Caged? – Maybe Not

Caged? – Maybe Not

Siara didn’t know what Ekansh was planning.

But she did know one thing—whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.

A cold feeling curled around her spine, an instinctual dread that made her stomach turn. She had trusted this man once. That trust had nearly cost her everything.

And now, she was in his home.

His territory.

Wrapped in his damn clothes.

Yeah, no.

She was leaving.

The problem? Her body had apparently filed for a sick leave.

She pushed herself upright, barely suppressing a wince. Every muscle screamed in protest, her limbs felt like lead, and her vision had the audacity to swim when she moved too fast.

Okay. Fine. She could work with this.

First step? Clothes.

Because if she tried running in this oversized mess, she’d probably trip over herself before the guards even got the chance to catch her.

Her eyes flicked across the room and landed on a massive wardrobe.

Siara’s brows lifted.

Of course.

Of course the villain – atleast for her,would have a wardrobe that practically looked like a gateway to another dimension.

With a muttered curse, she dragged herself toward it and yanked the doors open—

And immediately gagged.

Monochrome.

Everything.

Black. Gray. Charcoal. A few dark blues.

And that was it.

No colors. No patterns. No life.

Just power suits and wealth-induced psychopathy.

She let out a slow whistle. “Alright, Mr. Overlord (ya that's what she had named him), we get it. You’re rich, brooding, and dangerously unhinged. No need to dress like a final boss battle every day.”

Still. No women's clothes. Obviously.

With an exaggerated sigh, she grabbed the first shirt she saw. High quality. Tailored. It felt expensive—which meant Ekansh probably cried when he had to pay for it. A tiny win.

The pants were still a little big, but a belt solved that problem. She threw on a coat, rolling up the sleeves so she didn’t look like a child playing dress-up.

Then she turned to the mirror.

…Damn.

It almost looked like she had purposefully styled herself like this.

She tilted her head. Hmmm… maybe I could join the girl gang that turns men’s oversized clothes into fashion statements.

A pause.

Then she scoffed.

“No, Siara. You have a company to run. Priorities first”

She glanced at the wardrobe again.

Or what used to be a wardrobe.

Because after her search? It looked like a storm had torn through it.

A slow smirk curled her lips.

Take that, Mr. Overlord.

Now, time to escape.

This villa ohh no this damn maze.

Her eyes landed on the slightly open door.

Too open.

Siara narrowed her eyes.

Did he really think she’d fall for that?

Ekansh was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them. That door being open? That was bait. A way to make her think she could just walk out, only to realize she had nowhere to go.

Because even if she did step outside, she’d still be lost in this monstrous estate, surrounded by his guards. The villa wasn’t just big—it was a fortress.

So the door was useless.

Which meant—

Her gaze flicked to the balcony.

Locked.

Because of course it was.

Siara let out a slow breath and scanned the room.

Then—

Her gaze landed on an expensive-looking statue sitting on a table.

A very expensive-looking statue.

She hummed.

"Sorry, Mr. Overlord, but some collateral damage is necessary. And by ‘some’ I mean a lot. And by ‘necessary’ I mean I don't care.”

She grabbed the statue, testing its weight.

This was going to hurt.

Bracing herself, she raised it high and slammed it against the lock.

Pain jolted up her arm instantly, sharp and unforgiving. Her stitches burned, and for a split second, her vision blurred.

She clenched her teeth. Not the time, Siara.

One more hit.

With every ounce of strength she had left, she brought it down again.

A sharp crack.

The lock shattered.

She shoved the doors open, stepping onto the terrace.

Cool morning air wrapped around her, biting against her skin.

She exhaled, tilting her head up toward the sky.

Then—

She looked down.

And immediately regretted it.

The drop was…significant.

Not impossible. But definitely the very bad, possibly fatal kind.

Her brain immediately offered a dramatic solution.

A makeshift rope.

Using shirts. Like in the movies.

She almost laughed. Right. As if she could manage that with a barely functioning body and one working arm.

Not happening.

Plan B, then.

Her eyes flicked to the ledge.

It wasn’t too narrow. Under normal conditions, she could have crossed it easily.

She had been through worse.

She had done crazier stunts before breakfast.

This should have been easy.

Should have been.

Because the moment she stepped onto the ledge—

Pain flared violently across her side.

Wet.

Warm.

Shit.

Her stitches.

She swallowed, blinking against the haze in her vision.

Okay. So maybe she had overestimated herself.

She really didn’t think straight when she was pissed.

A slow exhale.

Alright, Siara. One step at a time.

She gripped the railing tightly.

She moved carefully, inching forward.

One step.

Then another.

The world swayed slightly. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Then—

A sharp pain again.

Something wet under her bandage.

Her breath hitched.

And then—

A voice.

Calm. Controlled.

"Siara."

Her blood ran cold.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Ekansh.

She could feel his gaze burning into her back.

A charged silence stretched between them.

Then, his voice, deceptively soft.

"Come back inside."

Siara exhaled shakily.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t dare turn around.

Because she knew—if she looked at him now, she might hesitate.

And hesitation was something she couldn’t afford.

Not now.

Not when freedom was within reach.

So instead—

She took another step forward.

And froze.

Her foot teetered on the edge.

One wrong move.

One mistake.

And she wouldn’t need to worry about escaping anymore.

Her breath caught.

She stood there, perfectly still.

One wrong step.

And it was over.