Knock! Knock! Someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," a feminine voice said.
A woman entered the room. She looked like she was in her early forties.
She wore a uniform—a monochrome white and black that looked plain.
In her hands, she carried a tray that most likely contained food.
"Hmmn, so tasteless," Isabelle thought at once, eyeing the maid's outfit.
The woman approached the bed slowly but confidently, expertly balancing the tray with one hand as she walked over to Isabelle, who lay weakly under the covers.
"Good day, ma'am." She flashed a bright smile, one that brought an odd warmth to the room—a room that felt more like a prison than the cozy sanctuary it was meant to be.
Isabelle nodded, acknowledging her presence.
"Young master said to bring you this," the woman said, setting the tray down beside Isabelle.
"Oh," Isabelle muttered. Ocean blue eyes flashed in her mind.
She could almost see his cold expression delivering those same words himself.
The maid lingered at the side, quietly observing her.
Isabelle turned. "Please, can you leave? I get uncomfortable when people stare at me."
"Of course, ma'am. I'll be back for the empty plates," she said and left.
Isabelle stared at the tray beside her, suspicion in her eyes.
"That guy looks like a pervert. Who knows? He might try to drug my food and take my innocence," she thought.
She lifted the tray lid cautiously.
A rich, delicious aroma invaded her nose—freshly made bacon and eggs.
"Such a pity I don't eat bacon," she thought.
She was allergic to bacon. Not just bacon, anything that contained pork made her seriously ill.
With a sigh, she pushed the bacon aside and lay back down, letting her mind drift.
"Mom and Dad must be worried," she thought, picturing their aging faces filled with concern.
Even as an adult, Isabelle had never slept outside her home before. This was the first time she'd spent a night elsewhere.
"I want to go home," she whispered.
She stood, wincing as pain tore through her leg. Gritting her teeth, she pushed forward.
Out in the hallway, she was momentarily distracted by the surroundings.
Her bare feet tapped softly against the polished tiles. Each step echoed faintly, quickly absorbed by the seamless curves of the corridor.
The house was ultramodern. Smooth surfaces, sharp edges, and ambient lighting that seemed to glow from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Ambient lighting... He sure loves that," she mused.
Tempered glass and brushed steel lined the walls, fitted so precisely they looked grown into place. The doors were flush with the walls, opening at a silent touch.
She noticed the lights brightened as she walked—sensors tracking her every step, like the house itself was alive.
Despite everything, the hallway exuded a quiet charm.
She reached the staircase and descended, slowly, carefully.
Then she entered the dining room—and froze.
Golden everything.
The table stretched long and glossy like molten gold.
A crystal chandelier hung above, scattering light like stardust.
Gold-cushioned chairs lined the room—untouched and perfect.
At the far end sat the masked man.
Calm. Confident. Dangerous.
He didn't need to speak to command the room.
"Isabelle," he said. Just her name made her back stiffened.
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you here? I had food sent to your room."
Her pulse jumped. She'd been staring too long. She quickly lowered her gaze.
"It was bacon," she said simply. "I'm allergic."
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to the chair across from him.
She hesitated, then walked forward. She could feel his eyes on her, every step increasing the weight on her shoulders.
She eased into the chair. When she looked up, her gaze met his.
Ocean blue.
She froze.
Something about his stare made her want to hide—and look again.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" she thought.
He felt dangerous. And yet... her breath caught.
Don't finish that thought, Isabelle. She told herself.
"What's your name?" she asked, her voice softer than she expected.
He didn't hesitate. "Rasmus. Rasmus Constantine."
The name echoed in her head. Where had she heard it before?
Before she could process it, the maid returned with another plate.
"Madam, is this okay?" she asked politely.
Just toast and eggs. Basic, but safe.
"Yeah. It's fine," Isabelle replied, grateful for something she could actually eat.
She started eating slowly, her mind still spinning.
Then it hit her.
"My phone," she said suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Where is it?"
Rasmus didn't flinch. "With Scott, probably."
"No. Where is it?" she pressed, her tone sharp.
"I don't remember," he said casually, sipping from his glass.
Isabelle clenched her fork. "That's not yours. You had no right to take it."
He raised a brow, amused. "Are you threatening me?"
"What if I am?" she snapped.
That got him.
He dropped his cutlery with a soft clink and stood.
Calm. Dangerous.
He walked around the table, slow and steady.
Isabelle stood too, backing away until her back hit the wall.
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could feel his breath.
"I don't like threats," he said, his voice a sharp blade.
She didn't move. "Too bad."
"You don't want to test me."
"Maybe I do."
His jaw clenched. "God, Isabelle. Are you always this difficult?"
His hand rose—not fast, not threatening—and he traced a finger down her cheek.
She slapped it away.
"You touch me again and I swear—"
Before she could finish, she kicked him. Hard. Right in the thigh.
He groaned, stumbling back with a hand on his leg.
He stared at her—not hurt, just angry. Very angry. His face twisted beneath his mask.
The next time you do this, I won't take it so lightly. His icy tone was sharp.
Isabelle stared at him, looking confused.
"You know what? Go. Get your stuff. You're leaving."
"I'm not leaving without my phone," she said, standing her ground.
"I'll have it sent up."
"Good."
She spun on her heel and stormed off.
Her steps were faster now. Angrier.
The elegance of the house no longer impressed her.
She burst into the room, slammed the door shut, and headed for the wardrobe.
"What is wrong with me? Why did I let him get that close?"
She opened the wardrobe. Designer clothes. All women's.
"This isn't even his room," she thought. "Must be one of his women's. Rich bastard probably collects them."
She yanked open a drawer. Her own clothes—black leggings, white shirt—her comfort zone.
She peeled off her sweaty clothes and entered the bathroom.
No awe this time.
Just hot water. Silence.
She scrubbed hard, as if she could wash the tension away.
When she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she felt more grounded.
Back at the wardrobe, she dressed and searched for her sneakers.
There they were. Torn and worn, beside rows of designer shoes.
"No way I'm wearing those again," she thought. "I'll borrow one of his. He owes me anyway."
She picked a pair that fit. Just as she straightened up—
The door burst open.
She froze.
Two figures stood in the doorway.
Everything paused.
Then her voice split the silence—
She screamed.