Chapter 4 The Estate

The stage was behind her now. The applause had stopped. The thick curtains no longer brushed her back. This room was quiet. Dim. A crack ran down one wall. A crooked mirror leaned in the corner. And in the middle of it all, Anaya. Just her, and the ache she couldn't hide.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulder pressed to the peeling paint, letting the silence dig into her skin like glass. There were no eyes here. No eager hands. No smoke curling into her lungs. Just her breath and the echo of everything she'd left behind. The shame. The fear. The feeling that something inside her had cracked, not loud, but permanent.

The door creaked open.

She didn't bother to look. She had no energy left for guessing who was next. If it was someone here to drag her again, let them. Her spirit was sore. Her body too.

Then that smell again, cheap perfume trying to be something expensive. Her head turned before she could stop it.

The woman from before stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a little smirk pulling at her lips. She held a beaded hairpiece in one hand and a mean kind of pleasure in the other.

"Well, well," the woman said, circling her slowly. "Look who's decided to be a little obedient now."

Anaya didn't respond. Her silence wasn't surrender, it was pressure. The kind that builds before a storm cracks in the sky in two.

The woman stepped closer. To close. Her fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind Anaya's ear like she owned it. Her nails scratched lightly, deliberately cruel.

"I almost feel bad for you," she said, fake sympathy in her voice. "Almost."

Anaya's gaze lifted slowly. "Then you've almost evolved."

The woman gave a snort. But she didn't step back. "Still got a tongue, I see."

"And I can still use it to make women like you cry."

The woman's face twisted. Her foot came fast-a sharp kick to the shin like she'd been waiting for a reason to let her hate spill over.

Anaya staggered, pain darting up her leg, but she straightened with a slow, venomous grace. Her chin lifted.

"I'm not your bitch," she said. "Try again. I bite harder the second time."

The woman's nostrils flared. Her foot lifted again-but this time, a guard shoved the door open.

"That's enough," he barked, stepping inside.

The woman didn't flinch. "Relax," she said. "She's used to this kind of affection. Isn't that how that boy-what's his name again? Ethan, right? Liked it? Rough until you bled?"

That did it.

Anaya lunged.

Her knee slammed into the woman's side. The beaded hairpiece clatterd to the floor. The woman gasped, stumbling into a rack of satin dresses.

"You psychotic cow!"

"I'm a Castellanos," Anaya said, steady. "We don't cow. We conquer."

A second guard appeared in the doorway, taller, rougher-looking, with a scar down his cheek and a grin that didn't belong in civil places.

"I'll take her," he said. "Pretty girl like this? I can knock some manners into her."

The first guard didn't argue. He grabbed Anaya and shoved her forward.

She twisted, but the second guard caught her with a grip like a trap. "Try that again," he hissed, breath sour. "And I'll make you regret being born beautiful."

"Do it," she said, facing forward. "I dare you."

His hand raised-

Then stopped.

A crackle came through his earpiece. Too faint for Anaya to hear, but enough to drain the smirk from his face.

"Sir?" he said into the mic.

Another pause. Another command.

Our little hero just got a message from Mount Olympus. Must be nice-

taking orders from the gods while pretending you're in charge.

His arm dropped. Jaw clenched. She watched him freeze, confused and annoyed.

Ferretti, she thought.

Even without hearing him, his presence hit like cold steel to the spine.

But power makes cowards act bold.

The guard leaned in anyway. "Your sugar-daddy in the tower can't stop what happens behind closed doors."

Anaya smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. The kind of smile that only happens when you've had enough of everything for one day.

"Good," she whispered. "Then I hope he doesn't stop me either."

She kneed him.

Hard.

He folded with a grunt, staggering back. The first guard stifled a laugh.

"You little-!"

"Easy," she said, straightening her coat like nothing happened. "You said you wanted to teach me manners. I just reminded you I've already got some, I just ran out of patience."

More words crackled in his earpiece. Whatever they were, they paled his face and stopped the fight.

This time, no one argued.

They yanked her towards the hallway without another word.

As she walked, Anaya smirked. The pain still pulsed in her shin, but it felt distant now. She was blood-warm and burning inside. No tears. No fear. Just the fire again.

Behind her, the woman cursed through gritted teeth, nursing her ribs.

Anaya didn't look back.

"Tell Jenna," she said to no one in particular, "I hope she enjoys the bouquet. It suits her."

She gave a half-smile.

"They deserve each other."

---

The ride in the Aston Martin DB11 was quiet. Heavy, thoughtful quiet.

The car smelled of leather, old money, and something floral that didn't belong. Maybe lavender. Maybe lies.

When they pulled up to the mansion, the gates shut behind them with a heavy sound. Brutal. Unapologetic. Like prison doors.

She stepped out slowly. The air was cold enough to see her breath. Her heels tapped on the stone ground as the night pressed close, daring her to keep walking.

Bastian Ferretti's estate didn't feel like home.

It felt like a decision she didn't get to make.

---

Inside, the floor was dark stone. Her heels clicked quietly as she stepped in. No staff. No hello, just long halls and still air that made her skin feel tight.

The driver nodded toward the staircase.

"Come."

She paused at the foot of the stairs. Her legs were tired, but it wasn't from walking. Her whole body felt like it had been carrying too much for too long. The ache in her chest hadn't left. Neither had the weight in her stomach.

This was it.

The deal. The house. The place she had to survive for ninety days.

She looked up.

The stairs curved gently. The steps were made of dark wood. They looked smooth and shiny under the soft lights on the wall. The air around her didn't move. It was quiet, like the house was waiting.

The walls looked heavy. Like they'd seen things. Like they remembered.

And then she saw him.

Bastian Ferretti stood at the top of the stairs. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched.

The shadows gathered around him like they belonged there, like the darkness had decided he was it's favorite. His face was calm, cold, unreadable. The kind of stillness that made your nerves rise, not because he looked angry, but because he didn't look anything at all.

Her fingers curled at her sides. She didn't want to climb those stairs. But she did.

Slowly.

Carefully.

With every step, she felt she was walking deeper into something she couldn't name.

When she reached the top, her chest rose and fell in short breaths. Bastian stood a few feet away now, dressed in all black, his arms loose at his sides. He didn't come closer.

"Your room is upstairs," he said, voice quiet and clear. "End of the right wing. Don't wander."

Anaya swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she wanted.

"And the rules?"

He looked at her then. Fully. His eyes moved across her face, slow and detached, like he was weighing the trouble she might bring.

"No questions. No noise after ten. No locked doors."

She didn't blink.

"What happens if I break them?"

The silence after her question stretched, thick and heavy. Then he gave the answer like it was already settled.

"You won't."

He turned and walked away. Just like that. His footsteps were soft, swallowed by the thick silence around him. The shadows followed him down the hallway, like they knew the way.

Anaya stood still.

Her hands were cold. Her heart beat too fast.

But she didn't cry.

Not yet.

And when the tears finally came-they would be hers.