Chapter 33
Elise's POV
The living room was spacious, decorated in a style as austere as the man himself: predominantly gray tones, clean and sharp lines, almost no superfluous ornamentation.
A massive L-shaped sofa occupied the visual center, facing an entire wall of bookshelves filled with books and some ornaments I didn't recognize.
No one, no signs of life—this place didn't feel like a "home," but more like a temporary residence that could be emptied and vacated at any moment.
"Sit."
Victor's voice came from behind me.
I turned around to see he had already walked to the side of the sofa, pointing at the spot I'd been staring at in a daze.
I hesitated for a second, then walked over.
As I sat down, the hem of the suit jacket brushed against the leather texture of the sofa, producing a subtle friction sound.
Victor didn't sit across from me.
He walked to the position opposite me but didn't sit—he leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest, head slightly lowered, watching me with an appraising gaze.
That look.
I knew it too well.
Every time I finished drawing a sketch for him, he would look at me with that expression—like appraising a piece of art, or evaluating a commodity.
Except this time, he wasn't looking at a tattoo design.
He was looking at me—the person he had just carried out of that room, wrapped in his jacket, with lips still bearing red marks from the gag.
The silence lasted a long time.
Long enough that I started counting my own heartbeats.
"You chose to stay by his side."
He finally spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but every word was articulated clearly.
"Could it be—"
He paused.
"This is what you want?"
Five words.
Like five needles piercing beneath the skin.
My breathing stopped for an instant.
Not because the statement itself was so vicious—it wasn't even vicious. It was merely calm, declarative, devoid of any emotional coloring—
But that's precisely what made it more hurtful.
Because every word he said was fact.
I was the one who chose to stay by Liam's side. I was the one who refused Victor's demands repeatedly. I was the one who said "I have my own plans." I was the one who told myself "endure a little longer," "wait until I get what I need."
And the result?
The result was tonight—I was bound to a wall, gagged, blindfolded, manipulated like an object waiting to be used.
This was what I chose.
Something exploded in my chest.
Not tears.
Something sharper than tears—anger.
The numbness I'd maintained all along was like a layer of ice, and in this moment, those words shattered it. What surged out from beneath the ice shell: humiliation, unwillingness, and a fire that had been accumulating since I was thirteen, never truly extinguished.
My hands were trembling.
Not the trembling of fear.
The trembling of fury.
I lifted my head and looked directly into Victor's eyes.
The blindfold had long been removed—I wasn't sure when he'd taken it off, maybe before getting in the car, maybe after entering the apartment.
In any case, my vision was clear now, everything before me laid bare.
Including the expression on Victor's face.
He wasn't smiling.
Nor was there any trace of schadenfreude.
In his eyes, there was only one thing—
A cold, almost cruel lucidity.
Like someone standing on the shore watching another person struggle in the water, neither extending a hand nor pushing them under, just watching quietly, as if waiting for you to decide yourself whether to sink or swim back.
"You think you're feeling indignant on my behalf?" My voice was terribly hoarse, but every word was clearly articulated. "You think you made a special trip just to see me humiliated?"
Victor didn't answer immediately.
He looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face for several seconds, then—
He laughed.
A brief sound, expelled from his nasal cavity, without any warmth.
"See you humiliated?" He repeated those three words, as if savoring some absurdity. "Elise, do you think I have that much free time?"
"Then why—"
"I came because someone sent me a message." He interrupted me, his tone still flat. "Told me that the Sterling family's nephew was hosting a very interesting party at a villa in the suburbs. And at the party, there was a woman who, from the description, matched you perfectly."
My blood ran half cold.
Someone sent him a message?
Who?
"So I came." Victor continued, his tone like reporting the weather. "To see if it was really as the message said—that the next-generation heir carefully cultivated by the Sterling family was 'treating' his own person in this manner."
He emphasized the last words.
Treating.
Not "cherishing." Not "treasuring." Not even "possessing"—"treating" was a word as cold as describing the handling method of an object.
I opened my mouth, wanting to refute something—wanting to say this wasn't his business, wanting to say this had nothing to do with him, wanting to say the problems between Liam and me didn't need a third party to judge—
But I couldn't say a single word.
Because he was right.
Completely right.
Victor seemed to see through my thoughts. He straightened up, no longer leaning against the bookshelf, and took two steps toward me.
The sound of leather shoes on the floor echoed one step at a time, each one like stepping on my nerves.
He stopped in front of me.
Looking down at me.
Those gray-blue eyes were close at hand, reflecting my disheveled face wrapped in his jacket.
"Have you ever thought about one question, Elise?"
His voice was as light as a whisper.
"You can't even protect yourself."
Every sentence struck precisely at the most painful places.
I wanted to refute. Wanted to tell him I wasn't useless. Wanted to tell him I could also resist, could also fight, could also make those who hurt me pay the price—
But the moment I opened my mouth, what flashed through my mind were the scenes from tonight.
Bound to the wall.
The gag.
The blindfold.
Liam's "wait for me" as he left.
And my own words to myself: "I am a vessel."
I couldn't say anything.
Because the facts were right there—
I truly couldn't protect myself. At least tonight, I couldn't.
Victor looked at me for a long time.
Then he turned and walked toward the kitchen.
"The bathroom is on the second floor, first door on the left after you turn." His voice returned to that flat, businesslike tone. "There are clean clothes inside. Go take a shower, change, then come downstairs. We need to talk."
I sat on the sofa, watching his figure disappear at the end of the hallway.
My fingers slowly tightened around his jacket.
The fabric still carried his scent—cedar and some other smell I couldn't name. It was a scent I'd encountered on many nights.
But now, this scent no longer brought me ambiguity or heartfelt emotion.
Instead, it brought a complex, indescribable wariness.
This man had saved me.
But his method—mockery, scrutiny, precisely dismantling my defenses, turning out each of my wounds one by one to air in the open—
This wasn't kindness.
At least not only kindness.