She hesitated, but stepped forward anyway. When she was still three steps away, he reached out and pulled her the rest of the way into his arms.

Held against his chest, Clarissa could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the familiar scent of his skin. For a moment, she almost let herself forget.

Then she whispered, barely audible, “I want to sleep.”

Atticus turned her gently, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll stay.”

She didn’t answer. Her breathing soon evened out, soft and rhythmic.

Atticus watched her for a long time, his eyes unblinking, until the dryness stung and the ache in his chest became unbearable. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his voice rough and broken.

“Clarissa…” he whispered. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Clarissa spent another three days in that place. Three excruciatingly long, endless days.

By the third day, after forcing herself through another silent lunch, she fainted.

When she woke again, everything had changed.

She was lying on a bed so large and soft it felt unreal. The room around her was cloaked in darkness—no lamps, no trace of light, only silence pressing in from every side.

For a moment, she didn’t care where she was. All she wanted was light—just a sliver of sunlight. She pushed herself up and stumbled toward the curtains. But just as her fingers brushed the heavy fabric, a pair of hands caught her from behind.

“You’re awake,” came Atticus’s low voice, right by her ear.

He pulled her into his arms. His scent, his warmth—everything about him was too close, too real.

Clarissa swallowed, forcing her voice to stay calm. “Atticus, it’s so dark in here. Can you turn on the lights?”

“Of course.”

He released her, and a moment later, with a faint click, light flooded the room.

Clarissa squinted against the sudden brightness, blinking until her vision cleared. The room was spacious—luxurious, even—and though the layout felt unfamiliar, something about it tugged at her memory. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to look around for long. Her gaze was fixed on Atticus as he walked toward her.

He took her hands in his. His tone was calm, almost tender. “We’ll live here from now on.”

“Where… is this?”

“You’ll find out soon,” he said lightly. “Let’s eat first.”

He started to guide her toward the door, but Clarissa stopped short when she realized she was still wearing that oversized robe. The hem brushed against her ankles; she could barely walk in it.

“Wait,” she murmured.

Atticus turned to her, brow furrowing slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“My clothes,” Clarissa said, lowering her eyes. “I’ll trip if I walk like this.”

A brief silence followed. Then Atticus smiled, a faint, indulgent curve of his lips. “You’re right. My fault—I was too happy to see you awake.”

Before she could react, he lifted her into his arms. Clarissa froze but didn’t resist. She couldn’t read his expression anymore, couldn’t tell whether the gentleness in his voice was love or something far more dangerous.

He carried her into the next room. Two men stood at the doorway and immediately opened it for them.

Their heads remained bowed the entire time. Clarissa couldn’t see their faces—only the matching black uniforms they wore, each marked with a silver “X.”

The room beyond was enormous, lined with endless rows of clothing and accessories, all arranged with obsessive precision.

Atticus set her down before a dressing table, then began rifling through the racks, humming softly as he picked out outfit after outfit.

“Atticus?” she ventured.

“Don’t move,” he said without looking at her. “Let me handle it.”

He came back with an armful of clothes and set them beside her, then without warning, slipped the robe off her shoulders.

The sudden chill made her gasp, but Atticus didn’t seem to notice—or pretended not to. He simply began holding up dresses against her body, studying each one critically before setting it aside.

After a few moments, he helped her into one. Clarissa stood still, motionless, as he adjusted the fabric and smoothed the wrinkles, his fingers brushing her skin with deliberate care.

When he was done, he stood behind her and began to comb her hair, running his fingers slowly through the long, black strands. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “So beautiful.”

His eyes were distant, lost in thought. “I’ve wanted this for so long—a home that belongs only to us. A world where no one else can interfere. It’s not finished yet, but soon… soon I’ll show you everything.”

Clarissa’s gaze drifted to the mirror before her. In the reflection, she saw the two of them—his tall figure behind her, his hand tangled in her hair, the faint smile on his lips.

And then she remembered why this place felt familiar.

She’d seen it before—every detail of it—in Atticus’s art books.

Back then, she’d flipped through them idly, laughing at how obsessed he seemed with design. Ninety-nine percent of the pages had been sketches of her: her face, her posture, her smile. The rest had been drawings of rooms—these very rooms.

Romantic, refined, elegant.

Everything she used to love.

And now, recreated in perfect, suffocating detail.

When Atticus finished combing her hair, he went to retrieve a pair of shoes—simple, pale heels about three centimeters high. Kneeling before her, he gently slipped them onto her feet.

“Every time you wore new shoes before, they gave you blisters,” he said quietly. “Those idiots couldn’t even make a proper pair. But it’s alright. You won’t ever have to wear anything cheap again.”

Clarissa stared down at him, her chest tightening painfully.

The tenderness in his voice should have comforted her, but all it did was break her heart.

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing back the tears burning in her eyes, while he fastened the buckles with meticulous care.

When he finally stood, he looked her over from head to toe, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He helped her to her feet, his hand steady on her back.

Clarissa kept her gaze fixed on the floor, not daring to meet his eyes.

Atticus led Clarissa outside, where a table had already been set. The two of them sat down together. Throughout the meal, Atticus kept piling food onto her plate.

“Eat more,” he said.

Clarissa didn’t argue. She stayed silent and ate whatever he gave her, her movements mechanical, obedient.

Whenever he asked her a question, she answered softly, politely—never more than a few words.

Each day, she became quieter. More compliant.

And Atticus only seemed happier for it.

That night, he was in unusually good spirits. After dinner, he took her for a walk through the estate. Clarissa stayed close by his side, her steps slow, her eyes empty.

The place was vast and lavish—every hallway, every room perfectly tailored to her taste. In another life, she would have been thrilled by the beauty of it all. But now, the perfection felt suffocating.

After a while, she couldn’t walk anymore. “Atticus, I’m tired.”

He stopped instantly. “Then let’s go rest.”

Before she could protest, he scooped her into his arms. “You’re tired? I’ll carry you back.”

Clarissa lowered her head. “…Okay.”

He carried her back to the bedroom, laid her gently on the bed—then pressed her down.

“Clarissa…” His voice was low, roughened by desire. He kissed her hungrily, his breath hot against her skin.

Clarissa lay still beneath him. She didn’t want this—any of it—but her body betrayed her, trembling beneath his touch. She despised that weakness more than anything.

When she realized she couldn’t resist him tonight, she simply closed her eyes.

His breathing grew ragged, his movements more desperate. Sweat dripped from his forehead, falling onto her neck and shoulders. The air between them grew heavy and damp, until they both looked as if they’d been pulled from water.

Finally, Atticus slowed. Seeing the exhaustion in her eyes, he stopped, his hand lingering against her cheek. Then he pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Sleep…”

Clarissa didn’t reply. She was already gone, sinking into a deep, merciful sleep.

Atticus watched her for a long time, eyes tracing every curve of her face. Then, at last, he lay down beside her and closed his eyes.

When Clarissa woke the next morning, Atticus was still there—a rare sight. He was standing by the bed, getting dressed.

The outfit was unmistakably his style: a fitted black shirt and a leather trench coat, both custom-made, every line perfectly tailored to him.

She stirred, and he turned immediately, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He set down the watch in his hand and crossed to her side.

“Morning,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I have to go out today. I probably won’t be back until the day after tomorrow. I’ve arranged for someone to look after you. If you need anything, tell her.”

Clarissa’s heart clenched at his words—but outwardly, she remained composed. She nodded gently. “Alright.”

Atticus smiled, kissed her cheek. “Good girl. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” she said softly, then hesitated before adding, “Be careful on the road.”

He froze, caught off guard by the words. Then his face lit up with a rare, boyish smile. He hugged her tight, kissing her several times before finally—reluctantly—turning to leave.

Clarissa sat there long after he’d gone, staring at the door, her mind spiraling.

What was this between them?

Love? Captivity? Madness?

She felt like she was losing herself.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

The door opened, and a young girl stepped inside.

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen—fair-skinned, delicate, almost doll-like, except for the dark red birthmark that spread along one side of her face.

She walked over and bowed slightly.

Clarissa studied her. “How old are you?”

The girl hesitated, then shook her head.

Clarissa frowned. “What’s your name, then? How should I address you?”

The girl pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket, scribbling quickly before turning the paper around.

I can’t speak. My name is Eleven. Tell me what you need.

Clarissa blinked. “Eleven?” She read the name again—it looked odd, mechanical. But the girl only nodded, expression calm.

She looked about the same age as Delilah. Her eyes—large and gentle—made Clarissa’s chest tighten with the memory of her friend. Her voice softened. “It’s alright. You can write things down from now on. I’m going to the restroom.”

Eleven nodded and scribbled again:

Would you like breakfast served in your room?

“No, let’s eat outside,” Clarissa said.

Eleven nodded again and quietlyleft the room.

Clarissa washed up quickly and went out. The house felt emptier than before. Everyone had gone—only she, Eleven, and the cook remained. The man barely looked at her, his face expressionless, his movements precise.

Clarissa took a sip of the porridge set before her. The flavor was similar to what Atticus used to make—but not quite.

After a few more bites, she lost her appetite—but then forced herself to finish.