Chapter 3: Abdication to a Higher Power

Anne's Point of View:

My eyes darted around the lavish room. Gilded cage. It feels... wrong. So wrong. This place felt like a prison of polished marble and expensive fabrics, miles away from the quiet peace I usually found praying in that little church back in Luzon. I could almost feel my mom's hand in mine, warm and safe. Now, everything feels empty and cold. He just stared, his gaze intense, making me want to gasp for air. His enigmatic smile, playing on his thin lips, felt like a cruel mockery of everything I believe in. My breath hitched in my throat; my heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I closed my eyes, trying to remember my mom's hand, the smell of incense in the church. The melody of "Regina Caeli" started playing softly in my head, a silent prayer for strength and guidance. I need to stay calm. Think.

He leaned back, his angular face, framed by short, straight black hair and a distinctive widow's peak, impassive. His olive skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones; his blue, monolid eyes held a menacing stillness, making my breath catch in my throat. There was a stillness about him, a controlled intensity that was more unsettling than any overt display of aggression. His slender build, accentuated by his ramrod-straight posture, gave him an almost predatory grace. His grunge aesthetic clothing-a dark, worn t-shirt hinting at tattoos beneath, and a single piercing in his left ear-only added to the chilling aura. Barely visible scars traced the line of his eyebrows. He's dangerous. I can feel it. "Let's just say... your life took a weird turn. A really... unpleasant turn." His voice was low, smooth, yet devoid of any warmth. My hands trembled slightly, but I refused to let him see it.

"Unpleasant? You're the unpleasant one! Kidnapping me, leaving me half-naked in your... your... sanctuary." The word tasted like ashes. The bright colors of the church windows, my mom's smile... felt like a lifetime ago. A shiver ran down my spine, despite my determination to remain calm.

He didn't respond verbally; only a slight tightening of his jaw, a barely perceptible clenching of his fists betrayed his inner turmoil. He raised his brandy glass, the ice clinking softly against the crystal-a deliberate, almost theatrical gesture. He took a slow sip, his curved nose slightly wrinkled, his blue eyes never leaving mine, their intensity unnerving, their gaze prolonged. He's studying me. Assessing me. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, a silent game of wills. My pulse quickened; a thin sheen of sweat appeared on my upper lip.

He abruptly set down his glass, the sharp click echoing in the sudden quiet. He leaned forward, his body language shifting subtly, the controlled intensity turning into something more... predatory. The air thickened, the silence now charged with a palpable threat. His gaze dropped to my exposed skin, lingering for a beat too long before snapping back to my eyes. He's... appraising me. Like... property. A wave of nausea washed over me; my stomach clenched. This isn't just captivity. This is something... worse. My breath hitched in my throat; my hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Better? How? By keeping me prisoner in your... sanctuary?" My voice was dripping with sarcasm, but my heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. What does he want from me? What is he going to do? My knees felt weak; a cold dread spread through me.

He didn't answer directly, instead, he reached out, his hand hovering near my arm. Then, just as quickly, he retracted it, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his fingers curling into a tight fist. He wants to touch me... but he can't... or won't? The gesture was a cruel dance, a silent torment. My breath caught in my throat; my body tensed, anticipating his next move. He cleared his throat, the sound strained. "One condition, though." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. A condition? For what? My body trembled, but my eyes remained locked onto his.

My heart hammered. This was a test, a manipulation. He wanted to break me. But I wouldn't let him. I remembered conquering my fear on Easter Sunday, the feeling of those angel wings. This was a game, and I'd play it. I had to. My faith, my mom's belief, and my own courage were all I had. But the fear was real, a cold knot in my gut. I had to be brave. This humiliation... I would use it, if I could. I started silently humming "Regina Caeli," a prayer for strength. My gaze, though, was on that heavy silver candlestick on the mantelpiece. My escape plan is forming.

He continued, his voice a silken thread of menace, "Change. In front of me."

The humiliation was a physical blow. He wants to see me broken. He wants to see me as... something less. But underneath the shame, defiance grew stronger. He wouldn't see me break. This was an act, a performance. As I began to comply, my fingers brushed the cool marble tabletop. A weapon. A distraction. My eyes scanned the room again, calculating distances, escape routes, looking for anything I could use. The drapes, the mirror, the desk... all possibilities. My journalism training, my self-defense knowledge... they were my allies now. I noticed his jaw clench, his knuckles whiten as he gripped his glass. His control is fraying. Then, he abruptly set the glass down, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. He looked away, his gaze falling on a framed photograph, his shoulders slumping slightly. He's remembering something... someone... My breathing became shallow, my senses heightened, every nerve ending on high alert.

"Stop." His voice was sharp, cutting me off. He's losing control. He turned away abruptly, his back stiff, his frustration barely contained. The click of the door was final, cold. I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer, remembering my mom, my faith, my courage, the song in my heart. But this time, the darkness held a seed of hope. I'd use everything I had to get out of here... but the fear was still there, a cold, primal terror. What is he going to do to me?