Chapter 2 — Awakening in Captivity

Maeve

The first thing Maeve noticed was the warmth. Not the gentle, comforting kind that came with sunlight spilling through open blinds, but an oppressive, suffocating heat that clung to her skin and made her feel trapped inside her own body. Her head throbbed in dull, rhythmic waves, and when she forced her eyes open, the world swam in a golden haze.

Vaulted ceilings stretched above her, their intricate molding glinting with gold leaf that shimmered in the firelight flickering from a nearby hearth. The air was heavy with mingling scents—cigar smoke, lavender, and the faint metallic tang of cold iron. Maeve blinked, disoriented, her gaze darting over the room—a space so foreign, so oppressively grand, it felt like it belonged in a dream. Or a nightmare.

She sat up sharply, the silk sheets slipping to her waist, her pulse pounding in her throat. Her breath came fast and shallow, the remnants of panic from the night before surging back: the restaurant, the stranger with the cold blue-gray eyes, the drink that turned her world sideways, and then—darkness. She pressed her palm against her chest, willing her heart to slow, but the room only felt larger, heavier, as if it was swallowing her whole.

Maeve swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the icy marble floor jolting her senses like a slap. Her bare feet contrasted against the shimmering expanse of the floor, their chill grounding her as she took slow, deliberate breaths. She was still dressed in the blouse and skirt from the night before, though her shoes were missing, along with her clutch. A faint mark on her wrist—the ghost of a hand that had held her too firmly—set her gut twisting.

Her sharp green eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail with precision born out of survival instinct. The towering windows were framed by thick crimson drapes, but even those couldn’t quite dim the eerie gray light outside. Antique furniture gleamed with a polished finish, every surface too pristine to be real. Above her, a chandelier dripped crystals that fractured the firelight into a thousand restless shadows. But it was the windows that drew her attention first.

Pulling herself upright, Maeve crossed to the nearest one, her steps firm despite the tremor in her hands. She yanked back the heavy curtain, the sound of the iron rings scraping against the rod loud in the oppressive silence. Her breath hitched. The windows were barred—thick, unyielding iron that framed the expanse of snow-covered forest beyond. Bare, skeletal branches clawed at the sky, their sharp edges stark against the dull gray horizon. The isolation was total. The kind that settled into your bones and whispered that escape wasn’t just difficult—it was impossible.

Her breath fogged up the glass as she murmured bitterly, “A gilded cage. How original.”

The faint creak of a door opening behind her sent her spinning, her back pressing instinctively against the cold window. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingernails biting into her palms as she prepared to fight with nothing but defiance and desperation.

A tall, willowy woman stepped inside, her movements almost unnaturally fluid. She carried a tray, the faint clink of porcelain shattering the tense silence. Silvery-blond hair was braided neatly down her back, and her pale blue eyes swept over Maeve with unnerving calm. She moved as though she were part of the room—a deliberate piece of this strange, oppressively elegant world. And yet, there was something quieter, softer beneath her stillness. Something Maeve couldn’t quite place.

“I see you’re awake,” the woman said softly, her voice as steady as the winter air beyond the bars. She set the tray down on a small table near the bed, arranging the items with meticulous precision. “You should eat.”

Maeve crossed her arms, her green eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? And what the hell is going on?”

The woman clasped her hands in front of her, her expression unreadable. “My name is Zaria. You are a guest of Mr. Volkov. That is all you need to know for now.”

Maeve let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound brittle against the suffocating stillness. “A guest? Is that what we’re calling kidnapping these days? Because this feels more like a hostage situation.”

Zaria’s gaze didn’t waver, though something flickered in her eyes—sympathy, perhaps, or pity. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You are safe here, Ms. Lawson. I suggest you focus on that.”

“Safe?” Maeve pushed away from the window, her steps slow and deliberate as she closed the distance between them. “If I’m so safe, why don’t you tell your boss to let me go?”

“That is not for me to decide,” Zaria replied evenly, her tone giving nothing away.

Maeve’s jaw tightened. Her hands itched to grab the tray and throw it against the wall, to shatter the calm Zaria carried like armor. “Then what exactly am I supposed to do? Sit here and play the part of the obedient little ‘guest’ until he decides what to do with me?”

“For now, yes,” Zaria replied, her calmness maddening. But then her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “This room is yours. You’re free to move about the mansion under supervision. Beyond that…” She trailed off, letting the silence carry the weight of her words.

Her pulse thundered against her skull. She drew in a shaky breath, her fists trembling, and took a step closer to Zaria. “And if I don’t?” Her voice was low, sharp, the edge of defiance cutting through her fear.

Zaria tilted her head slightly, her pale blue eyes studying Maeve as though she were a puzzle to be solved. “Then you will make things harder for yourself.”

The words weren’t a threat, but they fell upon Maeve like one. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to meet Zaria’s gaze, though the calm intensity in the other woman’s eyes unsettled her. As Maeve’s focus sharpened, her gaze flickered to the pendant resting against Zaria’s collarbone—a delicate silver amulet with a pale-blue aquamarine. It caught the firelight in a way that felt deliberate, as though it carried secrets of its own.

“You should eat,” Zaria said again, her tone softer now. “It will help.”

Maeve glanced at the tray—a steaming bowl of soup, a slice of crusty bread, a glass of water perfectly centered like a still-life painting. Her first instinct was to shove it aside, to reject anything her captors offered. But her stomach growled faintly, betraying her. She needed her strength. Any chance of escape would require a clear head and steady hands.

With deliberate reluctance, Maeve lowered herself into the chair by the table. She picked up the spoon, her sarcasm slipping free like a reflex. “What’s next? A mint on the pillow and a five-star Yelp review?”

Zaria’s lips twitched—almost a smile but not quite. “You have spirit,” she murmured. “I hope, for your sake, that it serves you well.”

Maeve paused, her grip tightening on the spoon. Something in Zaria’s tone—a faint trace of regret, a softness at odds with her stoic demeanor—made her chest tighten. But she forced herself to take a bite of the soup, ignoring the way Zaria’s gaze lingered on her.

The warmth of the broth spread through her, though it did little to dispel the cold knot of fear coiled in her chest. She set the spoon down and glanced back at Zaria, who stood motionless, her eyes unreadable.

Finally, Zaria turned toward the door. “Someone will come for you soon,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost tentative. “Until then, I suggest you make yourself comfortable.”

Maeve laughed sharply, the sound hollow. “Comfortable? Sure. I’ll just settle in and enjoy the view.” Her gaze flicked to the iron bars on the window, their shadows stretching across the marble floor like prison bars.

Zaria hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before slipping out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her, the echo of it crawling through the silence.

Maeve stared at the untouched bread on the tray, her mind racing in overdrive. She didn’t know who Caine Volkov was or what he wanted with her, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she wasn’t staying here. Her sharp green eyes flicked to the window once more, her mind already mapping out possible escape routes.

She was going to fight. And she was going to win.