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I don’t know how long I’ve been curled up on the cold floor, my body shaking with chills that won’t subside. Time has lost all meaning. The hunger twisting in my stomach has dulled into something hollow, something I no longer have the strength to fight against.

I can’t remember my last meal. I can’t remember the last time I felt warm.

The room is nothing but a box of emptiness, a place meant to strip me down to nothing, and it’s working.

I keep my eyes closed, slipping in and out of consciousness, my body so weak that even my thoughts feel sluggish. Somewhere in the fog, I hear the door creak open.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

Then, suddenly I feel warmth. I’m being lifted.

Strong arms curl around me, shifting me effortlessly from the floor. Heat radiates from the body holding me, pulling me out of my numb haze. My head lolls against a solid chest, the scent of him—something clean, something dark invading my senses.

For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then I blink, and my vision clears just enough to see him.

Mikhail. His expression is unreadable, his face carved from stone as he carries me effortlessly, his grip firm but not painful.

Confusion flickers inside me, but I don’t have the energy to question him. My body is too weak, too tired.

The temperature shifts as he moves, the air losing its chill as we enter another space. This room is different. It’s warmer. Softer. The contrast is jarring.

A plush bed replaces the cold, hard floor I’ve been confined to for days. The sheets are crisp and clean, the air scented faintly with something rich—leather and wood, like an old library. It feels lived-in, human, a stark contrast to the sterile prison he had thrown me into before.

I don’t get to linger in that warmth for long.

Mikhail places me down carefully, but the moment is short-lived.

His voice slashes through the silence, his tone sharp, angry. “Do you think starving yourself is going to save you?” he demands.

His words hit me like a slap, jolting me out of my daze. I blink up at him, my body still too weak to sit up, but my chest tightens at the way he looms over me.

“You refuse food like some pathetic attempt at control,” he continues, his voice laced with frustration. “Do you think I care if you grow weak and frail? If you wither away in some childish act of defiance?”

I flinch, his words striking something raw inside me.

He paces the room, tension rolling off him in waves. “You will eat. You will get stronger. Don’t think for a second that playing the victim will help you escape or avoid your purpose here.”

My breath shudders out, and before I can stop it, the pressure in my chest cracks wide open. Tears spill down my face. A broken, choked sob escapes me. It rips from my throat, loud in the suffocating silence of the room. I hate it. I hate that I’m breaking down in front of him.

That after all the fear, all the suffering, all the ways I’ve tried to hold myself together, this is what finally shatters me—his words, his sheer indifference to whether I live or die.

I clutch the sheets beneath me, my fingers curling into the fabric, my body trembling from exhaustion and hunger and helplessness. My breath comes in gasps, each inhale shallow and uneven, my vision blurred with tears.

Mikhail stops pacing. I can feel his gaze on me, unwavering, piercing, but I don’t look at him. I can’t.

“Are you finished?” he says, voice sharp, impatient.

His coldness only makes the sobs worse.

My throat tightens, and suddenly, the words I’ve swallowed for years claw their way out, spilling past my lips before I can stop them.

“If you think holding me here will make them beg for my return,” I gasp between sobs, “you’re wasting your time.”

The air shifts.

He doesn’t respond, but I feel his presence shift, his body going unnaturally still.

I force myself to continue, the words breaking, raw and bitter. “My family doesn’t care if I’m dead or alive. I mean nothing to them, especially my father.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop shaking, but it’s useless.

The silence that follows is unbearable. It stretches between us, thick and heavy, heavier than his anger, heavier than his threats. I can’t breathe past it.

Finally, I force myself to look up.

Mikhail stands rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. His eyes—his dark, unforgiving eyes—are locked on me with an intensity that makes my stomach twist.

For the first time since he took me, he hesitates. It’s brief. A flicker of something in his gaze, something unknowable. I don’t know if it’s doubt. If it’s curiosity. If it’s amusement.

Mikhail doesn’t move.

The silence between us grows unbearable, thick with something unspoken. His dark gaze lingers on me, unwavering, and I feel my chest tighten under the weight of it. He isn’t the kind of man who hesitates, and yet—for the briefest second—I saw it. A flicker of something unfamiliar in his expression, something that doesn’t quite fit with the cold, ruthless presence he’s kept since the moment he stole me away.

Whatever it was, it’s gone now.

His lips curl into something almost mocking, and when he finally speaks, his voice is laced with quiet amusement. “So dramatic,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You expect me to believe that your own family wouldn’t trade everything for you?”

I swallow, my throat dry. “Believe what you want,” I whisper. “It doesn’t change anything.”

He scoffs, turning away, already dismissing me.

Something in me snaps.

Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the way my body feels too weak to keep holding itself together, or the realization that my brilliant hunger strike only made things worse for me.

Or maybe it’s the crushing weight of being alone.

Before I even think about it, I stumble to my feet, the motion sending a sharp, dizzying wave through my head. I barely manage to grab on to his sleeve before my legs give out, my fingers weak around the fabric of his shirt.

Mikhail reacts instantly, spinning around and jerking his arm free of my grasp, his body tensed as if expecting an attack.

I don’t let go.

I clutch on to his sleeve again, my breathing uneven, my vision still blurry. “Please,” I rasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.

His eyes narrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

I hear my own voice, breathless and shaky, and I hate it.

Mikhail stares at me, silent. His muscles remain taut, as if waiting for some trick, some act of defiance—but there isn’t one.

He knows I’m not trying to fight him.

I barely have the strength to stand.

His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he laughs.

It’s quiet at first, then low and dark and cruel.

“You don’t want to be alone?” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’ve spent days trying to get as far away from me as possible, and now you’re asking me to stay?”

I grip his sleeve tighter, my fingers trembling. “I… I don’t know what I want.”

Mikhail watches me for a moment longer, his amusement still lingering, but something shifts in his posture. He tilts his head slightly, considering.

Then, to my complete shock, he moves away from the door, not toward it.

He strides toward the desk instead, lowering himself into the chair, as if he owns the space, his posture relaxed, calculated.

“You’re pathetic,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I sink back onto the bed, curling into myself, feeling the tension in my body ease just slightly at his presence.

I shouldn’t feel comforted.

This man is my kidnapper. My enemy.

Exhaustion has stripped me raw, and right now, anything is better than the suffocating loneliness of this room.

A long silence stretches between us before Mikhail finally breaks it. “Tell me, little Spade,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “How much did you know about your family’s dealings?”

I don’t hesitate. “Nothing.”

His jaw twitches, just slightly. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Because it’s the truth,” I insist.

His gaze sharpens, assessing, picking apart every inch of me.

“Yet,” he muses, “you’re here because of them.”

The words settle over me like a storm cloud, suffocating and heavy. I press my lips together, my fingers curling against the sheets.

His dark eyes stay locked on me, studying every twitch, every flicker of emotion on my face. I know what he wants. He wants me to crack. To confess to something I don’t know. To feed into whatever twisted conclusion he’s already drawn about me.

I have nothing to give him.

“I already told you,” I murmur, voice hoarse. “I don’t know anything about their dealings.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Convenient,” he says, amusement laced through the word.

I let out a weak laugh, more bitter than anything. “Not convenient,” I snap, though there’s no real heat behind it. I’m too tired for that. “Frustrating. You think I want to be this clueless? That I wouldn’t rather have some kind of information to bargain with?” I shake my head. “You can interrogate me all you want. You can ask the same questions a hundred times. My answer won’t change, because it’s true.”

Mikhail’s expression doesn’t shift. He just leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. “Then tell me something useful.”

I inhale sharply. “Like what?”

He grins. “Tell me about your father.”

I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper, but I force out a response. “You already know everything you need to know about him.”

“Do I?” he muses. “From where I’m sitting, you’ve been kept in the dark about a lot of things. Makes me wonder if you ever really knew him at all.”

I stiffen.

Mikhail notices. His grin widens. I hate him. I hate that he’s right.

“He’s….” I hesitate, trying to piece together an answer that doesn’t make me sound as pathetic as I feel. “He’s distant.”

Mikhail laughs. A sharp, cutting sound. “Distant,” he repeats, shaking his head. “That’s a nice way to say he never gave a shit about you, isn’t it?”

I glare at him, but it’s weak. Everything about me is weak right now.

“I didn’t matter to him,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “Sophia was always the important one.”

His amusement doesn’t fade. If anything, he looks vindicated. “Of course she was,” he says simply. “She was the one with power. You? You were just a loose end he didn’t know what to do with.”

The words should make me angry.

They do—but I’m too exhausted to hold on to it, too worn down to muster anything more than a sharp exhale.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” I say. “You mock me for not knowing the truth, but I didn’t know. What else am I supposed to say? What else am I supposed to do?”

Mikhail watches me for a moment, then stands. “It’s time I left.”

Panic lurches inside me before I can think better of it. “Wait,” I blurt. “Don’t go.”

His brows lift, but I see the amusement flicker in his gaze. He leans down slightly, close enough that I can see the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

“Good night,” he murmurs. Then he turns and walks out, locking the door behind him.

I sit perfectly still, staring at the door long after Mikhail is gone. The finality of the lock clicking into place echoes in my ears, heavier than it should be.

I won’t cry. I won’t. My body betrays me. The lump in my throat grows tighter, the sting behind my eyes worsening as I press my lips together to keep from breaking. My hands fist in the sheets, gripping them so tightly my fingers ache.

Mikhail’s words replay in my head. Mocking. Amused. Like all of this is just another game to him. Like I am just another game.

I blink hard, forcing my tears back. I won’t let him get to me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much I feel like I’m drowning in this place.

The hopelessness lingers. It festers.

I don’t know how long I sit there, curled up in bed, my body aching, my mind slipping into exhaustion. I might have dozed off at some point because when the next knock comes, I jolt in place.

The door swings open without hesitation, and this time, it’s not Mikhail. Ivan steps inside, his expression unreadable, his movements sharp and efficient.

I tense immediately.

“Doctor’s on the way,” he says, his voice clipped. “Try not to get your hopes up.”

I frown, wary. “Why?”

Ivan smiles slightly, like he enjoys watching me squirm. “Well, you’re not going anywhere, no matter how sick you get.”

A chill runs through me. I swallow, sitting up straighter, ignoring the way my body protests. “Even if I needed a hospital?”

Ivan shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter.”

I stare at him. I can’t tell if he’s bluffing. He doesn’t look like he is.

“You’re lying,” I say, but my voice wavers.

“Am I?” he muses, tilting his head. “You don’t know Mikhail like I do. You don’t understand how he works yet.”

I don’t respond, my mind spinning. Would he really do that? Would he really let me die in here if it came to that?

Ivan watches me, his amusement fading slightly. “Look, you’ll be fine. The doctor will give you whatever you need to keep you from dropping dead. Don’t mistake that for care. You’re not leaving this house. Not today. Not ever—unless Mikhail decides you’re no longer useful.”

I swallow, my throat tight and dry. “What happens if I’m not useful?” My voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Ivan grins again, but there’s something colder behind it this time. “Then you’re a problem. Problems don’t tend to last long around here.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I hate how casual he sounds, like he’s discussing the weather. Like my life—or death—means nothing.

I force myself to sit up straighter despite the exhaustion weighing me down. “If Mikhail is waiting for me to be useful, he’s wasting his time.”

Ivan tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Maybe. Don’t think that means he’ll just let you go.”

I don’t answer. What could I even say?

Ivan watches me for a moment longer, then exhales, shaking his head, as if I’m already a lost cause. “Doctor will be here soon. Try not to be difficult.”

With that, he strides toward the door, pulling it open effortlessly.

The lock clicks into place behind him, and I am alone again.

I bury my face in the pillows, pressing them against my mouth to muffle the sob that breaks free. Tears spill onto the fabric, hot and relentless. My body trembles, too exhausted to fight the emotions clawing at my throat. I don’t know how long I lie there, curled into myself, wishing I could disappear.

I’m trapped. Truly trapped. No one is coming for me. No one even cares that I’m gone. Mikhail made sure of that. A shudder runs through me, and for the first time, a disturbing thought creeps in.

Maybe dying would be easier than this.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the thought away.

As the silence stretches, something else settles into my bones—an unsettling feeling that I’m being watched. It’s been there from the start, lingering in the back of my mind.

There are cameras here. I know it. Mikhail is watching me. Well, let him see me cry. Let him see what he’s done. It won’t change anything.