The sprawling estate was unusually quiet that day. Dermin, usually a ghost who vanished into the glass-and-steel heart of the city before the sun fully rose, had stayed behind. He had spent the entire day in his study, the low murmur of his voice on international conference calls occasionally drifting into the hallway like a distant tide.
Hannah spent the day like a specter haunting her own life. She sat by the window of the master suite, watching the rain mist over the Pacific, her bandaged wrist throbbing in a dull, rhythmic reminder of her desperation. She didn't come down for lunch. She waited for the sun to drop, for the shadows to grow long and jagged across the white silk sheets of the bed she refused to call her own.
When night finally fell, the door to the suite opened. Dermin entered, looking weary. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and the usual sharp, predatory edge in his eyes had softened into something heavy with exhaustion.
He walked to the dresser, his movements fluid and silent. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim, elegant box—the latest flagship model from Doren Tech, a device that hadn't even hit the market yet. He set it on the small table between them.
"For you," he said, his voice a low, tired rasp.
Hannah looked at the box as if it were a coiled viper. Her pride, the only thing she had left after ten years of having everything else stripped away, flared up like a brushfire.
"I don't want it," she said, her voice cold and brittle. "Take it back."
Dermin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's a phone, Hannah. Not a collar."
"Isn't it?" she snapped, standing up from her chair. The silk of her robe hissed against the floor. "You think you can buy me? You think if you give me enough shiny toys, I'll forget that you're my jailer? You can't bribe me into being a 'real' wife with these tiny, pathetic gifts. I don't want anything that belongs to you, and I certainly don't want your pity."
Dermin stepped toward her, but stopped when he saw her flinch. He held up a hand, his expression unreadable. "It's a communication device. Nothing more. You wanted a job, didn't you? How do you expect to navigate the world without a way for people to reach you? Use it to call the maids. Just keep it."
"I said no!" Hannah raised her voice, her eyes bright with a decade of accumulated spite. "I'd rather use a payphone in the rain than touch anything that comes from your hand. You think this makes up for the years? You think a piece of glass and silicon balances the scales?"
"I'm not trying to balance the scales, Hannah," Dermin said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a leaden sky. "I'm trying to make sure you don't feel like a prisoner in your own home. If you want to throw it against the wall, throw it. But it will stay in this room."
He picked up the box and set it firmly on the bedside table, right next to the lamp. "Take it whenever you feel like it. Or let the dust claim it. I don't care."
Hannah stared at the box, her chest heaving. She wanted to hurl it out the window, but the sheer exhaustion in Dermin's posture gave her pause. It was a strange sight—the titan of industry, the man who had outrun the law and conquered the market, looking like he was one breath away from breaking.
Dermin turned toward the wardrobe, pulling out a spare pillow and a heavy wool blanket.
"What are you doing?" Hannah asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"I'm going to sleep," he said. He walked toward the velvet sofa she had occupied the night before.
He dropped the pillow onto the stiff, narrow cushions. "You take the bed tonight. You're still recovering from the fever, and your wrist needs rest. I'll take the sofa."
Hannah froze, her eyes flickering with disbelief. She looked at the sofa—it was elegant, yes, but it was designed for lounging, not for a man of his stature. Dermin was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders that wouldn't even fit between the armrests without cramping.
"You're... you're staying in here?" she asked.
"The doors are locked for the night, Hannah. For now, this is how it has to be," he said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. It groaned under his weight. He looked absurdly large for the piece of furniture, his long legs stretching out far past the end of the cushions.
Hannah looked at him, and for a fleeting second, a spark of something almost like guilt touched her heart. She imagined him trying to curl his massive frame into that narrow space, his back aching, his neck stiff, while she sprawled on the silk sheets he had paid for.
But then, the memory of the cold hotel floor flashed through her mind. She remembered the sound of the police sirens and him being nowhere to be seen. She remembered the ten years of iron bars.
The guilt died instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp satisfaction.
"Fine," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Sleep there. I hope the springs dig into your back. I hope you don't get a minute of rest."
"I probably won't," Dermin replied quietly. He lay back, his head hitting the small decorative pillow. His feet hung off the edge, and his shoulders were hunched forward to fit within the frame. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, his face tight as he tried to find a position that didn't pinch his spine.
Hannah climbed into the bed, the silk cool and inviting against her skin. She pulled the duvet up to her chin, relishing the luxury, but even more, relishing the sight of him suffering. She wanted to see him broken. She wanted to see the "Master of the House" reduced to a man who couldn't even find a place to stretch his legs.
"Goodnight, Hannah," Dermin murmured into the dark.
Hannah didn't answer. She turned her back to him, staring at the dark window, listening to the sound of his labored breathing as he tried to settle on the sofa. She hated him.