3: The Estate

The stage was behind her now. The applause had stopped and there were no more spotlights, no more eyes. No more numbers.

This room held more peace, felt emptier, but it didn't soothe her. Dim light fell unevenly across the space. A crack ran down one wall like the place itself was tired. A curved mirror leaned in the corner, showing a warped reflection of a girl she didn't recognize.

Anaya stood in the center, alone with the ache in her chest.

She leaned into the wall, its cold peeling paint pressing against her shoulder—grounding her. The little moment wasn't tranquility. It was what came after the storm. And somehow worse. Here, she could hear her breath, feel the blood beneath her skin, and remember.

She remembered the gentleness of her mother's voice when she spoke of dreams.

The way her mother smoothed her hair and whispered, You're meant for more than this world knows.

But that woman was gone.

And her father had sold her like she was a pair of shoes he no longer wore.

The door creaked open.

She remained still.

If someone had come to drag her out by her hair, so be it. Let them.

Her fire wasn't gone—but it was buried under ash.

Then she smelled it. That same perfume: cheap and sugary, trying hard to be expensive.

Anaya turned her head slowly.

The woman from earlier entered, carrying a hairpiece like a crown. Her smile was painted in smug certainty.

"Well," she purred, circling. "Look at the little lamb. No screaming, no begging. Finally learning your place?"

Anaya didn't answer. Her silence was armor now.

The woman came close, close enough to touch. She did, brushing Anaya's hair behind her ear with fingers more claws than care.

Second time. Jenna first, now her. Like they all rehearsed the same scene—tender fingers, masked control. They never touched her with love, only to own something.

"I almost feel bad for you," she said. "Almost."

Anaya's eyes opened. Her voice was flat. "That's a new one. Evolving now, are we?" She didn't mean to sound tired, but she was.

The woman scoffed. "Still got a tongue, huh?"

"And it still makes women like you cry."

The woman's smirk cracked. Her foot flew out, landing a precise, mean kick against Anaya's shin.

Pain flared, but Anaya stayed upright. Slowly, with poison in her veins and fire on her throat, she straightened.

"I'm not your bitch," she said, voice low. "Try again. I bite harder the second time."

The woman reeled back for another hit, but the door flew open.

"Enough," a guard barked.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, relax. She's used to being bruised. Isn't that how Ethan liked it? Rough until you bled?"

That was the trigger.

Anaya moved without thinking. Her knee slammed into the woman's side and she fell into a rack of satin dresses, gasping.

"You crazy cow!"

"I'm a Castellanos," She said, lifting her chin. "We don't 'cow.' We conquer."

Another man appeared in the doorway, a bigger guard, with a scar across his cheek and a smirk that made her stomach turn.

"I'll take her," he muttered.

"Pretty girl like this? Could use a lesson."

The first guard didn't argue. Anaya was shoved forward.

The second man grabbed her arm like he meant to leave bruises.

"Try that again," he warned, his breath hot. "I wish you weren't born pretty."

"Then hit me," her voice low. "And find out what else I was born with."

His hand lifted.

Then stilled.

Cracking static from his earpiece. Orders.

"Sir?" he asked, frowning.

Another pause. His hand dropped. He stepped back, his face pale.

Ferretti, Anaya thought.

Even without hearing him, she felt him. Not like a sound—but like pressure. Like thunder pacing behind a paper-thin wall.

But power makes cowards brave.

"Your sugar daddy in the tower can't see behind closed doors," he snorted.

Anaya smiled. Not soft. Not sweet. The kind of smile people remember. "Good," she said. "Then I hope he doesn't stop me either."

She kneed him.

He choked and stumbled. The first guard chuckled under his breath.

"You little—"

"Easy," Anaya brushed off her coat. "You said you wanted to teach me manners. I just taught you mine."

Their earpiece crackled again.

This time, whatever was said ended the moment.

They yanked her away, tongue-tied now.

She limped slightly, her shin still throbbing, but she didn't wince. Pain was fuel.

And behind her, the woman held her ribs, glaring.

Anaya didn't look back.

"Tell Jenna," she muttered into the air, "she wears betrayal well. Like a borrowed dress."

****

The car wasn't an Aston Martin.

It was a black Jaguar: sleek, ghostlike, and noiseless as it cut through the city. The scent inside was leather, pine, and something colder.

Anaya didn't utter a word. Didn't ask questions. Her hands rested in her lap like they belonged to someone else.

When they reached the estate, the gates swung shut behind them with a fatal, brutal sound.

She stepped out.

The autumn air bit her cheeks, and the gravel crunched beneath her feet. A mansion loomed ahead, dark and indifferent. No light in the windows. No warmth in the stone.

This was no home.

It was a sentence.

****

Inside, the quiet was suffocating.

Her heels echoed against the dark floors. The wall stretched high, the ceiling even higher. No paintings. No welcome. Just stone floors that stayed cold no matter the season, and chandeliers that glittered without warmth.

The driver gestured.

"Upstairs. End of the right wing."

She slowly walked. The hallway seemed endless, the air colder with every step.

Then she saw him.

At the landing.

Bastian Ferretti.

Black shirt. Bleak eyes. Presence like winter with a spine. Motionless and watching.

He didn't speak. He didn't blink. He just looked at her, as if trying to see through her instead of at her.

Her breath hitched. Her body froze. But she moved anyway.

One step.

Then another.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

At the top, she stood before him.

She didn't understand how just standing in front of a man—this man—could make her stomach tighten and her heart pound like it was trying to outrun lightning.

A mean streak wrapped in skin.

Bastian Ferretti.

Was it because she'd overheard one of the guards at the auction say he'd destroyed a country just by snapping his fingers?

Get yourself together, she scolded. You're not weak, Ana.

She gripped her coat tightly.

"Your room is at the end of the hall," he said, voice smooth but sharp. "Don't wander.

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

"And the rules?"

His stare just hardened.

"No questions. No noise after ten. No locked doors."

She tensed, but her voice held.

"What happens if I break them?"

He paused.

"You won't."

Then he turned and walked away.

The shadows followed him like they knew the path.

Anaya just stood there, even though her knees felt mighty tired.

The tears stung behind her eyes—but she didn't let them fall.

Not here.

When they finally came, they would be hers.