RAPUNZEL

RAPUNZEL


Layla's POV

I’ve counted six days.

Six whole days since that bastard Marcello took me.

I stopped scratching lines into the wall on the third day. There was no point. The room was too beautiful for tally marks, and frankly, the absurdity of it all was driving me mad.

I wasn't being abused. Not by a long way. I was in a goddamn castle—some old-fashioned mansion located somewhere beyond the reach of city noises or human voices. There were marble floors, gold molding along the ceiling, and velvet curtains as thick as they would have to be to strangle a bear. I had a queen-sized bed, bookshelves filled with first editions, and a bathroom that made five-star hotels look like gas station bathrooms.

And I was a prisoner.

No phone. No signal. No windows that opened. Just the illusion of luxury to blind me to the truth: I was kept. Like a doll. A trophy.

The staff was. strange. Silent. Too obedient. They never answered my questions—not how I ended up here, not Marcello, not why the devil I was here. They waited on me like I was royalty, like I was some porcelain duchess who would shatter if anyone uttered a word too loudly.

And he hadn't shown up. Not at all. Not since he yanked me into that car and struck me over the head with something that still caused the back of my head to ache when I recalled it.

Until today.

He swaggered in like he owned the place.

Tall, dark, neatly put together in a navy-blue suit and open white shirt underneath—cassual style, as if for someone who was able to fight war and still make it to a black-tie event at seven.

Marcello.

My kidnapper.

He was frightfully handsome, and I faulted myself a little for noticing. Faulted myself that my stomach twisted and my face grew hot at the sight of him.

He had one shoulder bag slung over his shoulder and didn't speak right away. Just stared. His face was unreadable, a blend of curiosity and. something else. Something I didn't like because it hurt my chest.

"You're looking good," he said finally.

I glared at him, resentfully. "I don't think you have the guts to speak to me as if we're friends."

He grinned. Of course he grinned. Bastard.

"You haven’t been harmed. That counts for something."

"I’m being held against my will. That also counts for something."

He walked further into the room, placing the bag gently on the bed.

"You’ve been treated like a queen, Layla. Most people would kill for this level of pampering."

"Then let them! Send me home."

He pushed that aside. Of course, he did. I watched him unzip the bag and pull out a gown. Not just any gown. The most gorgeous gown I'd ever seen in my whole life.

It shone in the light of the chandelier like something made of strands of stars. Midnight blue with silver thread that shimmered on the fabric like stars. Off-the-shoulder, floor-length, pinned at the waist. A dream.

My mouth almost dropped. Almost.

"No," I said quickly, stepping back.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're not even going to hear the plan."

"I don't care what it is. I am not wearing that."

He grinned, infuriatingly calm. "You will. Because tonight, you're going out with me somewhere big."

I laughed out loud.

"You want me to dress up like a doll and follow you around like some Stockholm trophy? You're insane."

He tilted his head. "And yet. you're still listening."

I hated him. I hated the silkiness of his voice, the thought-outness of every move he made. And most of all, I hated that I couldn't avert my eyes from the dress.

He inched closer, holding it out. I could smell the cologne on him now—woodsmoke, deep and rich. Just like the rest of him.

"This isn't about vanity, Layla. It's about appearances. And appearances matter tonight."

I swallowed. "Why? What are you doing?"

He did not answer. Rather, he went over to the vanity and placed the dress carefully on it.

"You have two hours," he commanded. "The maid will help you get ready. Don't keep me waiting."

And with that, he turned around and walked out. The door slammed shut after him, and I stood there, gaping after him, my fists clenched at my sides.

I needed to scream.

I needed to break something.

But instead, I walked over to the dress and caressed the material.

For for Pete's sake, it was truly the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
What in the devil is he doing?

I got dressed slowly. Not out of a desire to please him, but so I'd know why. What was going on? Why me? Why bring me here and handle me like some… glass doll?

The mirror didn't lie to me when I looked at myself.

I looked… beautiful.

Damn him for making me look so lovely.

A soft knock, and one of the guards poked his head in, nodding when he saw I was prepared. "He's waiting."

I was led down long stoneways-sleek, ancient, and extravagant. My heels tapped delicately as I walked, the air crisp with that faint scent of old wood, blooms, and that expensive something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Then I saw him.

Marcello was leaning against the base of a curving staircase, appearing like a goddamn dream in his shiny black suit. His hair was dark and slicked back, a few strays falling into his eyes. He looked up—and when our eyes met, something flickered in his. I had no clue if it was pride, possession, or something else altogether.

"You look nice," he said with a bad boy grin.

"Better in a prison uniform," I shot back.

He chuckled. "If you only knew what was waiting for you tonight, you'd not say that.”

My heart sank.