Ira woke slowly, head pounding, mouth dry. The room was dim — old concrete walls, one window boarded up with plywood.
Ira lay on the thin mattress, her body heavy, head throbbing. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly. Panic arrived —sharp, cold, spreading through her chest.
She tried to sit up. Her dress—the same sexy short maid's dress, the one she had worn— had ridden up; she felt exposed, vulnerable. She pulled it to cover everything.
The door creaked open.
"You're awake," Vernon's cold voice came.
Ira pushed herself back against the chipped headboard, heart hammering. "Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"
Vernon closed the door behind him with a soft click. He tilted his head, he was calmly pissed.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know," she said, voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. "What exactly do you want from me? Tell me."
He walked closer, slow deliberate steps. Ira instinctively moved backwards .
The hem of her dress rode higher; she pressed her thighs together hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed she felt.
Vernon stopped at the edge of the bed and leaned down slightly. "What do you think I should do with you?" His voice dropped lower. "You don't listen to me. You went to a place like that… wearing a dress like that....."
Heat flooded Ira's face—shame and fury twisting together. She pressed her legs tighter, trying to cover more skin. Her voice came trembling. "Do you want to rape me?"
Vernon's expression didn't change. He bent closer until his face was only inches from hers, close enough that she could smell his deadly cologne.
"Why don't you listen to me?" he asked quietly, almost gently.
Ira was shaking heavily, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. "Because I want to destroy all of you."
For a second worry flickered across Vernon's face, for her—for Ira.
Vernon exhaled once — almost a sigh. "You're really stubborn. And an idiot."
His phone buzzed from the room beside.
Her retreated and went to the next room to answer it.
Ira's gaze darted around wildly. On the small, scarred wooden table beside the bed sat a chipped fruit bowl. Inside it: one bruised apple… and the handle of a kitchen knife protruding from its side.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She reached over—slowly at first, then faster—wrapped her fingers around the handle and yanked the blade free. A few flecks of apple clung to the steel.
When Vernon turned back, phone still in his left hand, he froze.
Ira was on her knees on the mattress now, both hands wrapped tight around the knife, point aimed outward.
"Hey—hey! Are you crazy?" Vernon's voice cracked with sudden urgency. "Drop that!"
"Send me home," Ira said, the words trembling but clear. "Right now."
Vernon's jaw tightened. He knew he couldn't. Not yet. Kai's people would be watching the hotel, questioning staff, tracing every move. If they some how get to know about her, they'd destroy her.
He made the calculation in seconds. Better to keep her here. A few days. Just long enough for the heat to die down.
He took a careful step forward.
Ira's grip tightened. "Don't come closer or I'll stab myself."
Vernon didn't hesitate. He lunged.
Ira swung wildly—but he was faster. His bandaged right hand closed around the blade. The knife bit deep into his palm through the gauze; fresh blood immediately soaked the white fabric. He didn't even flinch.
Ira gasped, horrified.
With a quick twist he wrenched the knife free and flung it across the room. It clattered against the wall and skidded under a broken chair.
Ira stared at the blood dripping from his hand onto the floorboards. "You—"
"You're really troublesome," Vernon said flatly. He wiped his bleeding palm roughly against his thigh, then grabbed both her wrists in one large hand.
She struggled, kicking, twisting, but he was stronger. He forced her back down onto the mattress, pinning her arms above her head with one hand while he reached near the drawer beside with his bleeding hand and pulled it open . He took a handcuff out from it.
Cold metal clicked around Ira's left wrist, then her right. Handcuffs—simple, police-style, already threaded through the metal frame of the bed's headboard.
Ira yanked hard. The cuffs rattled. No give.
He had to step out briefly to the nearest apartment from here to collect some food and clothes for her.
Leaving her alone, even for a short while, felt too dangerous—he was genuinely afraid she might try to hurt herself with whatever she could find.
So he handcuffed her to the bedframe.
In his mind he kept telling himself : *It won't be long. One hour at most. I'll be back soon.*
Vernon slowly stepped away from the bed.
He looked down at her—sprawled, cuffed, dress rucked up, eyes wide with fear and fury.
Vernon stared at Ira's face unblinkingly .
Then he said,
"I'll bring some food and clothes for you. I'll be back in an hour. Don't struggle too much—you'll only hurt your wrists."
Then he turned, walked out, and locked the door behind him.
A minute later the sound of a car engine growled to life outside. Tires crunched over gravel. The noise faded into silence.
Ira lay there, chest heaving, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The handcuffs bit into her wrists.
She was alone.
To be continued....