Chapter 3

I waited until Marcellus left for his morning meeting before I dared to move. My hands trembled as I pulled out the suitcases from the back of the closet, the sound of unzipping fabric seeming deafeningly loud in the silence of the mansion. I had to leave—tonight. The spark of resistance that had ignited in me was now a flame, consuming my fear.

I folded my clothes methodically, trying to focus on each item rather than the thundering of my heart. Just a few more minutes and I'd be done. Just a few more minutes before—

"What do you think you're doing?"

Marcellus's voice sliced through the room like ice. He stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit, his face a mask of cold fury.

"I—" My throat closed up. "I thought you had a meeting."

"I did." He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving the suitcase on the bed. "But I forgot some documents."

The lie was transparent. He'd known. Somehow, he'd always known.

"You're not going anywhere, Serenity." His voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it all the more terrifying. "Not now. Not ever."

He snapped his fingers, and the household staff appeared as if they'd been waiting just outside. "Prepare dinner. Something special."

"Marcellus, please—"

"Seafood," he continued, ignoring me completely. "The lobster bisque from last week. And shrimp. Lots of shrimp."

My blood ran cold. "You know I can't eat shellfish."

He turned to me then, his smile sharp as a blade. "I know exactly what you can and cannot do, Serenity. That's why you're going to sit at that table tonight and eat every bite."

Dinner was an exquisite form of torture. The dining room gleamed under crystal chandeliers, Ana seated at Marcellus's right hand in what had once been my place. The steam from the bisque curled upward, carrying the scent that made my throat begin to close.

"Serve my wife first," Marcellus instructed the staff.

The bowl placed before me contained creamy soup with chunks of lobster floating inside. I stared at it, feeling the room tilt slightly.

"Is something wrong?" Ana asked sweetly. "You look pale."

"I can't eat this," I whispered.

Marcellus's voice cut through the clink of silverware. "You will."

I took a spoonful, fighting the urge to vomit as the shellfish touched my tongue. My lips began to tingle immediately.

"Another bite," Marcellus commanded.

By the third spoonful, my throat was swelling. I gasped for air, dropping the spoon with a clatter.

"Marcellus," Ana said with mock concern, "she doesn't look well."

He watched me dispassionately as I clutched at my collar, my airway closing. "Perhaps she's being dramatic."

The room spun as I slid from my chair to the floor, wheezing desperately for breath.

"Marcellus!" Ana's voice seemed distant now. "I think she's actually allergic!"

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Marcellus's face—not concerned, not surprised, but satisfied.

I woke in the hospital to the steady beep of monitors and Dr. Mitchell's concerned face.

"Mrs. Oliver," she said quietly, "you're lucky to be alive."

When I finally returned to the mansion, my legs still weak and my throat raw, I discovered my suitcases were gone. All my belongings had been moved to a storage room in the basement—a windowless cell with concrete walls and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"My jewelry designs," I whispered, reaching for the portfolio I'd kept hidden beneath my clothes.

Marcellus appeared in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway. "Looking for something?"

"My work. My personal things."

"They're safe," he said, stepping inside. "For now."

I lunged for my portfolio, but he caught my wrist. "You should rest, Serenity."

"Let me go!"

"You'll stay here until you remember your place." He released me with a small push. "And your place is with me."

The door closed behind him with a metallic click. I heard the key turn in the lock.

"Marcellus!" I screamed, throwing myself against the door. "Let me out!"

But there was no answer—only silence and darkness as the light bulb flickered once, twice, then went out completely.

Three days passed in that black void. Three days of pounding on the door until my fists were raw. Three days of screaming until my voice gave out. Three days of rationed food and water pushed through a small slot at the bottom of the door.

By the time they released me, I was barely recognizable—thin, hollow-eyed, my hair matted with sweat and tears. The world seemed too bright, too loud. And something was wrong with my hearing—sounds came muffled and distant in my right ear.

"Your hearing is damaged," Dr. Mitchell confirmed when she examined me at the hospital. "The stress, the trauma... it's affecting your auditory system."

She fitted me with hearing aids, small devices that helped restore some clarity to the world.

But when I returned to the mansion, Ana was waiting.

"Poor Serenity," she cooed, examining the hearing aids with false sympathy. "Marcellus is so worried about you. He thinks you might be... unstable."

I clutched my hearing aids tighter. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" She smiled, her eyes cold as winter. "Because you forgot to take your medication this morning. And yesterday. And the day before."

My pills—my prescription for anxiety—were missing from my bathroom. So were my hearing aids when I went to retrieve them later.

"Marcellus," Ana's voice drifted down the hallway, "I'm concerned about Serenity. She's forgetting things, hearing voices..."

I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself, the world already beginning to fade into a muffled haze without my hearing aids.

And in that moment, I knew that escaping this prison would require more than just suitcases and courage. It would require a miracle.