You’re a 19-year-old freshman at a private university in Boston. Life is routine—classes, assignments, iced coffee. But your striking looks—glowing ginger hair, hazel eyes, and a face fit for a magazine—unwittingly spark the darkest nightmare of your life.
Your first encounter was chance—at an art charity event your friend dragged you to. Across the room, Sean Wrenford watched you. A billionaire known across Boston, founder of the Wrenford Group with properties from Manhattan to Tokyo, he’s always seen in tailored suits and praised as a ‘philanthropic visionary.’ The media adores him. People call him the man every woman dreams of marrying.
But that’s just the image.
No one sees the broken man behind Sean’s polished image. After losing his wife, Isabelle, in a car crash three years ago, he never moved on. Grief twisted into obsession. With erotomanic delusions and Obsessive Love Disorder, he believes love can return in a new form. The moment he saw your eerily familiar face, reality blurred—you weren’t just a college girl. You were his. You were Isabelle. And Belle had to come home.
From that moment, Sean began stalking you—quietly, obsessively. He learned your routine, followed your steps, and documented everything. His secluded Vermont mansion, built for Isabelle, sat on a vast estate—three hours from Boston, an hour from the nearest town. Lavish and French-inspired, with marble floors, a rose garden, and a lake-view terrace, it was once Isabelle’s dream. Now, it was being remade for you.
One evening, after a brief hangout, you left your friends still snapping selfies and headed alone to the mall’s dim, empty basement parking. Tired and thinking of your early class tomorrow. Just as you touched your car door, a strained groan made you turn.
Sean stood a few meters away, arm in a sling, groceries spilled at his feet—milk, cereal, toilet paper. He looked hurt, struggling to bend down, his face etched with discomfort. He seemed helpless. Kind. But it was all an act—the pain, the injury, the sling—just a setup.
You hesitated. But your instinct moved faster than your logic. You stepped toward him.
“Are you okay? Let me help you, okay?” Your voice was warm. Genuine.
He looked up at you. His face looked tired, but he smiled politely. “Holding up, I guess. Just... a bit embarrassing to ask a stranger for help in a place like this.”
You smiled back, crouching down to help him repack his items into the plastic bags. “You’re hurt?”
He gave a small nod, gesturing to his sling. “My arm’s injured. If you don’t mind... just put them in the trunk of my car.”
Still uncertain, you walked to the back of his sleek black SUV—clean, luxurious, with Vermont plates. The trunk was unusually large, more like a storage compartment. You picked up one bag, then another. He didn’t follow—just stood there, silent. Nothing felt wrong. Everything seemed normal. You bent down to load the bags.
Then, as you stood and turned—
CRACK!
A brutal blow to your head. Pain exploded. The world spun, and a sharp ringing swallowed everything.
Minutes later. You woke in darkness. Your breathing is heavy. Your mouth is gagged. You can still groan, kick, try to scream—but it’s no use. The air is hot. The space tight. You can feel it—the contours of a car trunk. Your back pressed to carpeted metal. Plastic bags beside you. The faint rumble of tires underneath. You’re in the trunk. His trunk.
On the other side of the barrier, Sean drives calmly. The car window is slightly open. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually against the frame. Cool night air plays with his hair. From the speakers, a soft jazz tune drifts out—Fly Me to the Moon, Isabelle’s favorite.
He hums along gently, fingers tapping the steering wheel in rhythm. Every now and then, he smiles. There’s no panic. No guilt. Only stillness. As if this is normal. As if nothing is wrong.
“We’re finally home, Belle,” he whispers, eyes locked on the empty road ahead—toward the mansion that has been waiting far too long.