When Clarissa awoke, everything was pitch-black. A sheet covered her eyes, soft but suffocating. She tried to move, only to find her limbs bound, the faint jingle of bells echoing with every futile motion.

“Is anyone there?” she called out, her voice breaking the silence—yet only the bells replied, their crystalline sound rippling into the distance.

Her confusion deepened. Where had Atticus taken her?

The space around her felt vast, hollow; the echo wasn’t something a normal room should have.

Then—footsteps.

The sound made her tense. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

No answer came. Instead, warm fingertips brushed across her face—tracing her brow, her closed eyelids, the line of her nose—pausing just briefly at her lips before drifting lower.

Clarissa’s pulse quickened. The touch was deliberate. “Atticus! Haven’t you had enough of this?”

A quiet sigh followed, and the blindfold was lifted away.

Light flooded in, stabbing at her eyes. She blinked rapidly until the shapes around her came into focus—and there he was. Atticus. Watching her with a faint, knowing smile, his eyes dark and intense, like a storm held barely in check.

Her gaze dropped—and she froze.

Red threads bound her wrists and ankles, winding across her skin in intricate patterns. Tiny silver bells were fastened along the cords, chiming with each breath she took.

For a heartbeat, even Clarissa was struck by the strange beauty of it—the scarlet lines against her pale skin, the glinting bells, the stillness. Then the realization hit her, and her cheeks flushed crimson.

“Atticus!” she cried, struggling against the bindings. The bells erupted in a chorus.

He only watched her, eyes darkening further. Something in him had shifted—something dangerous, possessive.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

Atticus stepped closer. “Why?” he echoed softly, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “I was gone for just a few days, Clarissa. And in that time, you’ve been keeping company with Mark. So tell me—has he touched you? Kissed you?”

She shook her head quickly. “No… of course not—”

His hand caught her chin, firm but not cruel. “I can’t believe you.”

Clarissa stared at him, searching for the man she knew—the one who used to hold her gently, who used to laugh. But now his eyes burned with jealousy and something darker.

“Atticus, you’re scaring me,” she whispered.

His gaze softened—just for a moment. “You promised you’d never leave me,” he said quietly. “That you’d stay, no matter what. You broke that promise first, Clarissa.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shh.” His thumb brushed her lips. “Don’t say anything. Just remember… you’re mine, Clarissa. You always have been.”

When Clarissa woke, her body felt like it had been pulled apart and pieced back together. Every muscle ached, her head throbbed, and the room swayed slightly when she tried to sit up. For a long moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then the faint chime of bells brought everything back.

Her breath caught. The restraints were gone, but faint red marks circled her wrists, proof that none of it had been a dream.

She drew her knees to her chest, trying to steady her shaking hands. There was no time to fall apart now—she needed to find a way out.

The room was windowless and silent. A single ventilation grate rattled near the ceiling. She rapped the wall with her knuckles and heard a hollow echo. A basement, she thought. Somewhere isolated.

The door opened.

Atticus stood there, holding a tray of steaming food. The smell made her stomach twist painfully with hunger. His expression, however, was nothing like the man she’d seen last night. His smile was soft, his eyes gentle—as if nothing had happened.

“Clarissa,” he said quietly, setting the tray down. “You should eat something. You’ve barely slept.”

Clarissa kept her face blank. “Okay.”

He seemed almost startled by her calmness. Maybe he’d expected her to scream or fight.

Atticus approached and reached to lift her from the bed. She tensed, but he only murmured, “Careful,” and wrapped a robe around her before carrying her to the table.

The fabric was too big, the sleeves hanging off her shoulders, but at least it covered her. She nodded slightly. “Thank you.”

“Would you like the soup first?” he asked, ladling a bowl and trying to feed her himself.

“I can do it,” she said quickly, taking the spoon from his hand.

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Be careful—it’s hot.”

Clarissa forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls. Every bite tasted like ash, but she needed her strength. When she put the bowl down, he frowned. “You’ve eaten so little.”

“I’m full,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.

Finally, he smiled again. “Alright. But promise me you’ll rest.”

Clarissa hesitated. “Could I… take a shower first?”

Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe, or something darker. “Of course,” he said softly. “I’ll help you.”

Before she could refuse, he lifted her easily into his arms. She went rigid, her pulse racing, but his voice stayed low and calm. “It’s just a shower, Clarissa. You can trust me.”

He set her gently in the warm water, then turned away as she washed. When she finished, he wrapped her in a towel and carried her back to bed.

Clarissa’s eyelids were already heavy. She felt the towel slip, felt his hand brush her damp hair as he murmured, “Don’t sleep yet. Let me dry it first.”

Her voice came out small and tired. “Then hurry up.”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Always so impatient.”

Atticus gently ran his fingers through Clarissa’s long black hair, the dryer humming softly in his hand. When her hair finally dried, he looked down to find her fast asleep in his arms.

His expression softened. Setting the dryer aside, he pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “Clarissa… Clarissa…” he murmured, voice trembling. His eyes reddened, the weight of exhaustion and grief pressing on him.

She was still going to leave him—no matter how much he tried, no matter how much he gave. He couldn’t understand.

“As long as you’re good and stay with me, I’ll treat you well,” he whispered to the sleeping woman in his arms. “I learned medicine, cooking, even martial arts—just so I could take care of you. You told me to make friends, so I did. You liked money, so I gave you everything I had. I tried so hard to become the man you wanted… so why, Clarissa? Why did you still want to leave?”

His voice grew smaller and smaller until it was just a breath against her skin. At some point, fatigue overtook him, and he lay down beside her, still holding her close as sleep finally claimed him.

When Clarissa woke, her breath came short. She turned and found Atticus wrapped around her, clinging like an oversized dog.

In sleep, he looked nothing like the cold, commanding man she knew. The sharpness in his features was gone, replaced by something unexpectedly gentle. His arms held her tightly, and there was a faint, content smile on his lips—like a boy clutching his favorite toy.

Only in this quiet, unguarded moment could she see that beneath the arrogance and danger, he was still a young man—not even twenty yet.

She had watched him grow up, had guided and protected him through the years. How had the boy she once cared for turned into this?

Her throat tightened. She bit her lip, but the tears still came, silently sliding down her cheeks.

Out of her sight, Atticus stirred. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes opened just enough to see her crying quietly in his arms. The sight stabbed through him like a thousand needles.

He wanted to reach out, to wipe her tears, but he stayed still, afraid she’d pull away if she knew he was awake. He never meant to hurt her—he told himself that again and again—but every time he thought of her with Mark, every time he saw her smile at someone else, the rage inside him would flare until it burned away all reason.

Clarissa eventually cried herself back to sleep. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady against his chest. Atticus lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, before carefully slipping out of bed.

For a moment, Clarissa thought he was leaving. But then he returned. The blanket lifted, and a chill brushed her skin, making her flinch.

His hand touched her leg. Panic surged in her chest—she couldn’t endure another outburst from him.

But instead of pain, there came a cool, soothing sensation. The faint smell of herbs reached her nose, and she realized he was applying medicine.

Her body relaxed slightly. He didn’t speak, just finished his task in silence, then gently tucked the blanket around her again.

Without another word, Atticus stood and walked toward the door. It slid open with a soft mechanical click as he pressed his hand against a panel on the wall—a fingerprint lock. When it closed, the seam vanished, leaving no trace of an exit.

Only when she was sure he was gone did Clarissa let out the breath she’d been holding.

She got up, still dizzy, and examined the wall where the door had been. There was no scanner or keypad in sight. She pressed her hands against the smooth surface, searching for any hidden switch, but found nothing.

A faint chill crept through her bare feet. Looking down, she noticed there were no shoes—only a soft white rug on the floor. She almost tripped on her oversized robe as she moved toward the wardrobe.

Maybe he’d left her something to wear.

But when she opened it, the inside was completely empty. Not a single item of clothing. No phone. No tools. Nothing that could connect her to the outside world.

He really meant to keep her here.

Clarissa’s heart sank as the realization settled over her like a weight she couldn’t shake. She sat back down on the edge of the bed, the silence pressing in on all sides.

She had slept too much earlier, but now sleep wouldn’t come. The air in the room felt heavy, too still. After a while, she got up and began to wander, pacing slowly through the confined space.

She dragged a stool to the only source of air—a narrow ventilation vent nailed tightly shut. There were several like it, but each one was far too small for anyone to crawl through.

Within an hour, Clarissa had examined every inch of the place. There was no weak point, no way out. Wherever this was—a basement, maybe, or a sealed room in some isolated villa—she knew she was trapped.

And even if she could get out, she had no idea what waited on the other side.

By the end of the day, Clarissa had done nothing but sit on the bed, her thoughts spinning in quiet circles. She drank some water, used the bathroom, but otherwise just… waited.