Chapter 2 The Room With No Locks

The silence followed her.

Up the grand staircase, into the hallway, through the tall second door on the left-the quiet was not comforting. It was the kind that listened. The kind that swallowed sound but made her ears ring.

The room Marco had given her was beautiful. Larger than her uncle's entire apartment. Everything was softened: the gold-thread curtains, the cream carpet, the low glow from the chandelier above. If it had been a hotel, she might have called it luxury.

But she didn't belong in luxury. She wasn't here as a guest.

She stood in the center, motionless.

The bed, king-sized and perfectly made, seemed untouched. The dresser, the glass desk by the window, the cushioned armchair-all looked like they belonged in a magazine spread. But the room wasn't cold from disuse. It was cold from design. Sanitized. Curated.

She crossed the floor, heading to the nearest window. No lock. No latch. Seamless glass. Likely bulletproof. Likely escape-proof. She leaned close, peered outside. Beyond the gardens were high stone walls, black-iron gates, and the distant lights of the city.

Far away. Too far.

A tightness pinched behind her ribs.

She turned and scanned the ceiling. There. In the upper corner. A small black camera lens, recessed but visible if you knew to look. Another was perched above the door.

She blinked slowly.

Marco hadn't said she was being watched. He hadn't needed to.

She crossed to the closet and opened it.

She stared.

Clothes. Dozens of pieces. Neutral colors. All in her size. Sleepwear, dresses, casual wear. Brands she'd never worn. The scent of new fabric and expensive perfume clung to the space. She reached for one hanger. Ran her fingers along the silk.

It felt like she was touching someone else's life.

She checked the vanity at the end of the closet. Makeup arranged by type. Brushes lined up symmetrically. A drawer opened to reveal jewelry: simple, tasteful, matching the outfits.

None of it had been chosen by her. But someone had chosen it for her.

She stepped back, suddenly cold.

Everything here was prepared.

She walked back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave slightly. Soft. Custom.

She stood up again.

She didn't want to sleep in it. She didn't want to feel owned even in rest.

Crossing to the nightstand, she opened the drawer, expecting a Bible or a phone she wasn't allowed to use.

Instead, there was a photograph.

Her breath caught.

She picked it up with shaking fingers.

It was her. Months ago. Standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. She wore her green sweater and had her earbuds in. She was looking down, unaware. Candid. Unposed. Vulnerable.

Taken without her knowledge. Long before tonight.

Her throat burned.

She slid the photo back into the drawer and shut it with care.

She didn't cry.

Not when she found the bathroom and saw it was stocked with products she used back home.

Not when she changed into the sleepwear that fit her perfectly.

Not when she brushed her hair out and caught her own reflection looking back with hollow, unblinking eyes.

She didn't sleep in the bed.

Instead, she curled into the chaise lounge beside the window, wrapping herself in a throw blanket. From here, she could watch the night creep along the marble drive. Trees rustled gently beyond the lights. Somewhere below, a car engine purred softly, then faded.

She pressed her forehead to the glass.

And she remembered.

---

The kitchen in her uncle's apartment had always smelled like beer.

She remembered that smell now, though she hadn't noticed it for years. It had clung to the chipped tile and the threadbare curtains. Her uncle used to pace when he was on the phone. She'd learned to tune out his voice. Learned to listen for tone, not content.

But the day he came home with a folder in his hand and a gleam in his eye, she knew something was wrong.

He'd said her name like he was proud of it for the first time.

"You're going to fix everything, Em."

She had looked up from the dishes. "What do you mean?"

He'd smiled. "You're special. Someone finally sees it."

She hadn't understood then. She did now.

The folder had likely contained the contract.

---

The camera whirred softly.

Emily stilled.

The lens above the door had turned. Just a hair. Just enough to center her.

She stared at it. Unmoving.

The urge to scream was small. But sharp. A spark in the chest, not a flame.

She whispered, barely audible. "I see you too."

No reply.

Of course not.

This house didn't speak.

It watched.

She leaned back, letting her head rest against the wall.

Sleep didn't come easily. But it came.

And when it did, she dreamed not of running away.

She dreamed of locking the door from the inside.

And setting it all on fire.