Chapter 9 HOME SICK.
JASMINE’S POV:
For how long I cried, I knew not. The tears just kept falling no matter how much I held back. My vision blurred, my throat constricted until every breath felt like a struggle.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, as if trying to push the tears back, but it was futile. The dam had burst.
I wanted out. I wanted my old life back, the one I’d built with hard work, grit and sleepless nights. The one where my name meant something I’d earned, not something I inherited. I wanted to walk runways again, feel the lights, the cameras, the rush of knowing I’d survived another impossible climb.
I wanted to stop being afraid. I wanted to never see that tattooed beast again. His infuriating calmness, his unshakable control, the way he looked at me like I was something he owned simply because he’d decided so.
And more than anything else, for some reason, I wanted to see David.
The thought of him hurt the most. Even after everything. Even after discovering he’d cheated on me, with a man, no less, I still loved him.
He’d always been there for me from the very beginning. When I’d fled my home three years ago with nothing but fear and a desperate will to live, he’d taken me in without questions. He’d helped me rebuild. Helped me become someone new when the girl I used to be had died a quiet death.
I missed him.
And I hated myself for missing him.
I hated the weakness of it.
Then, the tears fell harder. I didn’t bother stopping them anymore. I let them come. I let the ugly, raw sobs shake through me. If this place wanted to break me, it could at least choke on the mess it caused.
Just then, I heard a click.
I lifted my head, and my breath hitched.
Nikolai stood near the doorway, with crossed arms, and an expression carved from stone. He hadn’t announced himself. Of course he hadn’t. He just… existed, like a shadow that refused to leave.
“You’re crying,” he observed flatly. “Stop it. I hate it.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, smearing tears and snot without shame. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Sloppy, wet, snot escaped my nose.
I didn’t care.
Let him be disgusted.
Let him see me at my worst. Maybe it would make him lose interest.
Or maybe it could make him kill me.
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “I hate weakness.”
There was no sympathy nor softness in his eyes. It was just a cold appraisal, like he was cataloging a flaw.
I stared back at him with tight jaws, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another tear.
He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me for another moment before turning away.
As he reached the door, he paused.
“You will wear the outfit I gave you whenever you meet with me,” he said calmly. “All of them are already prepared,”
I stiffened.
“And Jasmine,” he added without looking back, “there are more in your closet.”
Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him.
My hands clenched into fists as I stood.
Weakness?
He hated weakness?
How dare he?
Who does he think he is?
He doesn’t get to define me.
He doesn’t know what I’d survived. What I’d endured.
I stormed toward the closet, yanking the doors open with enough force to make them rattle.
I was prepared to burn the ‘clothes’ if possible but what I saw left me speechless.
I stood by the door of the massive closet, staring wide-eyed into it.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves and racks filled with clothing.
What was most shocking was how revealing they were. It was similar to those metal-like clothes he gave me but these ones were more revealing and even worse.
Barely-there scraps of fabric designed to expose more than they covered. Dresses that dipped scandalously low. Thongs fashioned from steel-like material. Harnesses masquerading as outfits. Everything gleamed under the soft lighting like it was meant to be admired and not worn.
They were fucking stripper clothes. All of them.
My stomach twisted.
“Fucking hell.”
He wanted to parade me, reduce me to a spectacle. A possession wrapped in metal and silk.
I slammed the closet doors shut, and leaned against them as I tried to steady my breathing.
I couldn’t let him win. I wouldn’t break. If he wanted to play games, I could play too.
I got out of the dress I currently wore, and pulled on the simplest thing I could find, a plain silk robe that felt soothing against my skin.
Later that night, hunger came, and it drove me from the room and down to the kitchen. I wanted to grab something quickly from there and retreat before anyone saw me.
But I wasn’t alone.
One of the maids glanced up when she saw me, her eyes widening slightly. She hesitated, then offered a small, apologetic smile.
“Miss, I can bring something to your room… if you’d like?” she asked shyly.
“I’d like that. Thank you,” I replied, surprised by the kindness.
As I turned to leave, a voice echoed down the corridor.
“Jasmine.”
I froze. Nikolai stood at the far end, and his presence seemed to fill the space even at a distance.
Doesn’t he sleep?
“Yes?” I said in a slow, monotone voice.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll attend a dinner with me.”
Wait, what?
“I don’t—”
“It’s not a request.”
Of course it wasn’t. Then he turned and walked away before I could respond.
So I returned to my room, locking the door behind me as if that would somehow make a difference.
The food arrived shortly after, untouched for a long time as I stared at it, my thoughts spiraling.
A public dinner, a display, his La Prescelta.
Whatever Nikolai had chosen me for, it was clear this was only the beginning. And I had the sinking feeling that surviving him would require more than defiance.
It would require strategy, and patience…