Chapter 8 Reality Begins

The silence in the mansion was heavier than any scream.

For days, Lucien hadn't looked at her, not really. He spoke only when necessary, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. The man who once watched her in the greenhouse with a storm in his eyes now moved past her like she was invisible.

And maybe she was.

A possession tucked in the corner of his grand estate. A thing to be seen, not heard. Not felt.

Emilia walked the halls alone, her bare feet echoing softly across the marble. The opulence that once made her gape now felt like a prison. The chandeliers, the oil paintings, the velvet drapes, it was all a cruel joke. She had everything but freedom.

And the man who owned it all wouldn't even look at her.

The staff, once cordial, now avoided her eyes. She could feel it, Lucien had ordered it. Whatever freedom she'd imagined she had was an illusion. A thread he'd cut the moment she stepped too close. She thought it was better, that she could endured it when she first arrived. She must have been a fool. She caught a glimpse of him one afternoon by the stairwell. Talking to a man in a crisp black suit, blood on his collar. Lucien's voice was low and calm as he gave orders to clean the mess, dispose of the body, leave no trace. Emilia stood frozen on the landing, her stomach turning.

He didn't flinch. Didn't pause. When his eyes flicked up to hers, there was no warmth, no familiarity, only steel.

He turned away without a word.

It was like watching a stranger.

The next day, she knocked on his office door. She could not endured it no more.

No answer.

She knocked again. Still silence. "Lucien," she said, soft but insistent. "Please."

The door opened sharply. He stood in the frame, tall and ruthless in black, eyes cold as the grave.

"What do you want?"

She hesitated. "I... I just wanted to talk."

"I'm busy."

"You've been avoiding me."

He arched a brow. "You're property. I don't owe you explanations."

Her breath caught in her throat.

"I thought-"

"That was your first mistake," he cut in. "Thinking."

His words were blades. Precise. Meant to wound.

"You don't think, Emilia. You do as you're told. That's the arrangement."

She blinked, trying to hold her ground. "I'm not a slave."

"You were sold to me," he said flatly. "If you've forgotten the terms of that sale, I can remind you."

Her spine stiffened, but her hands trembled.

He took a step closer. "You live in my house, under my protection. But don't confuse that with kindness. I don't care if you cry. I don't care if you hate me. You're here because I paid for you. That's it."

The words landed like bricks.

"But..."

He let out a cold, mocking laugh. "But what? Now let me make this clear to you, just in case you try this again next. You do not come to me unless I summoned or asked for you, next time I will show you why men twice your size fear me."

Tears welled up, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

Lucien stared at her, eyes unreadable. Then he turned and walked back into his office.

The door slammed in her face.

That night, Emilia couldn't eat. The food on her plate blurred into colors and nothingness. Rosa shouted at her but she did not care.

She wasn't hungry.

She was unraveling.

Her chest felt too tight, her breath too short. The weight of it all, the mansion, the silence, the contract she never signed but was bound by, pressed down like a vice.

She was twenty.

And sold.

A commodity passed from one man to another. Her voice stripped. Her choices gone. And the only man who had once shown her even a sliver of humanity had buried it under stone.

When she returned to her room, she stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked the same.

But something in her eyes had changed.

They were hollow now.

Not broken, but close.

And that terrified her more than Lucien ever could. And so she makes up her mind, he wanted her to be a Slave, then a slave she will be.