Бесплатный фрагмент - While no one is looking

Prologue 1: The Aftermath

My cheek was pressed against something cold and rough. Splinters. The taste of salt and blood in my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but my lips wouldn't obey. Outside, the ocean roared, but in my ears, a thin, high-pitched ringing grew louder, drowning everything else. I wanted to lift my arm, but it was leaden, immovable. All I could do was look—through the gaps in the floorboards, at strips of moonlight on the water.

On the floor was Kai.

Motionless. Lying in a pool of his own blood, dark and thick in the lunar glow.

I hadn't cried. I couldn't.

Beside me, a syringe. Empty. Its needle gleamed like a scorpion's sting. Evidence. A verdict.

A shadow loomed above me.

Jules.

He was hurt. Blood seeped from his side, beneath the ribs, where I had struck him, staining his perfect suit. Yet, he seemed oblivious.

He wasn't looking at Kai. He was looking at me.

And he was smiling.

He leaned down, and I caught his scent—Egoïste, mingling with the smell of my own blood. His lips brushed my earlobe—not a kiss, but a brand.

"Sleep well, little one."

I felt a thin prick in my neck, and then warmth began to spread through my veins. The world didn't go dark. It just went quiet. The last thing I heard before everything faded was the sound of his receding footsteps on the wooden deck.

I tried to clench my fist. To remember who I was.

I am the hunter.

The thought dissolved like smoke.

...Only while no one sees.

Prologue 2: The Perfect Trap

America. The suburbs of Seattle.

A country house with immaculately white shutters. A garden where lavender and roses grew in straight, disciplined rows, like soldiers on parade. Cozy light spilled from a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and something antiseptic. A cup of coffee with foam so perfect it belonged in an advertisement featuring unnaturally wide smiles.

Leia sat at the light oak table, watching Jules’ fingers glide silently across the laptop keyboard.

Perfect.

The word was a trap. His fair hair was always styled with mathematical precision—just as his mother had liked it in their family photos. His shirts smelled not just of expensive detergent, but of predictability. He knew everything: when to water the cactus she secretly despised, when to change the car's oil, when it was time for bed to ensure a productive day.

He even knew when to suggest they move in together. Exactly one year, three months, and sixteen days after their first date. Scheduled.

And she had said "yes."

Not out of love, a molten wave in her veins. But because it was right. Expected. The next step in the script called The Successful Life.

That "rightness" had only been disrupted once, last Tuesday. Jules had approved her trip to the farmer's market—"supporting local producers," "organic produce"—all fitting perfectly into his concept of ideal living. And there, amid the scents of fresh pastries and lavender soap, she ran into a ghost from the past.

"Leia? Oh my God, Leia Morgan!"

Chloe. Her college roommate. Loud, vibrant, with a mass of red hair and a laugh that seemed capable of shattering glass. She swept Leia into an embrace that smelled of coffee and anarchic freedom.

"You look..." Chloe paused, taking in Leia from head to toe: the perfect cashmere coat, the string of pearls, the flawless updo. "Like you stepped off a magazine cover. Damn, I'm so happy to see you! We have to grab coffee. I'll tell you a dark secret—I quit law and launched my own startup. Handmade ceramics, can you believe it? Absolute insanity!"

For a fleeting moment, Leia's heart pounded in an old, forgotten rhythm. But it quickly contracted with a chill. She imagined explaining this encounter, this "impulsive" coffee, to Jules. She pictured his quiet, disappointed gaze.

"I... I can't right now," she choked out, feeling like a traitor. "So much work. But I'm genuinely happy for you. Really."

She fled, leaving a bewildered Chloe in the middle of the market.

That evening, as they sat in the perfect silence of their living room, Jules, without glancing up from his laptop screen, casually remarked:

"I saw your old friend, Chloe Davis, online today. Interesting. Her ceramics startup just filed for bankruptcy. An investor pulled the funding at the last minute. What a pity. I always said she had wonderful impulses, but a complete lack of strategic thinking."

He didn't look at her. He didn't need to. Leia froze, feeling icy fingers wrap around her spine. He didn't just know about the meeting. He had already delivered a preemptive strike. He had shown her that any connection to her "wrong," chaotic past would be found and neutralized. Quietly. Soundlessly. And with the most sincere, caring smile on his face.

She played her part flawlessly. Without a hitch. No tremor in her fingers when his lips brushed her neck. None of that insane, intoxicating dizziness of desire. Everything was... safe. Warm, like a bath at a comfortable temperature.

"Isn't this happiness?" her friends would ask.

"Absolutely," she'd reply, the smile settling on her face automatically, a rehearsed gesture.

And yet, deep in the night, beneath the flawlessly ironed duvet, lying beside his even, too even breathing. She would catch the feeling in her sleep, and then wake up. Always at the same time: 3:14 AM. First, a constriction beneath her ribs—tight, as if a corset had been laced too savagely. She'd try to inhale deeply, but the air would catch somewhere in her throat. Her heart would start beating faster, a muffled drum straight into her ears. She would turn onto her side, away from his steady breath, clamping a hand over her mouth to suppress any sound. And then, no longer a whisper, but her own panicked voice, the question would rise:

"What if this isn't my life at all?"

And what if the real one is somewhere out there, beyond the walls of this perfect wax museum, slipping away with every 'right' day?

Chapter 1: The Perfect Trap

The smell of lavender and fresh-cut grass. That was the scent of happiness, according to Jules Barrow. Leia inhaled the fragrance, standing by their bedroom window, and felt a chill run down her spine. Not from pleasure—from the realization that for over a year, she had been breathing this air like an inmate in a prison yard.

The impeccable house. The impeccable garden. The impeccable life.

She woke up with the persistent feeling that his hand was still resting on her temple. The warmth of his fingers. The pressure. Like a mark. She touched her forehead—her skin was cool, but the memory of that touch still burned.

Even through sleep, she remembered—not warmth, but dominion. Not a caress, but control. The skin beneath his palm still seemed to glow with an invisible burn, an imprint, like the ring left by a long, steady press.

Something in her protested. Quietly, at the level of skin and muscle—as if the body knew it was being tamed, trained, molded to another’s will. But her soul... her soul was silent. For now.

She sat in the kitchen, her fingers gripping the window ledge when Jules appeared in the doorway. He entered silently, as always. His fair hair lay in perfect, styled strands, as if straight from the hands of a professional. In his hands: two coffee cups. One with cinnamon and foam—for her. The other black, unsweetened—for him. All protocol.

"You are especially beautiful today," he said, setting her cup down. His lips brushed her temple, and Leia forced herself not to flinch.

"Thank you," she answered automatically, feeling his hand slide down her back, toward the spot where a scar lay hidden beneath the silk of her robe. Old. Almost healed. But not for her.

Cape Kielow, Maine

The roar of the Atlantic—not a song, but a low, continuous rumble, as if a gigantic heart were beating beneath the shore. White chairs on the sand, scattered with deliberate casualness. The wedding arch, twined with roses, smelled of the sea and sweet pollen.

Kate’s wedding was supposed to be perfect. Like everything the Barrows did.

The mirror in the dressing room reflected the perfect picture: a gown the color of a faded rose, hair styled in soft waves, makeup in pastel tones. All according to the unwritten code of the Barrow family. Leia turned before the three-way mirror, watching the silk drape over her hips—beautifully, silently, without a single crease. Like a shroud.

"You look..." The stylist trailed off, biting her lip. Her fingers adjusted a fold at the waist, her touch professional, almost impersonal. Leia didn’t flinch. She felt how the muscles beneath her skin failed to react, as if the dress fabric and her own flesh were one and the same material.

"Perfect," Leia finished the thought for her, looking at her reflection. She forced the corners of her mouth upwards. The muscles in her face obeyed, but she didn't feel her eyes warm. Staring back at her was a beautiful, motionless thing.

The stylist froze, then quickly lowered her gaze: "I... I meant... Miss Morgan."

She sharply withdrew her hands, as if burned. Her gaze slid toward the door—there, reflected in the mirror, stood Jules. He hadn't entered; he was simply observing, arms crossed over his chest.

"You look—exquisite," the stylist whispered, dropping her eyes. Leia noticed the tremor in her fingers.

The door closed behind the woman, and Leia allowed herself a brief moment to relax her shoulders—her muscles ached from the constant tension. In the mirror, her posture suddenly became genuine: a slight tilt of the head, fingers gripping the hem a little too tightly. Real.

She tugged at the lacing of the corset, craving a deep breath.

The silk resisted, gliding over her skin, as if dissuading her. "Be beautiful. Be convenient. Be the doll." Her head spun—either from the lack of air or the realization: she no longer remembered what her true gait, expressions, or voice had been like...

All excised. Rewritten. Fitted. Even her breathing felt alien. In the mirror, her reflection was panting, like a cornered animal.

Escape. Right now.

But where? Her wallet was in Jules’s handbag. Her phone—on his charger. Even the perfume on her neck was his choice—Chanel No. 5, "like my mother's."

Jules appeared in the reflection—flawless in a dark suit, with a carefully measured amount of gel in his hair. His fingers gripped the doorknob so tightly that white spots showed on his knuckles, yet his face remained smooth, like a mask.

"You're running late."

His voice was level, but as he spoke, he briefly glanced at his watch, and then his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on her fingers, which were clutching the dress fabric. Leia followed his gaze and immediately released her grip. A cold shiver ran down her back. She knew that look. The last time she saw that look, she had to drink calming tea for three days.

She forced herself to straighten, pulled her shoulders back, and lifted her chin.

"Sorry. I’m ready." Her voice sounded steady, as if rehearsed before that same mirror.

His hand settled on her waist—the palm dry, warm, perfectly buffed with expensive cream. But where Jules’s fingers touched her bare back, goosebumps rose on her skin. He traced his index finger down her spine.

"You know how much I value your obedience."

In the mirror, their reflection was perfect: a beautiful couple ready for another society event. Only Leia saw how the muscles of her abdomen tensed beneath the silk.

Jules’s wristwatch beeped softly—exactly 5:45 PM. Time to exit.

The Interruption

The downpour hit suddenly, lashing against the glass vaults of the conservatory, creating a rhythmic drumming like an accelerated heartbeat. Leia had rushed in here to save the bride's bouquet from the rain, but now she stood transfixed in the doorway, feeling droplets of water run down her neck, beneath the neckline of her dress.

Run. Right now.

But her feet refused to move. In the dim light between the tropical plants, a tall man was pressing a waitress in a black apron against a shelving unit, his back partially to the door.

Raindrops streamed down the glass dome, distorting the figures of the man and the girl, making them seem to move underwater. Leia couldn't tear her eyes away—his palm, covering the waitress’s mouth, wasn't rough, but... commanding. Not "be quiet," but "you want to be quiet." And the girl—God, she actually bit his finger, making him laugh—a husky, animalistic sound.

Leia felt her lips instantly dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Blood pulsed in her temples, matching the rhythm of the rain, and cold sweat broke out between her shoulder blades despite the humid heat of the conservatory.

Her fingers involuntarily clenched the silk of her dress, mimicking how his hand gripped the girl's hip.

This is wrong. I should leave.

But when the man leaned in, sinking his teeth into the waitress's neck, Leia heard the sound—the girl's choked laugh turning into a moan. She saw the muscles of his back tense beneath his wet shirt.

Something low in her stomach twisted into a tight, hot knot. Leia instinctively stepped back, her foot catching the edge of a flowerpot. She froze, clutching the door frame. Her breath hitched, and she realized she was staring, her mouth slightly ajar.

This was nothing like Jules's predictable touches that only chilled her skin. This was... real. Raw.

She saw the muscles in his back tense beneath the wet shirt, and her own fingers involuntarily clenched the smooth wood of the door frame, her nails digging into the lacquer. Her mouth was suddenly parched.

God, I wish those were his hands...

The waitress arched her back, and Leia unconsciously replicated the movement, feeling the silk dress brush against her nipples. A treacherous thought flashed: What does he smell like? What would his hands feel like on my skin? A wave of disloyal heat spread through her body, centering between her legs.

This is wrong. This is dirty. This is...

Her own fingers squeezed the hem of her dress, mimicking the movement of his hand on the girl’s thigh. The silk rustled, and the sound seemed obscenely loud to her.

"If Jules touched me like that, I would..."

The thought cut off. She didn't know what she would do. She had never allowed herself to consider it.

And then, he turned around.

Their eyes met. Leia felt the blood rush to her face, the air trapped in her throat. He didn't flinch, showed no trace of embarrassment. The corner of his lip slowly curved upward, and she understood with humiliating clarity—he saw her. He saw the way she was breathing. He saw how her fingers were clenching the silk dress until her knuckles were white.

The heat between her legs became so palpable that she instinctively squeezed her thighs together. Not from shame—from the fear that someone might notice. As if her body was screaming in a language she didn't understand.

Leia ran. Slipped on the wet floor. She would have fallen had she not grabbed a shelving unit. Gasps of air tearing through her, she burst outside, but she knew—he had seen her. Seen everything.

And the worst part—she wanted him to see.

The Proposal

9:30 PM. The Wedding Tent.

"Leia?"

Jules’s voice came three steps behind her. She hadn't heard him approach—he always moved silently, like a shadow.

"You're wet," he reached out to smooth a stray lock of hair, but she flinched away.

A pause. His fingers froze mid-air.

"Is something wrong?"

The question was gentle, but a microscopic muscle twitched at the corner of his eye—a warning.

"No. Just... the smell of lavender. It made me dizzy."

Jules frowned. Lavender had been his idea.

The champagne in her glass had long since lost its bubbles, but Leia continued to grip the crystal stem, feeling moisture condense on the cold surface. Somewhere above, the rain beat a nervous rhythm against the stretched canvas, as if trying to deliver a warning.

His fingers encircled her elbow—a warm ring, painfully familiar.

She automatically reached for the necklace on her throat. An anniversary gift. 18-karat gold, the perfectly chosen length—short enough to remind her of its presence with every turn of her head.

Leia felt a gaze burning the fabric of her dress between her shoulder blades. She knew who it was even before she turned around.

In the center of the dance floor, Kate, Jules's sister, twirled in the arms of her groom. Their laughter rang genuinely—a painfully bright note in this rehearsed spectacle. Leia watched Jason’s hand rest naturally on Kate's waist, leaving no bruises beneath the silk.

And then she saw him.

Kai.

He stood by the bar, turned away from the noisy crowd. His tuxedo was impeccably tailored, but his bow tie was undone and merely hung around his neck, the top button of his pristine white shirt unfastened.

He held a glass of bourbon, and Leia noticed his palm almost completely obscured the crystal. As he took a sip, a tendon tightened in his forearm beneath the rolled-up sleeve, and her own voice in her head treacherously whispered: "Like that..."

"Who is that?" Leia's voice sounded foreign to her.

Kate leaned in, smelling of cherry liqueur and something unattainable—freedom. "Kai. Jason's friend. Pulled him out of a burning Mustang after that crash..." She lowered her voice: "They say in Afghanistan he..."

Leia didn't hear the rest. Kai raised his glass—not in a toast, but in silent defiance. His gaze slid over her necklace, and suddenly his face contorted. Only for a second. But she managed to notice the tension in his jaw.

It wasn't just rage. It was recognition—a hunter seeing a wounded bird in a golden cage.

10:15 PM. Center of the Tent.

When Jules dropped to one knee, the diamond in the ring glittered too perfectly—exactly 2 carats, D color, IF clarity. A calculated shine for an equally calculated gesture.

"Be my wife."

Her "yes" hung in the air, as false as the silk flowers in the wedding arch.

Inside, where her soul should have sung, there was a quiet crack. Not a sharp snap—but the slow, insidious sound of old porcelain developing its first, invisible fracture. One more word—and she would crumble into dust. And, as in a silent film, she heard a tolling inside herself—too quiet for others to hear, but loud enough for her to understand: there was no turning back.

At that moment, a camera shutter clicked to her right—not the official photographer—the lens aimed precisely at her face.

She saw Kai, standing by the bar on the left, crush a cigarette in a saucer with a harsh, swift movement.

Jules squeezed her fingers for exactly three seconds; she subconsciously counted the time by his watch: "Smile, darling. This is for posterity."

But in the subtext, she read: "There is no way back."

As Jules took her waist to guide her toward the guests, she suddenly realized:

"He doesn't just control me. He collects me. Like those wax figures in his study—perfect, immobile, dead."

...He kissed her temple—precisely, calculatedly—and walked away, without looking back.

Her knees buckled. She was left alone—amidst the fake smiles, amidst the false calm. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if afraid to disturb the scene.

Chapter 2: A Flaw in the Porcelain

The night passed in a blur. She didn't remember returning to the room. Didn't recall undressing, lying down, closing her eyes.

But she knew for certain—she hadn't slept. She couldn't.

His touch still pressed against her temple, like a ring that wouldn't come off. Her body refused to believe that nothing had happened. Her consciousness—that nothing had begun.

The morning was silent. Too perfect. Someone had closed the windows in her room for her. The curtains allowed just enough light to enter without blinding her. Breakfast sat by the bed. The coffee was warm.

He knew she would wake up at precisely this moment.

🔪 The Hunter

It was the second day of the wedding celebrations. Most of the guests had already gathered.

He was a predator in a flock of sheep. Leia noticed it instantly—the way his gaze skimmed the guests, noting the weak, calculating the dangerous. Her fingers involuntarily tightened around her glass when she caught herself looking for him in the crowd every time Jules turned away.

Later, she wouldn't remember the briny taste of the oysters, the father of the bride's rehearsed toast, or the sweet scent of the wedding cake.

She would only remember the way her body suddenly flared, recognizing his presence. The man in the tuxedo, which fit him like armor on a barbarian. Too expensive. Too alien.

He stood by the railing, smoking with the air of a man who knows that everything in this world is temporary. Even pain. Even memory. The cigarette was held between his thumb and index finger—a surgeon’s grip, familiar to those who had held a scalpel.

"We are so relieved that our Julien has finally settled down with such a..."—Jules's mother paused, scrutinizing Leia—"...such a reserved girl. He worries about you, Leia. Jules loves you very much. He wants you to be... stable."

"I don’t feel unstable," she blurted out.

"Well... you haven't been sleeping. You cry. Sometimes you snap."

"Maybe because I'm being kept in a house like a prisoner?" she whispered.

Eleanor looked at her as if she were ill.

"You consented to the treatment, remember?"

The automatic smile. Her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the crystal glass. Somewhere behind her—laughter that was too loud. She turned.

He was staring directly at her.

Not secretly. Not assessing. But like a pathologist at an autopsy—seeing beneath the skin. Seeing the Leia hiding behind the silk and the smiles. And the strangest thing was—he liked it.

Leia felt a strange déjà vu—as if she had seen that look somewhere before. But not from him. From another. One who also knew how to pity... before breaking.

When "Can't Help Falling in Love" began to play, Jules led her onto the dance floor. His hands—dry, warm, with perfectly manicured nails—settled on her waist. Proper. Decent. Dead.

"You're completely tense," his lips brushed her ear. "Relax. You know how much Mother loves it when you..."

"I need air," she broke away, feeling the corset dig into her ribs.

🚬 Steel and Cognac

The garden met her with the damp breath of the ocean. She kicked off her heels—her bare feet sinking into the cold grass. Somewhere here...

The night was unnaturally warm for Maine. Even the ocean breeze offered no relief—only a heavy humidity that enveloped her skin like a second dress. Leia clenched her fingers on the wrought-iron railing, feeling the metal, warmed by the day, now scorching her palms. Good pain. Real pain. Unlike Jules’s sickeningly sweet caresses.

The dress suddenly felt restrictive. The corset pressed against her ribs, as if trying to squeeze the last scream from her lungs. She reached for the lacing—and instantly heard behind her:

"Running away?"

The Voice. Three steps away. Leia spun around abruptly—her hair whipping across her face. Now she could see his face, the scar above his eyebrow. "What is it, a knife? Shrapnel?" Thin white lines, like cuts, tracked across his hands.

"Don't like weddings?" His voice was hoarse, as if its owner hadn't used it for years for anything but commands and curses.

She turned to face him.

"I’m not—"

"You’re lying." A lighter clicked, casting an orange reflection on his scar. "That's the fifth time you've touched that necklace. Like a dog trying to slip its collar."

Not a question—a statement. He already knew her better than Jules did after three years.

Leia automatically snatched her hand back. The gold burned her neck.

"It's a gift."

"From Jules?" He exhaled smoke rings. "Funny. Sarah had one just like it. Right before they put her in Maple Grove."

He took a drag, and in the light of the cigarette tip, his eyes turned copper.

How to breathe?

The smoke mixed with his scent—leather, cognac, steel. Not cologne. Something genuine.

Ice ran down her spine. Sarah—Jules’s cousin. The one who went mad...

"Did you... know her?"

"I collect broken faces," he stepped closer. "And he broke hers. Not physically. That's harder to prove."

"Are you the groom’s friend?" she asked, just to say something.

His lips stretched into a smile, but his eyes remained cold:

"We shared a prison cell." He paused deliberately, watching her pale. "A joke. The Army. Jason’s the only one who isn’t afraid to talk to me after..." He gestured with his head. "...everything."

He stepped closer. There was no more than a foot between them now. Leia could feel the heat radiating from him.

"And your perfect fiancé..." He nodded towards the dance floor. "...does he know you’re trembling out here, and it's not from the cold?"

She didn't know how it happened. Her hand reached out and touched the scar above his brow.

Rough tissue beneath the skin. Alive.

He froze. Didn't pull away.

"Scared?" His breath warmed her cheek.

"No," she lied, feeling her fingers slide lower—to the corner of his mouth.

"You're lying," he caught her wrist. "But I like the way you do it."

His lips brushed her palm. Not a kiss. A taste. He inhaled her scent, like an addict drawing his first dose.

"Leia?" Jules’s voice cut through the night.

Kai stepped back, but managed to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her cheek.

The smell of his cigarettes lingered in the air even after he was gone—raw, with bitter undertones, not like Jules’s precisely filtered Marlboros. Leia ran her tongue over her lips, catching the residual taste. Unconsciously, her hand mimicked Kai’s gesture—the way he held the cigarette, clamped between his thumb and forefinger, like a scalpel.

The man vanished.

The cigarette butt lay on the railing, an evidence. Leia looked around—no one was watching—and picked it up. The paper was still warm.

She pressed the filter to her lips.

A sharp taste of tobacco, someone else's saliva, something more... Mint? No, a medicinal bitterness. Like those pills Jules slipped into her tea.

"Leia? What are you doing?" Jules's voice sounded behind her.

She dropped the butt, but it was too late; he had already seen.

When she returned to the table, her entire body was still pulsing.

Kai's tuxedo flashed somewhere in the crowd. For a second, she thought he was looking directly at her. But no—he was watching Jules, who had stepped away for drinks and was now making his way through the room, smiling at guests and clenching her glass in his hand.

Jules embraced her—the touch stung like an electric shock. Too clean. Too correct.

"Is everything alright?" His fingers were warm and dry. Like a pathologist’s gloves.

She shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. The taste of his cigarette smoke was still on her tongue.

"He'll kill you," Kate whispered, touching up her powder in the ladies' room. Her eyes in the mirror were glassy. "Not physically. He'll carve you out piece by piece until all that's left is... this." She gestured to her reflection.

"You’re exaggerating," Leia automatically smiled. The rehearsed gesture.

Kate spun around abruptly: "Sarah had the same dark circles under her eyes. A month before Maple Grove."

The Promise

The Barrow Garden. Late evening.

The silence felt like a taut wire. The scent of roses wafted in the air, but Leia could only taste metal in her mouth. Her fingers were still shaking. She wanted to run. To hide. To disappear.

"Is everything alright, Leia?"

The Voice. Velvety, low.

Too close.

She turned around—Jules stood on the path, not touching the flowerbed, as if even the grass feared staining his shoes. White shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a watch on his wrist—with impeccable punctuality. His face devoid of any hint of worry.

"You look... lost," he said. "Would you like me to speak with Mother?"

Leia involuntarily took a step back. He noticed. And smirked—the corner of his lip, without genuine warmth.

"It's just stress, darling. All brides get nervous before the wedding. Even those who have dreamed of it since childhood," he stepped closer, embracing her shoulders. Lightly. But her skin burned under his touch.

"You did dream of it, didn't you?"

Leia wanted to answer. But the words caught in her throat. Her lips trembled slightly, and he instantly ran his finger across the lower one—examining, like a doctor checking a reflex.

"There you go," he whispered. "Don't be afraid. Everything will be correct. You will be... perfect."

She shuddered.

Jules leaned closer, his breath touching her earlobe.

"You just need to trust me, Leia." He paused. "And if you can't—I will teach you."

The words sank beneath her skin like venom. Not a threat, not a plea. A promise. Her body, habitually responding with a tremor, froze for a moment—like an animal too exhausted to be afraid. And for the first time, it didn't respond with its usual shudder. Deep beneath her skin, in the muscles he had trained for so long, something tensed. Not in fear. In protest. A fine, wire-thin string tightened, and did not snap.

He kissed her temple—precisely, calculatedly—and walked away, without looking back.

Her knees buckled.

Chapter 3: Night Shadows

Jules's car smelled of death.

Not literally—fresh wax, mint air freshener, leather seats treated with antibacterial spray. But for Leia, the scent had come to be associated with slow suffocation.

Everything inside was scrubbed to sterility. Even the aroma—like an operating room where they cut under anesthesia and stitch up without scars. But Leia felt it—this car did not smell of life. It smelled of compliance, rehearsed smiles, and the slow loss of self.

She pressed her forehead against the icy glass, watching the lights of Seattle blur in the raindrops, as if the city were drowning in her tears.

"You're very quiet. Tired?" Jules’s fingers drummed the rhythm of the "Moonlight Sonata" on the steering wheel. A metronome. A warden counting down to lights out.

Her tongue moved sluggishly in her mouth, still tasting the bitter tang of his smoke—not just tobacco, but something feral, like Kai himself. Something between burnt sugar and the copper of blood?

"Just a lot of impressions," she lied, feeling her thighs betrayingly clench. The spot between her legs was still pulsing—an invisible mark left by a stranger's gaze.

She squeezed her thighs harder, as if trying to erase the sensation, wash it away, lock it up. But instead of shame—a tremor. Instead of fear—hunger. It was as if he hadn't just touched her—he had rewritten the code by which her body responded to contact.

Jules nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. "Kate looked happy. Jason is a suitable match for her." A pause. The emphasis."Just like us."

In the rearview mirror, her reflection looked alien—eyes hollow, as after a long fever. There was no light in them—but there was a shadow. Alive. Hungry. As if something from within was looking out at her—not pleading, but assessing: Are you ready to crawl out of this skin?

🛌 The Warden's Quarters

Their bedroom was sterile as an operating theater: sheets ironed on both sides, curtains symmetrically tied back with tassels, books arranged by spine height, never read.

The scent was like a slap. Lavender and bleach. Too clean. Too sharp. As if he wasn't cleaning, but disinfecting. It scraped at her throat, as though she were inhaling someone else's guilt.

In this silence—not a dust particle, not a click. Only the ticking of his watch. Precise. Infallible.

Measuring the seconds of my life like an IV drip measures death.

Jules's pajamas—always the same, always blue Egyptian cotton, every button fastened.

She stood before the mirror. Her reflection felt slightly alien. As if someone else was looking out from within—with empty eyes, with a squeezed-out smile.

"You are beautiful," he murmured behind her. She flinched. He was standing right up against her. A hand resting on her stomach. "Almost perfect."

"I brought you tea." 11:00 PM. Punctual. Like a prison ration. Chamomile, with honey. And something else—bitter, almost imperceptible.

Leia suddenly imagined smashing the cup against the tiled floor. The brown liquid spreading across the perfectly white tile, the porcelain shards digging into her bare feet. Pain. Real. Alive.

"Thank you," her doll-like alter-ego said, taking a sip. Scorching. Like his gaze when he noticed the necklace on her neck had twisted.

Her eyelids grew heavy midway through the cup.

"Rest," he said softly. "You’ve overtaxed yourself."

She wanted to object, but her lips wouldn't move.

Phantom Hunger

Darkness. Jules's breathing—even, mechanical. Leia closed her eyes, and he appeared in perfect detail.

His Adam's apple moving when he whispered "princess," the shadow of his eyelashes in the lighter's glow, the vein on his left hand pulsating with every clench of the glass. And that scar, above his brow—rough, imperfect, real.

Her hand reached down, but stopped. Not here. Not in this bed, where even the sheets smelled of bottled "Lavender Dawn." She turned onto her stomach, pressing into the mattress, but the throbbing between her legs only intensified.

How would he do it? The thoughts forced their way into her mind. Roughly, biting her shoulder? Or slowly, making her beg, plead with him? With a husky, smoke-laced whisper in her ear: "You wanted this, didn't you, princess?"

The pillow muffled her moan as the waves of pleasure crashed over her. And in that moment—silence. Absolute, like outer space. She felt no fear, no guilt. Only herself. Her body. Her pulse. But when her breathing evened out, the cold replaced the relief. As if the unseen, watching eye had already recorded this moment in her file. And labeled it: "disobeyed." In that moment, somewhere in the city, Kai drew on a cigarette, as if sensing her triumph.

"Leia?" A hand on her shoulder. Icy, despite the warmth. "Are you alright?"

She froze, feeling moisture seep through the silk nightwear. "Just... a dream. A bad dream, I’m sorry."

His fingers stroked her hair—methodically, like a comb. "Tomorrow is an important day. You need your sleep."

An important day. A meeting. She had completely forgotten. That was all Jules—he would even calendar her orgasms in Google.

Before sleep, she lay on her side, staring at a blank spot on the wall. Thoughts buzzed like mosquitoes: weak, but insistent. Something in this house seemed to be watching her. When she turned her head towards the wardrobe—for a moment, the door seemed slightly ajar. On the inner panel—a shadow, resembling a thin loop. "Must have imagined it,"she thought, drifting off to sleep...

"I'm here," he suddenly whispered. Jules. "Sleep peacefully. I'm always near."

She didn't answer. Didn't move. She just clenched her fist under the pillow. Hard. Hard enough for her nails to dig into her skin.

Scars and Smudges

Rain drummed against the glass of the shower stall, repeating the rhythm of that evening. The water was scalding, but Leia stood motionless, letting the jets wash away invisible, imagined traces of Kai from her skin. Soapy fingers slid between her legs—quick, guilty movements, as if she were stealing something.

She washed as if she could scrub the memory out of herself. As if the foam could erase not his fingers, but her own moan. But the water only intensified the heat beneath her skin, as though awakening what had slept for years under a layer of correctness.

His hands pressing her against the wet tile. Teeth sinking into her shoulder, her moan. The voice, hoarse with cigarettes: "You wanted this..."

"Leia!" A knock on the door shattered the fantasy. "Your coffee is getting cold!"

Jules’s voice sounded like an alarm signal. She abruptly shut off the water, watching the foam—white, innocent—vanish down the drain. Along with the evidence of her infidelity to herself.

She didn't remember getting back to the table again. Jules was pouring tea. His movements were precise, as if memorized. He made sure the spoon didn't touch the cup walls. That the tablecloth wasn't shifted an inch. He was perfect.

And she—was not.

The geometric precision of breakfast. Avocado sliced into 2mm strips, poached eggs at exactly 64°C, and toast arranged in a five-pointed star.

"You seem... different today." Jules offered her a glass of fresh juice. A shadow flashed in his eyes—not suspicion, but cold calculation. He already knew. He always knew.

"You need to get some fresh air," he said, without looking at her. "You look pale."

"Poison can be clear, too," the thought flashed through her mind.

Leia nodded. It was an almost automatic gesture. She had nodded so much in the past few days that her neck had started to ache.

But inside—something shifted. Barely perceptible. As if the internal voice, previously sewn shut with threads of fear, had given the first, muffled signal. Not yet a scream. But no longer silence.

Leia took the glass, leaving damp fingerprints on the frosted surface. Marks. Her body was rebelling against order, leaving traces where it should have been sterilely clean. Every print—a challenge. A sign of the crime. She knew: his gaze would notice everything—the drop, the smudge, the crumpled tablecloth. But that was the point. Let him find it. Let him understand. Let him be afraid.

"Just didn't sleep well. I'm fine."

He nodded, adjusting his watch. 7:20 AM. Precisely on schedule.

She stepped out onto the terrace. The door opened as she approached it. The camera on the veranda clicked. "He’s watching," she thought.

The air was sweet and thick. Roses bloomed before her eyes. Everything was too beautiful. Too correct.

Suddenly, she noticed a silhouette in the distance, someone standing and looking directly at her. A figure. Black. A second later—it vanished.

Or did she imagine it? Blood hammered in her temples. The air grew thicker. She felt that this silhouette wasn't just watching—it was waiting. Not a random passerby. Not a thief. Something or someone—connected to what she felt beneath her skin.

When she returned, everything in the room was in place. A bottle of lavender spray stood on the nightstand. Someone had replaced the bedding. A note lay on the pillow: "You are coping wonderfully. I am proud of you." No signature. But the handwriting—his. Perfect. Masculine. Aligned.

Her heart clenched. She took the paper, crumpled it—and threw it into the wastebasket. She immediately felt afraid. For the first time—a conscious act of defiance. She heard her own breathing—rapid, like a cornered animal. The wastebasket looked at her like a witness. As if he would walk into the room right now. As if even the walls would tell on her. But she didn't retrieve the note. Didn't smooth it out. Didn't apologize.

The Addiction

The office.

The contract blurred before her eyes. Numbers turned into the curve of his lips around a cigarette, into the shadow of his eyelashes... into the scars on his arms...

Her phone vibrated: Jules: — "Don't forget dinner with my parents at 7:30 PM. Your favorite table."

"Favorite table." Favorite salmon. No sauce. Double portion of vegetables. No deviation from the script.

Her fingers typed: "Maybe without me?" Deleted it. Typed: "Can't wait." Sent.

The bathroom stall.

A deep breath. In her purse, a blue pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. One already missing its filter. Torn, tobacco scattered in the pocket. A smell that wasn't his, but close...

She closed her eyes, imagining his lips closing around a cigarette and inhaling the smoke into her mouth.

Her lower abdomen responded with a pulse. Traitorous body. It remembered what it had never experienced. Or maybe, this wasn't betrayal. Maybe, on the contrary—loyalty. To herself. To what had been forgotten, suppressed, smoothed over. Maybe this, precisely, was the truth. And everything else—just a polite dream.

Chapter 4: The Threshold

10:15 AM. Street in front of "Monaco Coffee."

Leia walked past the coffee shop three times. On the fourth, she noticed her own reflection in the mirrored door: — Fingers nervously smoothing a strand of hair, lips pressed into a white line, and eyes—too bright for a regular morning.

It’s just coffee. Completely by chance.

The lie left a copper taste on her tongue. She pushed the door—the chime of the bell sounded like a verdict.

Everything inside her resisted—as if she were stepping not into a coffee shop, but into a cage.

That is precisely how temptation begins—not with touches, but with the first step inside. As if someone had long ago set up the boundaries, the cameras, the mirrors. And in that moment—click—she stepped into the frame.

Her body knew before her mind did: something would happen today that could not be unseen. Something that could not be forgiven—not by her, nor by others.

👁️ The Scan

The aroma of freshly ground beans hit her nose. She ordered a vanilla latte—too sweet, not her style. But today, she craved exactly that: a forbidden sweetness, like a piece of candy stolen from her mother's vase as a child.

How does he drink his coffee? The thought flared and instantly burned her—she squeezed the cup, feeling the cardboard crumple beneath her fingers.

The Corner Table.

She didn't notice him right away.

Kai sat hunched over a medical journal, wearing thin spectacles that made him look like a professor. The illusion of safety shattered when he looked up—his amber eyes flashed like signal lights. He wasn't just looking—he was scanning. Stripping away her clothes, her masks, her habits. And something in her stomach clenched—not from fear. From recognition. It was the same feeling as touching fire for the first time as a child—and wanting to do it again.

"Princess." He pushed a chair away with his foot. "Don't be scared, I've been inoculated today."

Her heart performed a somersault—up, down, into her throat. She recoiled, stumbling into a waiter. Hot coffee spilled onto her beige blouse, leaving a brown stain.

"Damn it!"

Kai was by her side faster than she expected. His hands—surgically precise—were already pulling out a handkerchief.

"Calm down, it’s not boiling." His fingers slid down her décolletage, wiping the stain. His thumb brushed the lace of her bra. "Though the burn will remain nonetheless."

He didn't apologize. He didn't pull his hand away. His finger lingered at the edge of the lace—a fraction longer than necessary. And in that fraction of a second, Leia understood: he wasn't offering. He was warning.

This touch wasn't accidental. It was a claim. Lightning down her spine. A proclamation.

A Game of Truth

"So you... you're a dentist?" She looked at his hands—long fingers, short-trimmed nails. Hands that could cut and caress with equal precision.

"Maxillofacial surgeon." He took off his glasses. Without them, he was the man from the conservatory again. "Specializing in fixing the aftermath of fights." A pause. "And other foolish decisions..."

He crossed one leg over the other. His jeans strained against his thigh, emphasizing every muscle.

"And does your perfect fiancé know you fantasize about strangers?"

Her lips automatically curved into a defensive smile: "I don't..."

"You're lying." He leaned closer, bringing with him a cocktail of scents: antiseptic, expensive cologne, cognac. "Your pupils are dilated like they’re on Midazolam."

Her back hit the chair, as if something inside her smoothly melted under his words—hot, sticky, uncontrollable. He knew which words cut deeper than a scalpel.

"Let's play a game. You ask a question. I answer. Then vice versa."

Leia swallowed. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, as if numb. The skin on her neck tingled, as after an electric shock. His voice seemed to bypass her hearing, entering her body directly—into her stomach, her thighs, deeper.

The Revelation

"Why does Jason call you 'the ghost'?" She squeezed the cup to hide the tremor in her fingers.

"After Afghanistan, I didn't speak for two years." He rotated the espresso cup in his hands. "I only cut and stitched." She saw the scar on his left hand again—a thin white line from wrist to little finger. "Jason dragged me to parties, like an exhibit."

"And now?"

Now he smiled—and it was almost frightening. "Now I enjoy watching beautiful women lie. Especially when their body screams the truth."

Warmth flooded her lower abdomen.

"My turn." His palm rested next to hers, not touching. "Have you imagined me fucking you yet?"

Leia was stunned.

"I haven’t..."

"Lie." The cup hit the saucer. "You stood in the conservatory and watched. You didn't run." It was true. Terrifying and exhilarating. She hadn't run. Her body chose to stay. And in that silence, between heartbeats, she realized—she didn't want salvation. She wanted... him.

"Even if I wanted to—I couldn't."

He sounded like a storm. Like something that would either destroy or save. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, she felt alive.

His finger traced the edge of the saucer—slowly, like the rain on the glass earlier. It was an almost intimate gesture. As if he weren't touching porcelain—but her. Her boundary. Her resolve. That finger could sever arteries—but now it was simply tempting.

"Do you know what I saw in your eyes?"

She froze.

"Hunger." His breath scorched her lips, as if he had kissed the very air between them. As if he had allowed her to look into his maw. And Leia—like an animal—didn't flinch. Only inhaled deeper. Hunger. The word cut away the last remnants of decency. — Coffee, cognac, something metallic.

"The very hunger that’s clenching your thighs right now."

The First Betrayal

The phone rang. Jules.

"Where are you?" The voice was even. Too even.

"At the coffee shop near the office." She stared into Kai’s eyes.

"That's strange. I stopped by there; you weren't in."

A deep breath. "I... I'm at Monaco Coffee, on the other side."

Silence. Three seconds. Enough to understand—the game had begun.

"Fine." Dial tone.

Kai whistled: "You just made a choice, Princess."

The Anesthetic Wears Off

The Street.

He wrote a number on a napkin with a chemical pencil—the kind used to mark teeth before extraction.

"For emergencies." His finger traced her wrist. "When the anesthetic wears off."

She wanted to say "no," wanted to run away, but something in Kai's voice blurred the line between fear and trust. As if he were speaking not to her, but to the woman she had been before. Their gazes locked. He saw right through her. And he didn't look away, even when she did. He knew: the poison was already in her blood.

The Replacement

The Apartment.

Jules met her with a bag from a boutique. A new blouse—an exact replica of the ruined one.

"You like this color, don't you?" A kiss on the forehead. Lips dry, warm.

"How did you—?" She cut herself off.

When he turned, she noticed a brown stain on his cuff. Shaped exactly like a coffee cup print.

Her heart stung. He knew. And he didn't just know—he was watching. His kiss on her forehead now felt like a mark: he was branding his property. Like an animal whose lair had been disturbed. She didn't know what he would do. But for the first time—she was truly scared.

Chapter 4.1: Protocol Violation (Jules’s Perspective)

5:47 AM. Suburban Seattle House.

Silence. Perfect, precisely measured, like everything in his life.

Jules woke up exactly one minute before the alarm. His fingers automatically reached for the clock—stopping the signal before it could wake Leia. She slept like a doll: even breathing, not a single unnecessary movement.

"Perfection," he thought, running a finger over her cheek.

Her skin was warm, alive, but that could be corrected. Everything could be corrected. He did not like the living. The living was unpredictable. And unpredictability was a mother with a split lip and a trembling voice. He had trained himself to love only what could be programmed. Repeated. Preserved.

📊 The Algorithm

6:30 AM. Kitchen.

Coffee brewed for exactly four minutes. No more, no less. Avocado sliced into 2mm strips. Eggs—64°C, not 63 and not 65.

He placed the cup in front of her empty chair. "She will wake up in 12 minutes," his subconscious automatically calculated.

Jules did not like chaos. Chaos was his father, who hit his mother for a crookedly set table. Chaos was his mother, who cried into her pillow because she "failed to raise her son correctly."

But he fixed it.

He became not just perfect—he became an algorithm. He calculated people like equations. He needed no emotions. Only data. Only a result. Because then—no one could strike you without cause. Because you would become the cause.

He became impeccable.

The Deviation

7:15 AM. Office.

On the screen—the GPS tracker. The red dot moved along the route: home—work—store. No deviations.

But today there was a deviation.

Monaco Coffee.

He zoomed in on the map. "Why there?"

His fingers tapped on the desk. One-two-three. Pause. One-two-three.

"She has never gone to that coffee shop."

10:42 AM. Camera footage.

Leia sat at the table. Her fingers gripped the cup too tightly.

And across from her—him.

Kai Blackwood. The name left an unpleasant taste. As if someone had placed a dirty knife on a perfectly set table. This man was a threat. He did not fit the equation. He had scars—which meant he knew how to use them.

Jules knew him. Jason's acquaintance. Former military surgeon. "Specialization: reconstruction of faces after violence."

"Interesting... You fix what I break?"

On the screen, Leia was laughing.

Laughter. Alien. Real. Dirty. He felt something tear inside him—not from pain. From insult. She was laughing without being commanded to. He had spent months training that sound to be correct. And now—she gave it to another man.

With a genuine laugh.

Not the one he had rehearsed with her in front of the mirror.

The Correction

12:15 PM. The Diary.

He opened the old notebook. On the first page—child's handwriting:

"Today Dad screamed again. Mom said I wasn't good enough. Must try harder." He remembered how his hands shook when he wrote that. How his body learned to be quiet, compliant, transparent. He learned: only perfection saves. Only emotionless devotion makes you worthy.

Next to it—a photo of Sarah. His cousin.

"She didn't understand either," Jules thought, running a finger over her smile.

Sarah became spoiled. Disobedient.

But he fixed her.

Not for long, though.

7:30 PM. Restaurant.

Leia sat opposite him, smiling at his parents. Her lips were trembling.

"She thinks I can't see," Jules poured her water. Still. Room temperature.

"You seem... different today," his mother said, examining Leia like an exhibit.

His mother always noticed weakness. In him. In Leia. In everyone. She smelled of the perfume she wore when hiding bruises beneath makeup. And he knew—if even she noticed a malfunction, the system was cracking.

"Just tired," Leia answered automatically.

Jules smiled.

She was lying.

But that could be corrected.

The Next Phase

11:55 PM. Bedroom.

Leia was sleeping. Or pretending to.

He sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on her neck.

"You know I love you," he thought, feeling the pulse beneath his fingers.

"I am making you perfect."

But he didn't feel love. Not for her. Not for himself. He felt power. And that was enough. Because love is chaos. And power is order.

His phone vibrated. A message from the Maple Grove clinic:

"Room 4 is ready."

He knew he couldn't fix her with words. It was time to move to the next phase. Soft isolation. Rehabilitation. Reboot. Where no one would hear a scream. Where everything was sterile. Where women were objects for correction.

Jules didn't consider himself a monster.

Monsters are those who break.

And he fixed.

And if that meant cutting out the excess—so be it.

Because in this world, there is only one rule: "Everything must be perfect. She thinks she can run. But I've only just begun to fix her."

Chapter 5: Porcelain Hell

8:03 PM. "Magnolia" Restaurant.

White orchids in crystal vases. Tablecloths starched until they crackled. Porcelain smiles from the guests. They looked beautiful. But they were dead. Smooth faces, frozen in perfect curves. Like a dinner set displayed in a cabinet. One clumsy move—and everything would shatter into dust. Leia felt not like a bride among them, but a museum. An exhibit.

She sat, clenching her knees beneath the table, while Eleanor Barrow discussed their wedding with the cold calculation of an auctioneer assessing a lot.

"Roses, naturally, must be Dutch only. Leia, which do you prefer? Everything must be impeccable, just as ours is." Eleanor didn't even lift her eyes from the menu; her manicure tapped against the wine list.

Leia's stomach twisted. The word "ours" sounded like a verdict. As if she already belonged to their world—not by love, not by right, but by design. And everything in that design was fragile, sterile, like porcelain. Just crack it—and no one would put it back together.

"I think maybe..."

"Though what difference does it make," Richard Barrow interrupted, adjusting his Patek Philippe watch. The steel bracelet gleamed like handcuffs. "The main thing is for the photographs to look harmonious."

She didn't hear the words—only the sound of forks, the hum of voices, and the pounding of her heart. Everything felt like a play where her role was long written, and Act II was beginning without rehearsal. She felt: it wasn't her speaking, not her smiling. Just a shell. The doll.

Jules sat across from her. His fair hair—the same genetic shade as Kate's, but where his sister's sparked with sunlit gleams, his had a cold, metallic sheen. He wore the same smile as the portrait in the living room—exactly twelve teeth showing, the corners of his lips raised at forty-five degrees. As taught in etiquette classes.

"We've booked the hall for the fifteenth," Jules's fingers tapped a rhythm on the crystal glass. The metronome. "Leia is, of course, in agreement."

His hand settled on her knee under the table—a heavy, damp palm. Not a caress. A brand.

When he raised his glass, Leia noticed a tiny brown smudge on his impeccable cuff. Coffee. It winked at her in the chandelier light, like an accomplice.

"You must be overtired," Jules nodded to the waiter. "Mineral water for my fiancée. Still. Room temperature."

The humiliation burned her cheeks. He wasn't just choosing a drink—he was defining her degree of transparency.

The clink of a fork on a plate suddenly sounded deafening. The pattern on the tablecloth swam before her eyes, turning into a ripple. Leia clawed at her knee beneath the table, trying to quell the tremor. It felt as if the walls of the restaurant were closing in, and the voices at the table merged into a single, monotonous, oppressive drone. She took a short, convulsive breath, but there seemed to be no more air.

The Signature

8:47 PM. Restroom.

The mirror showed an alien face: — Lips outlined in perfect pink, cheekbones lightly dusted with blush, and eyes—too wide, like a trapped owl's.

Her fingers trembled as she opened her clutch. Among the accessories lay a black rectangle—a tracker with a microphone.

"He hears your every breath," Kai's voice echoed.

The door burst open—Kate, the only living thing in this icy zoo.

"Are you okay? You’re as white as these damned tablecloths." Her fingers left traces of powder on Leia's shoulder.

"Just... tired."

Because inside—she was already hollow. Like a shattered cup reassembled, but with nothing inside. It still had the form. But no purpose. Only the tremor in her fingers, the cold in her chest, and the feeling that she was losing herself. In real time.

Kate sharply moved toward the door, listened, then turned back to Leia, her eyes gleaming feverishly. "Run," she hissed, grabbing Leia's wrist. Her fingers were icy. "You don't understand who he is."

She tugged at the collar of her blouse. A thin white scar, like the mark of a scalpel, shone on her flawless collarbone. "That’s his 'care.' He doesn’t leave bruises. He leaves signatures."

For a second, something other than fear flashed in her eyes. Calculation? "Why are you helping me?" Leia asked.

Kate didn't answer immediately. She looked away, too quickly. "Because I know what it’s like to be on a leash."

But later, Leia accidentally overheard Kate on the phone. Quietly, almost a whisper. "She swallowed it. No, she doesn’t suspect. Not yet."

9:15 PM. Their Table.

Jules raised his glass. "To our wedding." The wine in his glass was the same shade as the stain on the tablecloth where his hand had "accidentally" knocked over her glass.

"How clumsy of me," Leia said automatically.

"It's fine," Jules wiped the spill with a perfect napkin. "We’re leaving anyway."

His fingers dug into her elbow as they exited—just enough to leave marks, but not bruises. Calculated pain. Like everything with Jules.

And in that moment, it again felt as if there were not muscles, but glass beneath her skin. A little more—and she would shatter. She backed away, avoiding his eyes.

The Poison

Their Apartment.

The kettle hissed like an irritated animal. Jules poured the boiling water with surgical precision: 200 ml into her porcelain cup, 150 ml into his.

Not a drop spilled.

"You behaved... strangely today." He didn't look at her, wiping the spoon with a napkin. "Did Kate tell you something in the restroom?"

It didn't sound like a question. Because he knew the answers. His gaze was not loving, not caring—it was examining. Like a doctor at an autopsy. He looked not at his fiancée—but at his project. And he just needed to be sure the porcelain hadn't cracked yet.

Goosebumps ran down her spine. "No... just... about the makeup."

He placed the cup in front of her. It smelled of chamomile and something bitter—like in Sarah's notebook.

"Drink, darling." He handed her the cup, watching her swallow. "Mother always said chamomile heals the soul." Leia knew the taste—bitter, with a metallic aftertaste. Like blood when you bite your cheek to keep from screaming. She took a sip, feeling his gaze slide down her throat, tracking its movement.

Her fingers trembled, though she gripped the mug tightly. Her heart hammered too fast—not from fear, but from premonition. Something was coming. Her body knew it.

Chapter 5.1: Breaking Protocol (Jules's Perspective)

"Sometimes, to survive, you have to die inside—and wake up anew when everything is destroyed."

"She is lying. And she’s doing it badly."

The glass of whiskey felt cold beneath his fingers, the liquid amber, heavy. Jules didn't drink. He observed.

His lips were relaxed, his pupils slightly constricted—he wasn't looking, he was scanning. Everything about him was control, even in silence. Even in breathing.

Leia stood by the window, her back to him, but he saw her reflection in the dark glass—clenched shoulders, breathing too evenly. She thought she was controlling it. She was wrong.

"You didn't mention the coffee with your colleague," he said softly, as if reminding her about a forgotten umbrella.

She flinched. A microscopic movement, but he caught it.

"What coffee?" Leia's voice was too high. She turned, her eyes gliding past his face, stopping somewhere at the level of his tie.

Jules smiled. Not with his teeth—only the corners of his lips.

"The one on Wednesday."

A pause. He counted the seconds.

"Ah, yes..." She took a sip of water. Her throat moved, the skin above her collarbone trembled slightly. "It was just a work matter. A quick discussion about the project."

"Kai, I believe his name was?"

Her pupils dilated.

Interesting.

"Yes..." Leia looked away, adjusting a strand of hair. "He's new to the department."

Jules placed the glass on the table. The sound of glass on wood—quiet, but distinct.

"You know, I value your... autonomy." He took a step closer. "But I wouldn't want anyone distracting you from your work."

She didn't step back. She used to step back.

"It was a work conversation."

He studied her face. Her cheeks flushed slightly—not from shame, but from irritation. She's angry.

How curious.

A memory flashed: he leaned close to her when she could barely speak and whispered, "You are a project. But the most beautiful one of all." As if he were molding her from broken pieces.

"Of course," he agreed, running his finger along the rim of the glass. "Just... be careful. Some people don't understand boundaries."

Leia froze.

"What does that mean?"

Jules shrugged.

"Concern. Nothing more."

He allowed her to leave first. Listened to the sound of the bedroom door closing. Then took out his phone.

On the screen—a photograph. Kai. Leia. The cafe. Her laughter, his hand on her wrist.

Jules saved the image to a separate folder.

"It's too soon. But preparation never hurts."

He closed his eyes. Remembering Sarah. Her tears. Her mistakes.

Leia wouldn't repeat them.

He wouldn't allow it.

00:17 AM. Violence in Pastels

11:55 PM. Bedroom.

Rain tapped against the window in rhythm with his steps down the hallway. Leia pressed against the door until the sounds faded.

Click.

Behind the wardrobe panel—a worn diary with the initials "S.B." The pages smelled of tears and medicinal bitterness.

"June 3rd. J. brought calming tea. Woke up with bruises on my thighs. He says I asked for it..."

"Looking for a blanket?" Jules stood in the doorway, adjusting his cuffs.

The notebook fell.

"Sarah's old fantasies." He picked it up, blowing away imaginary dust. "Surely you don't believe the ravings of the mentally ill?"

His fingers dug into her shoulders, turning her toward the bed.

00:17 AM. Violence in Pastels.

He didn't throw her onto the bed. He laid her down. With the same measured precision with which he arranged his porcelain figurines on the shelf. There was no rage, no lust in his touch. There was only a cold, almost disgusted need to restore order. To fix the system malfunction.

"You were wrong, Leia," he said quietly, hovering above her. His voice was even, almost therapeutic, which only made it more terrifying. "You made a mess. Now we will clean it up. Return you to the factory settings."

His fingers untied the sash of her robe. Methodically. Without a single unnecessary movement. He looked not at her body, but at the project. An object requiring calibration. He smelled not of sweat or arousal, but of expensive soap and sterility. The scent of control.

He entered her without foreplay—a single, dry, tearing movement. The pain was so sharp that her vision briefly clouded. She dug her fingers into the sheets and focused on a spot on the ceiling.

A small crack near the chandelier. She started counting his movements. One. Two. Three. They were rhythmic, almost mechanical, like the ticking of a metronome.

He didn't moan. He simply breathed—evenly, deeply, as during his morning run.

She dissociated herself from the body on the bed, from his rhythmic thrusts, from the pain. She became that crack on the ceiling. She became the count.

She watched from the side: the rhythmic, almost mechanical movements of his hips. He wasn't making love to her. He was performing a procedure. Every thrust was measured. Every breath—noted.

And then, the worst thing happened.

Her body—treacherous, dirty—responded with a spasm. Not of pleasure. Of memory. Of months spent in submission. The muscles he had trained contracted at the familiar signal, producing a reaction her mind cursed. The wave that began in her lower abdomen was not a wave of bliss, but a wave of pure horror and self-loathing.

"No... no, anything but this... Traitor..." her consciousness screamed, hovering in the darkness near the ceiling.

He felt it. He paused for a second. And a look of... satisfaction appeared on his face. Not passion. The satisfaction of a scientist whose experiment succeeded.

"See?" he whispered in her ear, his breath cold. "The body remembers who it belongs to. It knows its owner."

He started moving again, but now faster, harder, with purpose.

"Climax," he commanded, accelerating. "I know you can."

It was neither a question nor a request. It was a command. A command for self-destruction. For complete acknowledgment of his authority. And she climaxed—with a quiet sob, hating herself, hating him, hating every cell in her body that had just signed the act of unconditional capitulation. Her orgasm was not the peak of pleasure, but an agony, the final nail driven into her coffin.

He pulled out of her immediately. Abruptly. Procedure completed.

He stood up, looking her over—not as a lover, but as a successfully repaired mechanism. Then he picked up her phone from the floor, on which he had been recording the entire event.

He turned and walked toward the door. And she lay there in that porcelain hell, in the sticky cold on the sheets, and the only thing she felt was how his control, his code, his poison had just been injected directly beneath her skin. Not into her veins. Deeper. Into her very soul.

The hatred was too cold to burn. It was paralysis. The body—alien. The room—alien. Even the air felt like his property. She lay staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but the emptiness. The very emptiness he had so diligently cultivated within her.

Jules was already at the door, but stopped. He turned back, as if he had forgotten something. There was no trace of triumph on his face. Only the calm of a collector dusting a new exhibit.

The red recording dot was still lit. He tapped the screen. On the display—her. Or not her. Distorted by the camera's overhead perspective. The body that betrayed her. The face twisted by the spasm he called an orgasm. The voice that submitted. And above it all—his even, almost bored breathing.

"For posterity," his voice was icy. "For you. So you remember who you were before me."

And in that moment... Something snapped.

Not in her bones. Not in her joints. Somewhere deeper, where the soul meets the body. The red recording dot on his phone was still lit. He was documenting even this. Not a scream, but a low, animalistic growl tore from her throat. The first thing within reach—a heavy crystal lamp from the nightstand. She grabbed it and hurled it at the wall with all her strength. The crystal exploded with a deafening crash. She didn't stop. Grabbing a thick art book, she launched it at the mirror. A web of cracks spread across her reflection before it crashed down in a rain of glass.

"ALL OF THIS IS PORCELAIN HELL!"

She flung everything she could grab. A bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume—the glass crunched as it embedded in the wall. The art book on the nightstand punched through the drywall. A porcelain ballerina exploded into a thousand white shards.

Jules was filming everything on his phone; his voice was soft and sweet:

"A hysteric. Just like Sarah..."

The One-Minute Window

Kai closed his laptop screen.

A signal from the tracker chip, embedded in the napkin he had given her with his phone number, had just flashed across the screen. The sound of smashing porcelain—like a final diagnosis.

"Too late," he told himself. "Or almost."

He dismounted his motorcycle, holding a universal fob—an electronic key matched to the house system a week ago.

Entering the building, he didn't wait for a call. He already knew where to go. He felt it a block away: something had cracked. Time, distance, control—they vanished. Only she remained. And a step into the fire.

"Fifth floor. Apartment 56. One exit. One elevator. One minute chance."

Kai called the elevator preemptively while Leia was still screaming in the bedroom. Now he stood, watching the screen of his watch.

"60 seconds. Run."

12:26 AM. Salvation.

A vibration in the pocket of her robe.

KAI: ELEVATOR. 60 SECONDS. RUN.

On her phone screen—his name. Beneath it—her pulse. Her pulse. The world condensed into a single command: "Run."And she ran.

Her heart stopped. He saw it. Heard it. Came for her.

Chapter 6: The Rupture

The door slammed with such a roar that the walls trembled. Leia scrambled for the elevator, her bare feet sliding on the parquet floor. In her ears—the frantic pounding of her heart; in her throat—the taste of iron. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

She didn't know if he would catch her. If she would make it. But now, it wasn't just fear. It was a choice. Not just running. But her step—toward where she wanted to be. She felt the pain in her feet, the tiny shards of wood splintering her skin, but for the first time—it didn't matter. Her consciousness, stripped bare and resolute, pushed her out of the cage. Not because she had to—because it was impossible to do otherwise. "To live means not to be silent. Not to endure. Not to hide." Running to him. Not because she feared Jules. But because—she wanted to breathe. And for the first time, her body wasn't leading her away—her consciousness was leading her body. "I choose." Quietly. Almost soundlessly. But for the first time—for real.

The Plunge

The Elevator.

The cabin felt empty, but it smelled of him—leather, cognac, gunpowder. As if he was already waiting.

"Get in, Princess."

Kai’s voice came from the darkness. He stood in the corner, shrouded in shadow, only his cigarette glowing, illuminating the scar above his brow.

Leia stepped inside. The doors closed just as Jules's howl—not human, but animalistic—erupted from the apartment.

"Let's put on a show for the clown."

The elevator plunged downward.

Into the Fire

9:45 PM. The Parking Lot.

A black motorcycle, no license plates, the roar of the engine—like a heart ready to explode. Kai tossed her a helmet.

"Put it on. If you want to live."

She vaulted on behind him, clutching his leather jacket. His back—hard, hot even through the fabric. The scent—sweat, metal, blood.

"Where are we going?" she screamed into the windstorm.

"To hell!" His laugh dissolved into the roar of the engine.

The burst of speed ripped a scream from her. Wind hammered her face through the open visor, tearing away the remnants of reality. Behind her—the old life, the lying porcelain. Before her—the darkness. And him. Hell? For the first time, she wanted to go there—just not back. Fear no longer restrained her—it propelled her. His back was her only anchor, his scent—a reminder that she was alive. And if this was hell—so be it. But in this hell, she would no longer be someone else’s doll.

Jules’s headlights flashed in the mirror—huge, cold, like a shark’s eyes.

The Cut Leash

10:10 PM. The Docks.

Kai drove the motorcycle into the gap between rusted shipping containers. Darkness. The smell of oil slick and rotten fish. He killed the engine, and the silence hit her ears.

"Get off."

She slid down, trembling. Not from the cold—from the adrenaline, from his hands that suddenly gripped her wrist.

"Give me your arm."

His fingers slid toward the silver bracelet—Jules’s gift. Click. The clasp opened, and a tiny chip gleamed inside.

"GPS. In all his 'gifts'." Kai crushed the device with his heel. "You’re not his puppet now."

Even the ring? "Especially the ring."

She felt the blood drain from her face. "You are not a fiancée. You are a prisoner."

He stared into her eyes until something snapped in the darkness—as if a chain had burst inside her. She was barely standing, but inside—everything grew firmer. As if invisible armor was being forged from the pain, the humiliation, from the part of her that survived.

The air reeked of oil, rot, and wet ropes. Underfoot—viscous mud, clinging to her bare feet like alien hands. Somewhere behind the wall, metal squealed. And every squeak sounded like a verdict.

The Confrontation

Gravel crunched in the darkness. A whispered hiss:

"I will find you..."

Leia froze. Jules. Darkness.

Rain lashed the rusted containers, turning the gravel under Leia’s bare feet into icy grit. She didn't feel pain—only a scorching pulse through her body where his fingers had just been.

Kai pressed her against the metal, and the icy cold seeped through the wet silk of her robe. His breath—raw, husky—scorched her neck:

"You're shaking all over. From fear?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her body answered for her—her hips pressed against his groin, straining the thin silk of her panties.

"Ah..." He seized her wrist, pinning it above her head. "So, this is it. You want him to watch?"

Somewhere in the darkness—footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

"He's close," Kai whispered, his teeth sinking into her neck. Not a caress—a mark.

His free hand tore the sash of her robe. The fabric fell open, revealing her rain-soaked bra, as transparent as her lies.

"Look at him."

She turned her head. Jules stood at the end of the aisle. The perfect suit. The perfect posture. Only his eyes—hollow, like a doll whose mechanism has been ripped out.

Kai tore her panties off with one harsh pull. Cold air hit her exposed skin.

"Let him remember how you climax on me."

He entered her abruptly, without warning. Pain exploded into white light, but she didn't push him away—she dug her nails into his back, feeling her body stretch, accepting him. He had expected her pliability. But her gaze met his—clear, desperate, like a person willing to die rather than go back. It was a challenge. Brutal, on the edge. He accepted it—as one accepts a challenge in battle.

"Yes... just like that..." his voice broke as she instinctively clenched around him.

Jules didn't move. But she saw his fingers tighten around the grip of a pistol.

Kai accelerated, slamming her against the container. Every thrust—a blow against Jules's cage, against her fear, against that false world. Leia felt the necklace on her neck—thin, cold, like Jules's fingers squeezing her throat all these years.

Kai buried his teeth into her shoulder, his hands sliding roughly down her thighs. For the first time, she realized: this wasn't just a fight for a body—it was a war for the right to be herself. Everything she felt—anger, shame, arousal, pain—turned into fire. Fuel for an internal explosion. She suddenly stopped him.

"Wait."

Her fingers found the clasp. They trembled. "Take it off, and there's no turning back," a voice whispered in her head.

"Do it yourself," Kai breathed against her lips, but didn't help. A test.

The metal dug into her skin, as if resisting. She yanked it—it hurt, as if she were tearing her own flesh.

Click.

The necklace fell into the mud, and the world exploded.

"Now I belong to no one."

Kai laughed—a harsh, almost insane sound—and drove himself into her like a blade.

Pain. Freedom. The same thing.

Jules yelled something, but his voice drowned in the rain and her first genuine moan.

"Climax. Now."

The command. Her body obeyed—a spasm tore through her abdomen; she screamed, unrestrained, not caring how it looked.

Jules stepped forward.

Kai whipped out a pistol, without leaving her.

"One more step—and your perfect jaw will be in my collection."

Silence.

A shot.

Deafening. A ricochet off the container.

"Run! To the left!" Kai shoved her into the darkness.

She ran, stumbling over ropes, falling into puddles of oil slick. Behind her—the crash of a struggle, the sound of tearing fabric. Kai knocked the pistol away.

Jules, with a knife, lay on the ground, pinned by Kai’s knee. Kai’s knuckles were bloody. "Touch her—and I will gut you through your mouth. Understand?"

Kai spat on his face.

Leia picked up a bloody shred from the ground—a page from Sarah's diary that she had stuffed into her robe pocket when she found the notebook.

"They call this treatment."

The Choice

Kai sat on the container floor, stitching a wound on his forearm. The needle went through his flesh without anesthetic.

"You could have died," Leia whispered.

"Trifles."

He made the final stitch, biting off the thread. In the lamp light, his eyes were too bright—like a predator who had just killed.

"Now it’s your turn."

Kai took a small flask from his pocket and poured the amber liquid onto her scratches. She cried out, but he didn't release her wrist.

"Pain is good. It means you’re still alive."

His lips brushed her palm. Not a kiss. Like a sign of solace.

"You know what happens now?" Her voice barely emerged. "It's over?" "No." "Then... what is this?" "A cut leash."

He ran a finger along her neck. Where the necklace had been.

"He'll find us."

"No." Kai pulled out keys. "He'll find you. But not the one who ran away."

A key to his apartment gleamed in his palm.

"Ready?"

She took the key. The cold metal burned her palm. But in her chest—for the first time in a long time—something clicked... alive.

She exhaled.

"Now I walk on my own." No one held the leash anymore. No ring. No necklace. No fear. And in that cold, metallic key—not salvation. But choice. The choice to breathe. The choice to be.

Chapter 7: The Boiling Point

Kai’s apartment smelled of stale coffee, gun oil, and the leather of his jacket, which lay discarded on the sole chair. There was none of the sterile shine of Jules's world here. The air was thick, lived-in. On the kitchen counter, next to a laptop, lay a disassembled pistol grip. On the floor—stacks of medical journals, and above the old sofa hung a single black-and-white photograph—the ruins of a hospital under a white, scorched sky.

Kai tossed the keys into a glass bowl. The clang of metal against glass echoed through the empty space.

"He's not here," Leia whispered, hugging herself.

"No one is here," he corrected, removing his watch. A tattoo was revealed on his wrist: "Nec aspera terrent."

"That means..."

"The motto of my unit. 'Difficulties do not deter.'" His fingers traced the scar next to the inscription. "Though after Afghanistan, I'd add: 'But betrayal does.'"

He swung open the refrigerator. Semi-empty shelves, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of surgical sutures, and a lone food container marked with a sticker: "Eat me if you dare." She watched him retrieve the whiskey bottle, as if it were a weapon. There was something frighteningly familiar about it: men with empty kitchens and full bottles. Only now, it wasn't a luxury—it was bare reality. No attempts to seem better.

Leia stood barefoot on the cold tile, suddenly realizing—she was breathing fully for the first time in years.

"The shower is down there," Kai nodded toward the end of the corridor. "Hot water exists, but the pressure is shit."

Passing her, he deliberately brushed her shoulder. The brief contact burned, leaving a mark on her skin like molten metal. He smelled of leather. But not new, smooth leather—old, lived-in leather. Tobacco. Dust. And something metallic, barely perceptible—like blood. This scent was not about comfort. It was about survival. He didn't promise warmth. He promised that if the pain came—it would be honest.

"And where..."

"Sleep?" he didn't turn around. "The sofa pulls out."

"And your bed?"

Kai paused. He turned. His gaze slid over her bruised feet, lingering a second too long. On the bloody scrapes, the bruises, on the way her breath trembled—and not only from the cold. He didn't ask if it hurt. He knew—and seemed to see in that pain not just suffering, but truth. His eyes settled on her face.

"My bed is not for guests."

"I'm not a guest."

"Then who are you?"

No answer came.

The Sensation of Being Real

The water in the shower was scalding hot. Leia stood beneath the almost painful jets, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until red stripes appeared. She endured it—let it burn, let it hurt, just to wash away his touches, his scent, his traces.

Her body was raw—her feet had small abrasions from the gravel, her shoulder was sore from the bite, between her thighs—a tight ache, as after a blow. She ran her fingers along the inside of her thigh—a bruise had swelled there, purple-blue, like a mark. But the pain was different. Not the kind that makes you want to disappear, but the kind that makes the body real. She felt every inch of skin, every nerve, and for the first time, it was hers.

Her abdomen felt tight, as if the muscles had given out. She leaned against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut. Every breath echoed in her ribs. Her reflection in the mirror looked accusatory: disheveled hair, swollen lips, wrists with red marks—the necklace had left burns.

But this was her. The real one.