Chapter 180
Grace knew that Damian wouldn't let her starve to death. He imprisoned her, tormented her, but he needed her alive—he needed her healthy.
The first step in fighting back was to preserve her strength.
She took a deep breath and got out of bed barefoot. The chain on her ankle clinked softly as she moved. She walked to the table, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
She picked up the fork, speared a piece of broccoli, and put it in her mouth.
The food had no taste. She chewed mechanically, forcing herself to swallow.
She ate slowly but deliberately, treating it like a necessary task. Every bite was hard to get down, but she knew she had to eat.
She finished the entire bowl of mashed potatoes. She ate most of the vegetables, too.
After finishing the meal, she picked up the lukewarm soup and drained the entire bowl.
With food in her stomach, her body seemed to regain some strength.
She put down the utensils, got up, and walked toward the bathroom. Next to the walk-in closet was the bathroom door. The chain was long enough for her to enter.
The bathroom was spacious, almost half the size of the bedroom outside. The floor and walls were covered in gray marble, with wet and dry areas separated. A huge white bathtub sat by the window, while on the other side were the shower stall and toilet. The vanity was a double sink, its counter covered with brand-new, top-brand skincare products and toiletries. Towels, bath towels, toothbrushes—everything was new, and there were two sets of everything.
Damian had prepared everything she needed for daily life, except freedom.
Grace walked to the mirror and looked at herself. Her face was still pale, her lips colorless, but in those eyes, the earlier panic and despair had been replaced by steely resolve.
She began a new round of searching in the bathroom.
She needed a tool—anything sharp, hard, something she could use to pick the lock.
Grace opened all the cabinets under the vanity. Inside were spare towels and toiletries, nothing she wanted.
She picked up a glass bottle of serum. The bottle was heavy. She tried tapping it against the edge of the vanity, hoping to shatter it and use the broken glass. But the bottle was unusually sturdy, only leaving a few white marks on the counter.
She then picked up the hair dryer, wanting to take it apart to see if there were any metal parts inside she could use. But the hair dryer's casing was a screwless, integrated design—she couldn't find anywhere to start.
She even struggled to lift the toilet tank lid, the heavy ceramic cover making her arms ache. She reached into the tank and felt around, but inside were only the normal flush valve and parts, nothing else.
Grace didn't give up. She went back to the bedroom.
She tried to remove the bedside lamp. The shade and base were welded together. She wanted to remove the chair legs, only to find all the connections were internal mortise and tenon joints, with not a single screw exposed.
Everything in this room, everything she could touch, had been carefully designed and selected. They were beautiful, expensive, and comfortable, but none could become weapons or tools.
Damian had built this into the most luxurious and most secure cage.
Grace searched everywhere she could reach. Finally, she stopped in front of the main door.
She crouched down and carefully examined the gap between the door panel and frame. The gap was extremely small—not even a piece of paper could fit through. She looked at the chain on her ankle, then at the metal ring fixed to the bed frame. That ring was directly welded to the metal bed frame, fused as one piece. Unless she dismantled the bed, there was no way to remove it.
Every avenue of escape was cut off.
She finally gave up these futile physical attempts.
She retreated to the center of the room and sat on the soft gray carpet.
The night outside had grown deeper. The city's noise was shut out, and the room was terrifyingly quiet.
Grace looked at the gold chain on her ankle, gleaming faintly in the light, staring at it for a long time. She reached out, her fingertips gently touching the soft leather protecting her skin.
Damian was afraid of hurting her, yet in the cruelest way, he had stripped away everything from her, locking her up like a pet.
This twisted, obsessive possessiveness filled her with bone-deep revulsion.
She leaned against the bed, closing her eyes. Her body was exhausted from a whole day of torment and tension, but her mind was exceptionally alert, driven by anger and the will to survive.
Her crying and screaming were useless.
Her pleading was useless.
Her violent resistance and destruction were equally useless.
She had to think of another way.
Grace opened her eyes, her gaze falling once again on the tightly closed door.
That maid.
That expressionless, robot-like maid was currently the only living person she could have contact with.
Although she seemed impenetrable, as long as she was human, she couldn't be without weaknesses, without emotions.
She needed to observe, to wait, to find a crack that could lead to her escape.
The night was deep.
The room had no lights on. Only through the gap in the heavy curtains came a sliver of weak light from the estate's all-night ground lamps. The light was faint, barely outlining the blurred contours of the furniture in the room.
Grace slept restlessly.
The day's terror and futile struggles had drained all her strength. She had forced herself to eat dinner, taken a bath, then leaned against the headboard, trying to sort out her thoughts and find a crack in her escape plan.
But physical exhaustion eventually overcame her taut nerves. At some point, she had slid from leaning against the headboard into the covers, falling into fitful, shallow sleep.
In her dream, she returned to that cramped, dim old house. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and mildew. Brian came home drunk, smashing things over some trivial matter, cursing with foul language. She hid in her small room, covering her head with the blanket, trembling.
A loud bang—the door was kicked open.
She opened her eyes in terror.
The sound of the door being kicked in her dream overlapped with the sound of the lock opening in reality.
That faint electronic beep cut through the deathly silence like a knife.
Grace was instantly awake.
Her whole body froze on the bed. She didn't dare move, even unconsciously holding her breath. She lay on her side, her back to the door, able only to hear her own heartbeat, pounding violently against her chest, beat after beat.
The door was pushed open.
No lights turned on.
A tall figure, backlit by the weak light from the hallway outside, walked in. He closed the door, and the room was once again shrouded in almost pure darkness.
The sound of the electronic lock engaging.
He was back.
Damian.
Grace's body went rigid with tension. She could hear his steady footsteps on the thick wool carpet, making almost no sound, but that powerful sense of oppression filled the entire room bit by bit as he approached.
The footsteps stopped beside the bed.
He didn't speak, nor did he make any further moves. He just stood there, silently watching her in the darkness.
Grace could feel that gaze, like something with physical weight, landing on her back, making all the skin on her body tighten, her hair standing on end.
This silent standoff was more suffocating than any words.
Each second stretched into eternity.
Finally, he moved.
The other side of the mattress sank slightly. He sat down.