Chapter Four: The Mansion in Chains

Amara stared out the window of the sleek black car as the city lights blurred past. Luca sat beside her, silent and still, his expression unreadable. The tension between them was palpable, not just from the kidnapping—or whatever this was—but from something unspoken, something heavy.

They drove for nearly an hour until the towering skyline gave way to rolling hills and iron gates. The car pulled up to a mansion that looked like it belonged in a movie—stone walls, massive doors, and security cameras in every corner. Men in dark suits stood guard at the gates, their eyes sharp.

"This is your safe house?" Amara asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"No," Luca said. "This is my home."

He led her inside, where marble floors stretched beneath crystal chandeliers. The place was cold, both in temperature and spirit. No family portraits. No warmth. Just opulence built on silence.

She followed him through halls lined with paintings—mostly dark, surreal images. The only color came from a painting that stopped her in her tracks: a field of poppies under a stormy sky.

"You painted that?" she asked.

He glanced back. "My mother did."

The bitterness in his tone made her flinch. "She’s gone?"

"Killed. When I was fourteen." his eyes hold no emotion

She looked back at the painting, suddenly understanding the grief that seemed etched into every corner of this house.

He showed her to a room—larger than her entire apartment—with a queen bed, bookshelves, and a view of the backyard.

"You’ll be safe here," he said. "No one gets in or out without me knowing."

Amara crossed her arms. "So what am I? A guest or a prisoner?"

His jaw tightened. "Whichever makes you feel better."

She hated how calm he was. How casually he talked about danger and death, like it was just part of his day. But more than anything, she hated that she didn’t feel scared.

Not of him.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. She wandered the mansion until she found a room filled with canvases and art supplies. Dust clung to everything, but the light from the moon made it feel sacred.

She pulled a canvas free, dipped a brush in paint, and let her hand move. She didn’t know what she was painting until she stepped back hours later.

It was Luca.

Not the man in a suit. Not the man with a gun.

But the man with haunted eyes and lonely silence.

Behind her, the door creaked. She turned.

Luca stood there, watching.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quickly.

“You didn’t.”

He stepped closer. Looked at the painting. Then, softly, said, “That’s not who I am.”

She looked up at him. “Then who are you?” she asked

“I’m still trying to figure that out.”

And in the silence that followed, something unspoken began to form—a connection neither of them could ignore.