Captive Of The Ruthless Underground King

Morning light filtered into the living room. Della woke up on the sofa. Her neck was stiff.

The apartment was silent. Darius hadn't come back.

Della looked down at her ruined robe. She couldn't wear this.

She stood up and walked to the master bedroom. She pushed the door open. The room smelled like him-sandalwood and cedar. It made her skin prickle.

She went to the closet. It was a walk-in, filled with rows of pristine suits. Navy, black, charcoal.

She grabbed a white dress shirt. She put it on. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her small frame. She buttoned it up to the collar.

She looked in the mirror. She looked small. Vulnerable.

She thought about last night. Fighting him had almost gotten her assaulted. Screaming got her nowhere.

She needed to change tactics. If he wanted a pet, she would be a pet. A quiet, obedient pet who was waiting for the cage door to be left unlocked.

Henderson rolled a garment rack into the living room.

"Miss," he said, not batting an eye at her attire. "Sir ordered these for you."

Della touched the fabric of a silk dress. It was Gucci. There were rows of dresses, soft sweaters, designer jeans.

"Thank you," she whispered, lowering her head.

Henderson held out a black credit card. "For incidentals. Online only. No communication devices can be purchased."

Della took the card. "He... he bought these for me?"

"Sir expects you to be dressed for dinner."

Della nodded. "Okay."

When Henderson left, she searched the clothes. No receipts. No hidden notes. Just expensive fabric.

She chose a pale pink dress. It was modest, soft. It made her look innocent.

She went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge. It was fully stocked.

She took out vegetables. She found a cutting board. She pulled a chef's knife from the block.

It felt heavy in her hand.

She started chopping onions. The rhythmic sound of the blade hitting the wood was soothing. Chop. Chop. Chop.

The elevator chimed.

Della froze. Her grip on the knife tightened.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. tired.

She forced her hand to relax. She continued chopping. Tears from the onions blurred her vision.

"What are you doing?" Darius's voice.

Della turned. She kept the knife low, non-threatening. She forced a small, tremulous smile.

"I'm making dinner," she said.