Chapter 3 I Don't Know How To Be Quiet Enough

I didn't want to eat.

I just wanted to be invisible.

The bathroom was cold. Not freezing-just enough to remind me that comfort was a luxury. The towels were thick, the mirror spotless, the soaps lined up like soldiers. But nothing felt... mine. I used everything carefully. Like I was borrowing the life of a stranger I could never become.

The water ran too hot. I let it burn. Just a little. I needed to feel something.

When I stepped out, my reflection startled me. Eyes too wide. Lips dry. Hair limp and damp around my shoulders like seaweed.

The girl in the mirror looked like she'd been erased and redrawn by a shaky hand.

I got dressed in silence. The clothes weren't mine-too expensive, too perfect. Everything fit too well. Like he'd guessed my size, or known. That scared me more than if they'd been a little loose.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Not peaceful-tense. Like it was holding its breath.

I found the dining room by accident. Or maybe it found me.

There he was. Dominic. Sitting at the head of the table like a king in exile.

He didn't look up when I entered. Just cut a piece of something on his plate, slow and controlled.

I stood in the doorway, unsure if I was supposed to move closer or disappear again.

He spoke without glancing at me. "Sit."

One word. No warmth. No room for refusal.

I sat.

There was already a plate waiting for me. Eggs. Toast. Something that might've been avocado.

I didn't touch any of it.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"Not hungry?" he asked, voice soft like silk soaked in ice.

I shook my head.

He sipped his coffee. The cup made the smallest click as he set it down.

"You'll need to eat eventually," he said. "I didn't buy a ghost."

"I'm not hungry," I murmured again.

"That'll change."

I hated how certain he sounded. Like he knew my body better than I did.

We sat in silence. He ate. I watched. Or tried not to.

Every movement he made was quiet, efficient, practiced. Nothing wasted. Even the way he wiped his mouth was deliberate.

He wasn't a man who lived. He was a man who controlled.

"Are you going to keep staring at your plate like it owes you something?" he asked.

I blinked. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be useful."

I looked at him, startled. "Useful?"

He leaned back slightly. "You'll be here a while. That means you'll earn your keep. Unless you'd rather be chained in the basement with the rats."

The way he said it... I couldn't tell if he was joking. I didn't want to ask.

"What do you want me to do?" My voice cracked a little.

He stood up. Walked over. Not fast-just close enough to steal the space between us.

He touched my chin. Lifted it with two fingers.

"I haven't decided yet."

Then he dropped his hand and walked away.

I didn't move for a full minute after the door closed. I just sat there, staring at the food I didn't eat.

Something inside me curled tighter. Smaller.

Because now I understood something I didn't want to admit:

He wasn't hurting me.

Not yet.

He was waiting.

And the waiting was worse.