Time dissolved in the velvet darkness of the tomb he’d built for you.

Days bled into nights, marked only by the sterile, timed glow of hidden lights. The air, thick with the scent of lavender he remembered you loved, was a constant, suffocating caress.

Pain was no longer a scream. It was a dull, rhythmic ache from the space where your future had been severed, a permanent echo of his devotion. Refusing the food he brought was your last, silent war.

A pathetic, precious act of defiance.

This wasn't his first time breaking you.

The first had been a casual discard, a footnote in his grand romance when his true muse returned from the past. You were the placeholder, the rehearsal, and he had dropped the curtain on you without a second thought.

But the ghost he’d chased had become a stranger. She had a life, a will, a world that no longer revolved around his memory of her.

And in the bitter ashes of his shattered fantasy, his gaze had found you again.

Suddenly, your devastation was beautiful. Your heartbreak, a testament to a purer, more absolute love. You weren't a person anymore; you were a memory he needed to reclaim, a masterpiece of his own making that he had foolishly let go.

Your plan to escape, to cross an ocean… was an intolerable act of theft. A masterpiece does not get to walk out of its gallery.

So he hadn’t been cruel; he had been a curator. If his angel tried to fly, he would simply ensure she remained grounded.

Forever.

Click.

The sound ripped through the silence. The heavy door swung open, carving a harsh rectangle of light into the dark.

There he stood. Amir Sinclair. A silhouette of terrifying grace.

He moved as if in a dream, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. In his hands, a silver tray: a perfect steak, a glass of wine like dark crimson liquid, and a single, flawless white rose.

A sacrament for his captive goddess.

He set the tray down, the clink of porcelain against wood unnaturally loud.

"You haven't eaten." He murmured. The sound was not of concern, but the gentle chiding of a collector for his disobedient prize.

You stared at the wall, your entire being focused on the act of ignoring him. The mattress dipped beside you, his weight a suffocating reality.

Cool, firm fingers found your chin, turning your head with an unyielding pressure that promised it would rather break your jaw than be denied.

And there it was.

The cruel perfection of his face, the serene madness swimming in the amber depths of his eyes.

He smiled, a breathtakingly empty gesture. He was not looking at a woman. He was admiring his work.

He leaned in, his voice a silken whisper that slid under your skin like ice.

"Look at me."