Yvette's pov

The first thing I registered was the quiet.

And I mean, quiet. Like, deep-space, soundproof-room quiet. Which is just wrong. My apartment in Queens was the noisiest place anyone would ever live in.

The sound of the train, the family upstairs screaming at each other in a language I don't know, my cousins and everyone talking all at once.

It’s never, ever quiet.

This was tomb-quiet.

My eyes cracked open. The ceiling was a mile away. The bed I was in felt like its own zip code, and the sheets felt like water. Cool and silky. For a second, I thought I had been transported to somewhere else.

Then, it all came rushing back.

The deal. The car. This penthouse.

My new cage.

I sat up, the stupidly expensive sheets pooling around me. The place was huge. Bigger than my whole apartment building, probably. And it was all done up in shades of well, shades of nothing. Gray, cream, charcoal. It was elegant, sure. Expensive. But this place now felt like I was living in a morgue.

This wasn't a home. It was a storage facility for the woman he’d just acquired.

I needed a shower. Badly. The bathroom—and I swear I almost laughed out loud—was the size of a small spa. All marble and glass. The shower had more knobs and jets than a 747 cockpit. I stood under the ridiculously hot water for what felt like an hour, probably running up a water bill bigger than my old rent, and then I had a new problem.

No clothes. Mine were still in a sad, crumpled heap from yesterday.

I found what I thought was a closet, pulled it open, and my jaw just dropped.

It wasn't a closet. It was a store. A whole-ass boutique.

And it was all in my size. My exact size.

I blinked rapidly hoping this was also some sick dream but it was real. A different closet from the one I had seen yesterday. This guy was fucking rich.

How? How did he know my shoe size? That I can’t stand gold jewelry, only silver? The sheer, invasive level of surveillance it would've taken was terrifying. He hadn't just bought me clothes. He’d bought a pre-packaged, perfectly sized version of me. A doll he could dress up.

All of this wasn't my style. I slapped my temples, I still can't imagine myself wearing all this expensive clothes.

Shit.

I didn't ask for this. I rummaged through drawers ignoring all the fancy dresses and pulled out what felt like me.

I wore a black cashmere sweater and faded jeans.

Dressed, I crept out. I should have known this was just a graveyard, the larger than life living room was eerily quiet and the sunlight streaming through the massive windows made me remember that at least someone was living here.

My footsteps echoed. I felt like a ghost haunting some billionaire’s museum.

The kitchen was next. It was bigger than a normal kitchen. Rolling my eyes due to the waste of space, I opened a giant fridge, half expecting a catered feast.

It was empty.

Well, not totally empty. There were rows and rows of bottled water. And on the bottom shelf, a dozen little black pouches with medical-looking labels I couldn’t read. That was it. No milk. No eggs. No leftovers, not even a half eaten loaf of bread.

Is it that he is planning to starve me? My head throbbed m

This man doesn't eat. Like for real?

Leaving the kitchen, that feeling of wrongness growing, I was pulled toward the one room that had felt different last night. The library.

The huge wooden doors were open just a crack. I slipped inside.

The air in here was different. It smelled of old paper and leather… and faintly of him. That dark, expensive scent I’d first noticed in his car clung to the room, unsettling in its familiarity. It prickled along my skin before I even saw him.

He was hunched over a huge leather sketchbook, a piece of charcoal in his long fingers, completely lost. His brow was all furrowed with concentration.

He sat with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, long fingers stained faintly with charcoal. A lock of hair had fallen into his eyes, making him look younger, almost unguarded—so unlike the marble-carved CEO the world knew.

I had to see. Curiosity killed the cat and I was definitely that cat because I pulled my shoes and held them and then tiptoed, crept close and hid behind a very tall shelf. The curiosity in me pulled me closer as I peeked over the edge.

He was drawing a very beautiful woman— a redhead—so beautiful that she could easily pass for a beauty goddess.Who was that?

His wife?

Heavens, this guy is married?

Confusion pulled the anger in me but the spirit of gossip pulled me back.

In his drawing, she was so alive. He’d caught this look in her eyes—this mix of wild joy and a deep, heartbreaking sadness. He wasn't just copying a picture. He was drawing a memory, one that was still perfectly clear after more than a century. A ghost in his library.

And my heart ached for him. For this bottomless, ancient loneliness that just poured off him. I really felt for him. He looked so sad, just like a child and I knew that he must have lost someone so dear that he still hasn't gotten over it.

I must have made a sound. A tiny gasp.

His head snapped up.

His eyes flicked up, sharp, catching me in the doorway. In a breath the softness vanished, shutters slamming down. But for one stolen second, I’d seen him—seen something raw beneath the power.

His body went from relaxed to rigid. The sketchbook closed with a sharp, final thud. The walls were back up. A thousand feet high.

"You are not permitted in this wing," he said, glaring at me so hard I thought I might turn to stone.

“I was just taking a tour.” I stammered.

“In my office?” He thundered.

“I didn't know how I got in here.” I lied feebly.

His jaw tightened. "This is my private office. You are not to enter it again."

The coldness was a slap.

"Right. The West Wing. Your 'chambers.' Forgive me for trespassing on your sacred ground."

I turned to leave, my face burning. I knew he probably hates me now because I had seen something so vulnerable. Just as I got to the door, my shoes still in my hands, the intercom buzzed.

He pressed the button on the wall

"Yes, Claire," he clipped out.

A woman's voice, crisp and professional. "Sir, my apologies for the intrusion. You have a mandatory summons from The Covenant. You are to attend The Crimson Veil tonight." A tiny pause. "And you are to bring your guest."

He didn't say anything for a while, his straight back to me.

“Understood,” he said sharply and ended the call.

He turned to face me. That moment of vulnerability, the wounded artist? It was completely gone. His face looked so hard, so pressed together that I wondered how the veins in his face were managing.

He tilted his head.

“Go and get ready.” he said icily. “We leave in an hour."