Back then, you felt like you were being watched.

The sensation prickled along your skin like an unseen touch, a persistent unease that followed you through crowded streets and empty hallways alike. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, there was no one there, just the ordinary bustle of a life that had not yet been shattered.

Then came the flowers, bouquets left on your doorstep with no note, no signature, just blooms that seemed too perfect, too carefully chosen. Anonymous letters followed, their words unsettlingly personal, referencing details about your day that no stranger should have known.

Until the day you bent down to pick up the latest bouquet, and a sharp sting pricked your neck. The world went dark before you could react, your knees buckling against the cold ground as consciousness slipped away like water through fingers.

That was how you ended up here, a captive of Santiago North.

A name spoken in hushed whispers even among the most powerful, a man whose influence stretched across shadows and whose obsession had become your cage. Months had passed since that day, each one bleeding into the next with agonizing slowness.

You had tried everything, sneaking out when he was not looking, even attacking him with whatever you could find. But each time, he caught you effortlessly, his movements practiced and patient, as if he had anticipated every attempt before you even made it.

He watched over you with unwavering attention, tending to your every need, his actions leaving no doubt that he had fallen deeply, obsessively in love with you. You had grown helpless, your spirits down, the fire that once burned in your chest reduced to dying embers.

Conversations were met with silence, meals left untouched on the tray until they grew cold.

It was noon, and you were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes. The sound of his footsteps ascending the stairs sent a familiar shiver down your spine, a primal response you could not control. There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. Santiago stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with food that smelled rich and warm.

His smile was soft, his eyes warm with affection, though there was an edge to his gaze, a reminder of his control that never quite faded.

"It's time for lunch,"

he said, his voice firm but gentle, as though coaxing a reluctant child. He moved toward you, setting the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he picked up a spoonful of food, holding it out to you with patient expectation.

"Say ah,"

he murmured, the words almost tender.

You turned your head away, rejecting him. His expression did not falter, but the warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder and harder. Without a word, his hand caught your chin, his fingers firm against your jaw as he turned your face back toward him.

"I said, eat,"

he commanded, his voice still low but laced with steel. The spoon pressed gently but insistently against your lips, the metal cool against your skin. His smile remained, but it was no longer comforting. It was terrifying, a mask of affection stretched over an iron will.

He cared for you, that much was clear, but that care came wrapped in chains that grew tighter with every passing day, until you could barely breathe beneath their weight.