The security guard and the secretary welcomed me warmly.
Everyone in the building seemed pleasant—except for Sam. The secretary, almost as if she'd been expecting us, swiftly led the way without asking a single question.
We took the elevator to the top floor—likely the twentieth. The sheer size of the building was impressive, and it only added to the quiet sense of luxury that hung in the air.
The moment we stepped into the room, a gentle rush of cool air wrapped around me. Soft, dim lighting flickered on automatically, casting a calming glow across the space.
The room was expansive—wide and tastefully designed. In the center of the room sat a beautifully handwoven rug, its intricate patterns stretching across the glossy wooden floor. A massive flat-screen television, nearly the width of two fully extended arms, was already on, though the volume had been turned down to a faint hum.
The bed was a king-size haven, layered in crisp white sheets and feather-soft pillows. To the right of the bed was a sitting area, complete with a plush sectional sofa and a second large-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall.
Beside the bed stood a floor-to-ceiling window, its long drapes pulled open to reveal a stunning view of the city skyline. The lights below twinkled like stars, the streets alive with the soft glow of late-night movement. The sight was nothing short of breathtaking.
I also noticed two separate bathrooms—one clearly for guests and the other, more luxurious and spacious, attached directly to the room.
"She'll be staying here for the night. I may or may not return, but have the cook prepare dinner for me, just in case," Sam said calmly to the secretary before turning toward me.
"I'll be back," he added, then stepped out with her, leaving me alone.
Having the whole suite to myself didn't seem like such a bad deal.
Later, after what could only be described as the most refreshing bath of my life, I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel secured just above my chest. I'd found an untouched bottle of argan body oil on the vanity and brought it with me. Now, I stood in the middle of the room, massaging the warm oil into my skin as I mindlessly watched the television play on.
Then—click. The sound of the door unlocking jolted me.
Sam walked in, catching me mid-motion, barely covered. I darted straight back into the bathroom, heat rising in my cheeks. This time, the exposure was very real.
"I told you I might be back," his voice echoed casually from the room.
I could hear the sounds of him undressing, quiet grunts of irritation, his low voice murmuring to himself.
Then the doorbell rang. I seized the moment to dash out, grab my robe, and slip back into the bathroom before he could catch another glimpse.
When I returned, I realized the cook had been at the door, and dinner had been served. Sam was already seated at the dining table, devouring his food like a man who hadn't eaten all day.
Surprisingly, he looked freshly showered. How long was I in the bathroom? I wondered.
"Come and eat. It's getting cold," he said, with his mouth half full.
I sat a couple of chairs away from him and began to eat. The food wasn't bad—flavorful, even—but I couldn't quite identify what it was. It looked foreign, almost experimental.
"I'm full,"
I said halfway through.
He glanced at my plate, raising a brow. "But you've barely touched your food."
"I had some bits at home earlier," I said with a nervous laugh.
Without another word, he pushed his chair back and headed straight to the bed.
Left alone at the table, I eventually drifted to the sitting area. The same show was playing on both TVs, which felt oddly comforting. I curled up on the sofa, watching for a while, but my body soon gave in to exhaustion.
Sleep came without warning, and I let it take me.
********
His breath brushed across my face, hot and heavy, as he loomed above me. His hands gripped my wrists, not in force, but in something far more dangerous—possession.
"You're mine," he whispered, voice dark, sure.
Ahmad. It was Ahmad.
"Let me go!" I gasped, my hands trembling as I tried to push him off, panic crashing through me.
"Sarah… Sarah, wake up."
My eyes snapped open, lungs gasping for air. The room spun slightly as I tried to steady myself.
It was Sam.
I sat up abruptly, still caught between the dream and the reality. My heart pounded in my chest, still echoing Ahmad's voice in my ears.
"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded. His hand rested on his cheek, the skin slightly red. "Did you just slap me?"
I blinked in confusion, glancing at his face. "Did I… slap you?"
"And why," he added, voice lowering but eyes narrowing, "did I hear you say Ahmad?"
I flinched at the name. My chest tightened. "It was just a dream," I whispered, not meeting his eyes.
"What happened that day, Sarah?" Sam asked, his tone serious now—gritty and pained. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of me as if trying to anchor me to the moment. "Did he touch you?"
"No," I said too quickly, too softly. My voice trembled, and I could see it—he didn't believe me.
His jaw clenched. "Sarah. Did he touch you?"
I broke.
"Yes! Yes, he did!" I choked, the words ripping out of me with a sob. "He kissed me, said I was his. I didn't ask for it—I didn't want it. I just froze. And now, I see him in my sleep. I feel him breathing over me. I keep reliving it—every single night."
My hands trembled as I wrung my fingers together, trying to hold onto something—anything.
"He didn't sleep with me," I added, my voice barely audible. "But the kiss… it felt like it swallowed me whole."
Sam rose slowly, the fury in his expression fading into something deeper. Something I couldn't read.
"You're not his," he said, his voice firm but soft, carrying weight. "You never were."
Then he looked away, toward the shadows in the room, and said with quiet restraint, "Go sleep on the bed."
And just like that, the silence between us screamed louder than any kiss ever could.
**********
***Sam's pov****
It's barely 4am in the morning and the continuous sound of whips was all could be heard.
Whip… whip…
The sharp, unforgiving crack of leather slicing into skin echoed through the thick silence of the room. Each strike reverberated off the concrete walls like a gunshot in a tomb.
Ahmad lay on his stomach, shirt discarded, his bare back raw and streaked with angry welts. The man holding the whip—one of Sam's most loyal enforcers—was cold, mechanical, relentless. There was no hesitation in his movement, no mercy in his rhythm. He simply obeyed.
Sam stood a few feet away, eyes burning with fury, fists clenched so tight the veins on his arms stood taut against his skin.
"You touched her?" Sam growled, the words laced with venom, his voice low but deadly.
Another lash. Ahmad's body flinched violently against the metal restraints that kept him locked in place—arms and legs secured, spread just enough to expose his flesh to punishment.
Whip.
"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HER!" Sam roared, his voice booming across the chamber like thunder. Spit flew from his lips, fury dripping from every syllable.
Ahmad didn't respond. He didn't beg. He didn't scream. He only let out low, gritted groans—deep, animalistic sounds torn from him every time the leather bit into his back. His silence was almost defiant, but his pain was unmistakable. Each groan was laced with torment, and even the guard delivering the lashes showed a flicker of hesitation at the destruction he was causing.
"Keep going," Sam barked, jaw clenched. "He hasn't had enough."
The room itself was a chamber of dread—a forgotten underworld beneath the estate, built by Sam's forefathers. The floors were concrete, cold and stained with memories of old punishments. The walls were thick stone, soundproof, drenched in decades of silence and screams that never escaped.
This wasn't just a prison. It was the prison. A legacy passed down through generations of Mafia kings. There were hundred dark rooms like this one—each one built with precision and cruelty. And tonight, more than fifty prisoners were being held in them. Traitors, spies, enemies… and now Ahmad.
In the far corner of Ahmad's cell, a massive, rusted iron chain hung from the wall like a relic. It clinked lightly with every tremble in the room, echoing like a ghost of violence. The air was thick—heavy with sweat, blood, and silence.
Sam's voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"You'll stay here," he said, his eyes locked onto Ahmad's battered form. "One full week. No food. No water. No light."
He turned without another glance, the metal door slamming shut with a booming finality.
Behind him, Ahmad lay motionless—groaning under his breath, body trembling, but still refusing to scream.
The lights flickered once, then went out.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
And the silence returned.