Chapter 32
Elise's POV
His arm locked around my waist, palm pressed against my bare back, steadying the full weight of my body with practiced ease.
It was a touch I knew intimately well.
Dry, warm, the callused center of his hand resting precisely along my spine—the pressure calibrated perfectly, neither too invasive nor insufficient in support.
Victor's signature restraint.
But gratitude was the furthest thing from my mind in that moment.
Because simultaneously, those gray-blue eyes were looking down at me from above.
The blindfold still covered my face, but I knew he was watching.
I could feel the trajectory of his gaze—from my disheveled hair to my lips stretched around the gag, from my trembling shoulders to my exposed chest, down to the red marks lingering on my waist and thighs.
He was seeing me at my most wretched.
And this man was someone I had once rejected. Someone I had ignored through weeks of cold silence. Someone who had pinned me against the wall in that dark tattoo parlor, who had made me forget my own name on that unmade bed.
"Can you stand?"
His voice came from directly above, low and calm, betraying no emotional fluctuation—as though he were merely asking the most ordinary question in the world.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to. My throat, stretched by the gag, couldn't produce any coherent sound.
And I didn't want to make any sound in front of him anyway. Not even a single word.
Victor seemed unbothered by my silence. He waited two seconds, then released the hand supporting my waist.
I thought he was going to step back.
But he didn't.
He bent down, slid one arm beneath my knees and placed the other behind my back, then—
Lifted me completely off the ground.
My entire body went rigid.
My naked form suddenly airborne, every point of contact lost, the only thing I could grasp was this man's shoulder. My instinct screamed to struggle—but my body was as weak as water, lacking even the strength to raise my arms.
Victor carried me toward the door.
Each step measured and steady. His chest pressed against the side of my face, and through the fabric of his shirt I could feel his body heat and heartbeat—even, slow, like a precision instrument in operation.
My own heartbeat was racing as if trying to leap from my throat.
Not from fear.
From humiliation.
This man—this man I had rejected, ignored, treated as "a pawn in my plans"—was now carrying my naked body out of a room hung with implements of restraint.
Light from the hallway seeped through the edges of the blindfold, amber spots dancing in my vision.
I heard footsteps. More than one pair.
There were people nearby.
Those masked performers—they must be watching.
Watching a man carry a nearly naked woman down this thickly carpeted corridor.
I buried my face deeper into Victor's shoulder.
Not out of affection.
But because I didn't want anyone to see me like this.
Not even Victor, who had already seen everything.
---
The car drove for a long time.
I didn't know exactly how long—maybe twenty minutes, maybe forty. I remained curled in the passenger seat, wrapped in the suit jacket Victor had draped over me.
The jacket was large, covering most of my body. I clutched the collar closed with white-knuckled fists.
The scenery outside the window transformed from desolate coastal highway to city overpasses, then to quiet residential streets. Streetlights cast their shadows across the window in rhythmic succession, illuminating Victor's profile.
He hadn't spoken at all.
Focused on the steering wheel, gaze fixed forward, his expression as cold and impassive as a sculpture.
I stole several glances at him.
His tie had been loosened at some point, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a small patch of skin below his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing the defined lines of muscle and a dark old scar on his wrist—a scar I knew well, one I had once traced with my fingertips again and again.
Back when we were still in "that kind of relationship."
And now?
I didn't know what we were now.
The car eventually turned into an upscale residential area. The wrought-iron gate slid open automatically, security personnel bowing toward the vehicle—they seemed to recognize both the car and its driver.
The driveway was lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, ending at a three-story modern villa. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows reflected cold light in the darkness, with only a single wall lamp illuminated at the entrance.
Victor parked in the designated spot in front of the entrance and killed the engine.
The surrounding silence was broken only by cricket songs and the distant murmur of waves.
"We're here," he said.
The first words he'd spoken to me since leaving the mansion.
I pulled his jacket tighter around myself and didn't move.
A thousand questions clogged my throat—Why are you here? How did you know where I was? What's your connection to that party? Why did you come for me?
But none made it past my lips.
Because I feared the answers.
Or rather, I feared certain answers—like "I was just passing by," or worse, saying nothing at all while looking at me with those all-seeing eyes.
Victor opened his door and stepped out.
He walked around to my side, opened the door, and looked down at me.
"Can you walk?"
The same question again.
This time I nodded.
I pushed the door open, and when my feet touched the ground my legs buckled slightly, but I managed to stay upright. The jacket's hem fell to mid-thigh, barely covering what needed covering. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear less pathetic than I felt.
Victor walked ahead, entering a code, and the door slid open soundlessly.
The entryway lights activated automatically.
I followed him inside—my steps unsteady but at least I didn't fall.