Camila's POV
The door clicked shut.
I didn't move. Couldn't.
The key lay in my hand like a secret I hadn't earned. Small. Cold. Terrifying.
I stared at it, half-expecting it to vanish—to prove this wasn't real, that he hadn't just given it to me like some cruel magician daring his assistant to cut herself in half. But the metal pressed firm against my palm, digging into the lines of my skin.
He'd meant for me to feel it.
He didn't unfasten the collar.
He didn't touch it.
He gave me the choice.
That was the punishment. The worst kind. Because now if I wore it, it was no longer just control.
It was consent.
I staggered back until the edge of the desk caught me. My fingers curled tighter around the key, my nails leaving crescent moons in my skin.
I should take it off.
Tear it off.
Throw the key at his damn feet.
But my feet didn't move.
Instead, I stood there staring at the locked door like a girl in a fairytale too smart to eat the poison apple—but too hungry to resist the scent.
"You could've asked," he said.
No.
He wanted me to beg.
To submit.
And I hadn't. Not yet.
So why give me this?
Maybe because Lucien Valentini didn't deal in chains.
He dealt in choices.
Twisted, rigged, impossible choices.
My breath came in slow, uneven pulls. I touched the collar—just lightly—and felt the faintest tremble at my throat. A shiver. A warning. I still didn't know what it meant to wear it. What it meant to remove it. What doors it opened. What doors it closed.
I hated him for this.
For making me want to know.
I looked around the study—books in languages I couldn't read, weapons mounted like art, a fire smoldering low in the hearth as if even it had been trained to behave. Everything in this room belonged to a man who never asked for power. He expected it. Took it.
And tonight, he gave me something instead.
Not trust.
A test.
I pressed the key to the collar, but didn't turn it.
Instead, I tucked it inside my dress. Let it rest against my heart.
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
He wanted to know how long I could carry the weight of my own freedom?
Fine.
Let's find out.
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Chapter 3 – The Key and the Cold
Camila's POV
The door clicked shut behind me.
I didn't move. Not at first.
The key in my palm felt heavier than it should. Smooth, metallic, cold—yet somehow burning.
I opened my hand and stared at it. The shape of it. The weight. The insult.
Lucien had given it to me like a gift.
He thinks this means something, I thought. He thinks he's clever.
He wasn't freeing me. He was watching me. Testing me. And that made my skin crawl worse than the collar ever could.
I didn't need a mirror to know my neck was still red from where it had dug in earlier. A mark he left without touching me. A leash I couldn't cut.
And now? A key I couldn't trust.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the thought away. No point losing my mind here—not when I had more important things to worry about.
My sister.
A slow ache bloomed in my chest. I didn't know if the debt collectors had gone after her too. I hadn't seen her when they took me from the diner. No screams, no struggle. Just me, drugged, gagged, locked in the back of a van like a package.
And yet…
What if they'd gone to the house afterward? What if they'd found her alone? What if she was scared, waiting, thinking I abandoned her?
The thought made bile rise in my throat.
I had no answers.
I had no idea who Lucien really was, or what the auction house even was in the grand scheme of this. I didn't know if they worked for the same people or if they simply passed me along like property. All I had were theories—and a gut feeling that the key in my hand wasn't what it seemed.
No freedom. Just another layer of manipulation.
I walked to the bed and sat slowly, breathing through the tight knot behind my ribs.
I needed a plan. Something more than defiance and smartass comments.
Lucien wanted a game?
Fine.
I'd play it.
But not the way he expected.
If I had to play the role of the quiet, broken girl to get close enough to twist the knife, I would. If I had to act like I trusted him just enough to make him lower his guard, I'd do it.
And when the time came, I'd ask.
Not for myself.
Not for escape.
But for her.
If I could get him to protect her—just check if she was safe, nothing more—then I'd know where I stood. If he refused, then I'd know that too.
Either way, I wouldn't let him break me. Not really.
I opened the drawer in the nightstand. Empty. Good.
I placed the key at the bottom, then slid the drawer shut and moved back to the bed. I didn't lock it. Didn't hide it too deeply.
If Lucien was watching—through hidden cameras, through his silent guards—he'd see.
He'd see that I didn't throw it away. Didn't run.
He'd think I was playing along.
He'd think I was folding.
Let him.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
I wasn't surrendering.
I was surviving.
And survival meant control.
Even if it was just the illusion of it.
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Chapter 4 – The Mask He Wears
Lucien's POV
The room was dark, save for the blue flicker of the monitors.
Lucien stood still, hands in his pockets, watching the silent footage play.
Camila sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Her fingers curled around the key like it was both a lifeline and a curse.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't even look at the camera.
But she knew it was there. He could feel it.
Most girls either shattered or adapted by now. They flinched, obeyed, or played sweet until they were left alone. But Camila… she hadn't chosen a path yet.
She was still weighing her options.
Still calculating.
Lucien's eyes narrowed as she finally stood, crossed the room, and slid the key into the nightstand drawer. No drama. No defiance.
Just quiet, deliberate placement.
She hadn't used it.
She hadn't thrown it away either.
Smart girl.
Too smart.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the angle of her body, the expression she thought no one could see. There was something in the set of her mouth—resolve, maybe. Or grief.
She reminded him of someone.
The thought surfaced sharp and unwelcome. He crushed it before it could take shape.
Irrelevant.
That was the thing about ghosts. They had no place in the world he ruled now.
Still, Camila's presence clawed under his skin in a way he couldn't quite name.
She wasn't the most beautiful. Not the most obedient. Not even the most spirited. But there was a fire buried in her that made his instincts twitch.
He didn't like unpredictability.
But he was drawn to it all the same.
Lucien finally turned away from the screen and walked to the marble-topped counter. He poured two fingers of whiskey and let the burn hit his tongue.
It grounded him.
Tomorrow, he'd know what to make of her.
He picked up the sleek black phone on the desk and dialed.
A pause. Then a voice: "Yes, sir?"
"Prepare something," Lucien said calmly. "A test."
"For Camila?"
Lucien's gaze drifted back to the monitor. She'd turned off the light and curled onto the bed, still in her clothes. Not sleeping—just surviving.
"Yes," he said, sipping the whiskey again. "Tomorrow, I want to see what breaks first—her fear, or her pride."
A beat of silence.
"And if she passes?"
Lucien smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Then we raise the stakes."
He ended the call and let the room fall silent again.
On the screen, Camila's figure blurred in the shadows—still whole.
For now.
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