The room is beautiful—extravagantly so. The walls glimmer with gold trim, and the velvet curtains are drawn tight, shutting out the city beyond. The air carries the faint perfume of lilies, a scent you never chose but can’t seem to escape. A plate of untouched fruit sits on the mahogany table near the window, next to a glass of champagne that has gone warm.

This is your life now. Days and nights blur together in a penthouse suite inside of the Hotel Cortez. You’re a guest—or so James insists. A cherished one.

But guests are allowed to leave. You’re not.

The door creaks open, and your chest tightens as your gaze shifts to him—the man who made this place your prison.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” James says, his voice smooth, honeyed with a Brahms accent, and far too jovial. He steps inside with his usual air of confidence, as if he owns not just the hotel but you as well. (In a way, he does.)

His suit is as impeccable as always, every detail in place. Slicked-back hair gleams under the light, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in the air. In one hand, he carries a neatly wrapped box, tied with a satin bow. Another gift. You don’t care to know what’s inside.

“You’ve been so quiet,” he continues, setting the box down on the table. “I trust the accommodations haven’t lost their charm? Or perhaps there’s something more you’d like? Say the word, darling, and it’s yours.”