Chapter 2 The First Lesson

Morning crept into the room in shades of ash and silver. Isla hadn't slept. Her mind kept returning to the same looping questions.

How did Violet get involved with a man like Dominic Vale?

What did she steal?

And how far would Dominic go to get it back?

A soft knock at the door jolted her upright.

She stayed silent.

The knock came again, firmer.

"Miss Hart?" a voice called. Male. Young.

She rose and cracked the door. A man-barely older than her, clean-shaven, dressed in black-stood holding a tray.

"Breakfast," he said. "Boss's orders."

She hesitated. Her stomach twisted in protest. But her pride wouldn't let her show weakness. Not even to a stranger.

She took the tray.

"Is he watching?" she asked.

The man's brow lifted, but he didn't answer. He simply turned and walked away.

She closed the door, set the tray on the edge of the vanity, and stared.

It wasn't poisoned, probably.

Eggs. Toast. Berries. A glass of orange juice.

She picked up the knife.

It was real.

Not a plastic imitation. Not childproofed.

Steel.

Her reflection stared back at her in the polished blade.

A threat. Or an opportunity.

She slid it under the mattress before taking a bite of toast.

⸻

Dominic watched her eat.

He noted every movement-hesitation, posture, the subtle way her hand slid beneath the bed.

"Smart girl," he murmured.

Jules stood beside him, reading from a tablet. "We found her sister. Violet Hart. Or rather, what's left of her trail."

Dominic's jaw clenched. "Talk."

"Violet used three different aliases over the past year. Left New York under the name Leigh Green. Showed up again in Tokyo six months ago. Vanished again last month. We think she boarded a private flight under an unregistered manifest out of Malta."

"Who owns the jet?"

"Still tracing that. But the last person seen with her? One of Rami Kade's men."

Dominic's eyes darkened.

Rami Kade.

Rival syndicate boss. Human trafficker. Arms dealer. Snake.

"Get me everything," he said. "Every name. Every transaction. Every face she's been in the same room with."

Jules nodded. "And the girl?"

Dominic looked back at the screen. Isla had finished eating. She was pacing now, like a caged animal.

"She'll come to me," he said.

"And if she doesn't?"

Dominic smiled coldly.

"She will."

⸻

The door opened at noon.

This time, she didn't flinch.

Dominic stood there himself.

"Come with me."

She didn't move.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you're mine," he said simply. "And I want to show you what that means."

She followed.

Not because he owned her.

Because she needed to understand him.

Control him.

Escape him.

They walked in silence through the halls. He didn't touch her, but his presence wrapped around her like rope. Silent. Inescapable.

They stopped before a thick steel door.

He pressed his palm to the scanner.

It hissed open.

The room inside was... empty.

Walls of grey. A single chair in the center.

And a man tied to it.

Isla froze.

Blood stained the floor beneath him. His shirt was torn. One eye swollen shut.

"Wh-what is this?" she whispered.

Dominic stepped in.

"This," he said, "is your lesson."

She turned to run.

He caught her wrist.

Not hard. Not painful.

Just... inevitable.

"You don't get to look away," he said.

"Is he alive?"

"For now."

She swallowed bile. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because this," he said, "is what happens to liars."

"I haven't lied."

He didn't blink. "You're protecting someone who has. That makes you part of the lie."

She jerked away from him, shaking.

"Who is he?"

"Thief. Dealer. Small time. But he knew Violet."

"Did he hurt her?"

"He used her. She used him back." Dominic circled the man like a wolf. "It ended badly. He tried to sell her location. She slit his throat."

"She's alive?"

Dominic met her eyes.

"That depends on you."

⸻

Hours later, Isla sat on the edge of the bed, still trembling. She hadn't spoken since they returned. Dominic hadn't forced her to.

He didn't have to.

The image of that man-bloodied, gasping-was carved behind her eyes. Not because of what had happened.

But because of how calm Dominic had been.

He hadn't hit him.

Hadn't shouted.

He'd simply asked questions.

Softly. Clearly. And waited for the pain to do the talking.

And it had.

Isla had learned something that day.

Dominic Vale wasn't a brute.

He was a scalpel.

⸻

That night, he summoned her again.

This time to the music room.

She entered cautiously, unsure of what game he was playing.

He sat at the piano. Playing.

A classical piece. Haunting. Beautiful. Unexpected.

She stood still until he gestured to the bench beside him.

"I'm not in the mood for a duet," she said.

He didn't look at her. "I used to play when I was ten. My mother insisted. She thought it would make me civilized."

"Did it?"

"No."

She didn't sit.

He finished the piece, then turned to her.

"You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

He nodded slowly. "But not mindless."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. It's supposed to make you listen."

He rose from the bench and stepped closer.

"There are worse men out there, Isla. Men who would have torn you open on that auction floor. Who wouldn't have waited."

"Is that your twisted version of kindness?"

"It's perspective."

He stepped past her, paused at the door.

"You have one week," he said.

"For what?"

"To convince me not to use you."

The door closed behind him.

And Isla finally let herself cry.

The tears didn't last long.

Not because she wasn't broken-but because she refused to be.

Isla wiped her face with shaking hands, sat on the floor beside the bed, and pressed her back to the cold wall. The silence in the room was almost unbearable. Like it was waiting. Watching.

Dominic Vale had shown her what he was capable of. What he wanted her to see.

Which meant there was more.

Something deeper. Something uglier.

She had to get ahead of it.

She needed to think.

She needed a plan.

She needed to find out what Violet stole-and why it was worth ruining Isla's life for.

⸻

The next morning, the routine repeated.

Knock. Tray. Silence.

But this time, a folded note rested beside the eggs.

No handwriting. Just a printed message.

The library is open. Use it wisely.

Her heart pounded.

A trap?

An opportunity?

She ate quickly, dressed in the same black silk robe, and slipped out the door.

There were no guards in the hallway. Just velvet carpet and old portraits staring down at her.

She found the library two corridors over.

And it was massive.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Ladders. Dark wood and glass cabinets. Tables stacked with leather-bound volumes and locked drawers.

It wasn't just a reading room.

It was an archive.

She wandered past rows of books, stopping at a table where folders were stacked.

Dossiers.

Names. Photos. Dates. Places.

She flipped through one. A woman. Early 30s. Blonde. Dead.

Another. A man. Lawyer. Vanished in 2022.

The third one made her freeze.

Violet Hart.

Her sister's photo. Passport copies. A map with circles. The same aliases Jules had mentioned.

And something else.

A photo of Violet standing next to a man Isla didn't recognize-dark-skinned, heavily tattooed, eyes as cold as Dominic's.

Labeled beneath in red ink: RAMI KADE.

Dominic had mentioned him yesterday.

Isla's fingers trembled as she flipped the page.

A shipment log. Weapons. Dates.

And at the bottom, a note scribbled in blue ink:

"She took the codes. Without them, the shipment stalls. Intercept. Eliminate if necessary."

Her stomach dropped.

Violet had stolen something huge.

And Dominic wasn't the only one looking for her.

Someone wanted her dead.

⸻

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She spun around, heart slamming.

It was Jules. The quiet man from before, tablet always in hand.

"You weren't supposed to find that," he said, not sounding surprised.

"I didn't ask for permission," she snapped.

He stepped inside, closed the door.

"You're smarter than you look."

"Then let me go."

"Too late for that."

"Why? Because I saw the files?"

"No." He walked closer. "Because he's chosen you."

Her voice cracked. "Chosen me for what?"

Jules gave a small shrug. "That's between you and Dominic. But if I were you?" His gaze sharpened. "I'd stop pushing."

She narrowed her eyes. "He threatens. You threaten. What's the difference?"

"I deliver on mine."

He turned and left.

The lock clicked behind him.

⸻

That night, Dominic didn't summon her.

Which somehow felt worse.

The silence stretched long and punishing. The air in the room thickened with questions and fear. Isla couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't stop seeing the blood from the day before.

She wanted to believe she was still herself.

Still strong.

But the cracks were forming.

And Dominic knew it.

⸻

Dominic stood in his office, watching the storm build across the city skyline.

Lightning slashed the sky in violent strokes.

He could feel her unraveling. Slowly.

He didn't want obedience that came from brute force. He wanted loyalty forged through fire.

She'd fight him. He expected that.

But eventually, Isla Hart would bend.

Not because he broke her.

But because she chose to.

He whispered her name to the glass.

"Soon." A storm rolled in by midnight.

Thunder cracked above the estate like the sky itself was protesting her captivity. Isla sat on the window seat, legs curled under her, watching the rain smear down the glass in silver streaks.

Her thoughts kept looping.

What do you want from me, Dominic Vale?

He had every advantage. Power. Money. Men willing to die for him.

But something was off.

He hadn't touched her since the auction. Hadn't even tried. No advances. No physical threats. Just fear and pressure-carefully measured doses of psychological erosion.

He wanted her to come willingly.

To choose him.

That made him dangerous in a way she hadn't anticipated.

Because part of her-just a fragment, a sliver-wondered who he was before the darkness. Before the violence.

And that curiosity was poison.

She had to kill it.

⸻

The next morning, she didn't wait for the knock.

She opened the door and stepped out, barefoot, face unreadable.

The same young man from before stood holding the breakfast tray. He blinked.

"Morning," she said calmly.

He nodded, stepping aside as she took the tray.

"Wait," she said before he turned. "What's your name?"

He hesitated. "Luca."

"Do you ever leave this place, Luca?"

His eyes flicked to the camera above her door. Then back to her.

"No one leaves unless he says so."

"And how often does he say so?"

Luca looked down. "Never."

⸻

That answer haunted her more than the prison bars ever could.

She paced the room for hours, studying the layout. Two cameras. No blind spots. She found a second knife hidden in the drawer beside the vanity-dull but usable.

She was being given tools.

A library. A weapon. A name.

But none of them were free.

Dominic was testing her. Conditioning her. Trying to convince her that he was the safest monster in the dark.

She wouldn't fall for it.

Couldn't.

⸻

Late that night, she heard music again.

The piano.

She followed the sound through dim halls, barefoot on polished floors. The house was sleeping, but that melody-low, haunting, intimate-pulled her like gravity.

She stopped at the doorway to the music room.

There he was.

Dominic Vale, in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, playing with eyes closed.

It wasn't for her.

It wasn't for anyone.

It was grief. Loneliness.

Pain.

And somehow, that scared her more than his cruelty.

Because if there was still a soul inside him...

...he might be capable of love.

And if he could love?

He could also destroy.

Worse, he could make her want to stay.

⸻

She backed away before he noticed her.

But as she slipped down the hall, a voice called softly behind her:

"You walk quietly."

She froze.

He didn't stop playing.

"Curious little rabbit," he murmured.

"Is that what I am?" she asked without turning.

"No. Rabbits run."

She looked over her shoulder. "Maybe I'm waiting for you to show your teeth."

Dominic stopped playing. The silence between them buzzed like static.

"Do you believe in redemption?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked. "No."

"Good," he said. "Then you won't expect any."

⸻

She returned to her room and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The man wasn't just building a prison.

He was building a mirror.

And the worst part?

It was starting to show her a version of herself she didn't recognize.

A version that didn't run.