you’re angry. But listen to me, okay? They could’ve left you with our father. But they didn’t. You’re alive right now because of them.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “And you’re okay with that? You’re okay being part of their world?”

“Of course I am,” she replies. “Grigor is my husband, and I love him. If that means remaining in this…mafia nonsense, then fine. Besides, I don’t have a choice if I want to stay safe from our father. Neither do you.”

The truth of that slams into me so hard I have to reach out and steady myself on a dresser. Still, I’m not ready to resign myself to a life constrained to a Barkov. “I’m getting out of here, Seraphina. I’ll find a way.”

“No, you won’t.” A plea slips into her words. “Not because they won’t let you, but because you know you’re safer there. Please, just…try, for now. Try to trust them.”

I end the call before she can say anything else.

I cannot listen to my sister defend the men who have trapped me in this estate, the ones who act like they get to dictate my future. I slam the phone onto the nightstand and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

Try to trust them?

Not a chance.

The phone buzzes again, and when I see Seraphina’s name, my fingers curl into a fist. I let it ring until it stops.

The longer I sit here, the more aware I become of the details around me. The wardrobe is filled with clothes that fit perfectly. The food they brought this morning was fresh, even though I refused to eat it. When I walked through the estate, no one barked orders at me.

Everything is designed to make me comfortable.

It doesn’t work.

I cannot pretend this is a kinder prison, even if the cell is more luxurious. And no matter what my sister says, I cannot stay here and let the Barkovs control me.

The moment an opportunity arises, I will get out of here.