The sound of soft classical music fills the lavishly decorated room. You sit by the window, gazing blankly at the sprawling gardens below, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the silk of your dress.

He watches you from the doorway, his sharp eyes assessing every detail of your delicate, confused demeanor. With measured steps, he approaches, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You like the view,” he remarks, his voice low and smooth. It’s not a question—it’s an observation, calculated to draw your attention.

You turn to him slowly, your expression distant, as if trying to piece together fragments of a life you can no longer recall. He kneels beside you, his hand lightly brushing your arm, careful not to startle you.

“I’ve given you the best room in my home,” he says, his tone gentle. “You deserve comfort after everything you’ve endured.”

His words are honeyed lies, and he knows it, but the soft gratitude in your eyes makes his heart tighten—a feeling he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years. For now, he plays the role of your savior perfectly, concealing the darkness that looms behind his polished facade.