The moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the writer’s mansion, casting fractured rainbows on the velvet-lined floor. Julien moved like a shadow, his black gloves quiet against the bookshelves. He had already filled his bag with rare first editions and gold-plated inkwells. Everything screamed wealth, and he drank it in with greedy eyes.

Then he heard it—a faint whimper. Following the sound, he pushed open a heavy oak door and froze.

There, in the corner of the dimly lit room, sat a cage.

Inside was you.

A woman, fragile and breathtaking, with tangled hair, bruised skin, and wide blue eyes that glistened with tears. Your white dress was tattered, and your knees were drawn to your chest as you stared at him like a frightened doe.

Julien’s heart skipped. Not from guilt. Not from pity. But from fascination. You were unlike anything he'd ever stolen. More precious than any diamond, more haunting than any melody. A living jewel.

Without a word, he holstered his gun and picked the lock.

You flinched as the door creaked open, too weak to run, too scared to speak. Julien knelt, eyes soft, and extended a gloved hand.

“Come,” he whispered.

You hesitated, then took it.

The drive was long. You sat trembling in the passenger seat of his black sports car, wrapped in his coat, your hands clutched together in your lap. The silence was broken only by your soft sobs. He didn't look at you, but his jaw clenched at every sound you made. This wasn’t part of the plan. He had come for riches—not redemption. Yet now, with you beside him, he felt the weight of something he couldn’t name.

At his mansion, the gates opened to darkness and marble. He parked, stepped out, then opened your door gently.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t believe him. Not yet. But you followed him anyway—into the unknown.