"What are you doing!" Rhea exclaimed, bending over defensively.
"What? Don't you like it anymore? You were all over me last night... begging that I should kiss you, touch you, not letting me go. Now you don't want it?" he asked, his fingers tracing the hickey on her right shoulder, clearly taunting her.
Flustered, Rhea could only knit her brows. That's unlike me. I'd never do that, certainly not with a stranger! Or was I that drunk? she reasoned, her gaze sweeping the room for her belongings. "Where are my stuff? And where am I?" she pressed, still searching for her clothes and bag over his shoulder.
He placed her phone on the nightstand, then turned to her. "You're at my house." He paused, his gaze dropping between her legs. "Do you want me to check for myself to confirm my concerns—"
"NO!" Rhea recoiled, pressing herself into the headboard, clenching the sheet. Her voice ripped from her throat, sharp and choked with revulsion, echoing in the room.
"Okay! Okay! Calm down, princess, I'm not going to hurt you," he moved back a little, taken aback by her outburst.
Why would I allow you to do that? her thoughts rallied.
"I'm okay," she replied.
"Okay? You can't be okay, not from what we did last night. You should be awfully sore and swollen. I guess I'll have to check myself." He held the bedsheet, pulling it gently and slowly.
"Wait. Wait!" Rhea grabbed his hand. "Okay, I do feel pain and discomfort down there, so you don't have to do that. Okay?" Her forced smile made her jaw ache, and her hunched shoulders betrayed the unease building within her. What do you mean, 'check for myself'? Not happening! I can't even remember anything. Not his name. Not how I met him, not even how I got here. How much did I drink to be that drunk? she asked herself.
Suddenly, he scooped her from the bed. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low enough to crawl under her skin, yanking her from her thoughts. He chuckled when she flinched – not cruelly or mockingly, but the sound felt strained, as if it held another meaning. His gaze held a softened intensity, as if he was looking at a lover rather than a stranger.
When Rhea noticed the strange shift in his expression, she stiffened, narrowing her eyes slightly, holding his gaze. But she brushed it off. What right did he have to look like that? She was the one waking up in a palace-sized coffin of a house, with a strange man and no idea how she got there, she thought.
"What are you doing? Put me down!" she demanded, her voice high-pitched, her face bright red as she tried to hold onto the falling bedsheet, exposing her naked body. Oh God, I promise, I'll never drink again, she vowed, pressing her palms over her face.
"Stop wiggling or you might fall down," his grip tightened. "You don't have to be shy; I saw and touched everything last night." He carried her deeper into the right corner of the room, past an entrance into a bathroom.
Before Rhea could react, she gasped, not from his words, but from what she was seeing. The bathroom was immense: shiny black stone and bright gold, like something from a movie or an ancient palace. This man, whoever he was, was filthy wealthy. The sheer lavishness was overwhelming.
The air was cool and clean, carrying a faint, expensive aroma she couldn't quite place – like ocean, rare woods, and forest combined. The entire bathroom was covered in black, star-like patterns with intricate gold detailing, even on the doorframe and across the two church-like arched alcove windows. The faucets were heavy, ornate, gleaming gold, reflecting slivers of light. Even the floor beneath his bare feet was covered in thick, dark rugs with bold, complex gold and cream patterns – the kind found in a palace, not a common house or bathroom.
As they walked further through a second arched door, a large, deep bathtub, almost a miniature pool, awaited. Above it, a colossal round mirror with a sunburst frame reflected the room's impossible grandeur. Her heart beat frantically.
This place was undeniably beautiful, breathtaking even, but it felt wrong. It was too perfect, too grand, too still – less a functional room and more a carefully constructed set. It was cold, not just in temperature, but in its impersonal, almost arrogant display of wealth. Less a home, more a gilded cage. There were no windows, no view to the outside world, reinforcing a horrifying sense of being cut off.
Who was this guy? What kind of person built a bathroom like this? What kind of person is he? The questions curled in her gut. Even more terrifying was why was I here? in a place that reeked of ancient, unfathomable wealth and possibly secrets. The strangeness of this place only made her feel more vulnerable, a tiny speck in a world not meant for her.
When he lowered her into the bathtub, the hot water enveloped her, a stark contrast to the icy terror coiling in her gut. It should have been soothing and cleansing, but every touch on her skin felt like another wave of invasion. Her body instinctively tensed, muscles screaming in silent protest, but she was too sore, too exposed, too utterly helpless to truly fight back.
"You don't have to do this," she managed. "I can do it myself."
"Stay still," he commanded.
She did, startled by the authority in his tone. Not because she wanted to, but because the ache between her legs and the fear coiled in her stomach both whispered the same thing: fighting him felt impossible. Yet, his appearance alone confirmed it – he wasn't someone she could fight.
I'm sorry, Rhea, but this is how I can go about this right now, he thought, his gaze firm on her, focused as if he could wash away her problems.
He poured water over her, his hands trailing over her arms, her neck, even her breasts. There was something about the way he did it – so gentle, so calm – that made her chest tighten.
To Rhea, however, he seemed unstable. There was something in the way he moved, the way he watched her, like if she stepped out of line, he might snap. Like if he wanted to hurt her, it wouldn't cost him a thing. Because whatever he was doing wasn't an act of care; it was an act of dominance. It was a clear, undeniable statement: You are mine. I own this moment. I own you.
What did he want? Why was he doing this? These questions played in her head. She wanted to vanish, to melt into the steam and disappear anywhere but here – not under his hands, not under that heavy, unreadable stare. Her face burned, and it wasn't from the water. It was shame, deep inside her, crawling over her skin like the water she was in. Her chest tightened. Her thoughts wouldn't stop, but her body just stayed there. She wanted to scream, to shove him off. But his eyes. His voice. They said: don't.
All she could do was try to pretend she wasn't there, that his hands weren't on her. To close off, to retreat somewhere deep inside herself. But Rhea felt everything: the soft rasp of the scrub, the slick drag of the soap, even the exact warmth of the water on her skin. It felt like he was memorizing her, and that's what made her stomach twist.
He's... washing me. The thought made her skin crawl. She hated herself for it, for being too calm about everything that had been happening.
Rhea was slapped in the face by her reflection in the full-length mirror before her when she looked forward. Noticing her entire body was covered in bite marks – from her neck, her arms, and ears, with evidence of how intense the night was all over her body – Rhea turned red. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached. All she could do was stare back at the water... and back at his face, searching for some flicker of explanation, some trace of a normal human being behind that calm, predatory gaze. But there was nothing. Only that unnerving quietness.
After he was done, he carried her back to the room, placed her gently on the bed, then proceeded to dry her hair and helped her into his shirt.
I didn't hear anything when we were in the bathroom, she pondered. When they got inside, Rhea noticed the bed was already made.
Trying to hide her discomfort, Rhea asked again, "Where are my clothes?"
"In the laundry," he answered.
"What about my bag?" she pressed.
"Safe," he answered, squatting down to her level.
What does he want now? Rhea shifted back a little.
"What time is it?" she inquired.
He smiled. "Going somewhere?" he questioned, still squatting.
I need to get the hell out of here. Because I know no sane person would treat a possible one-night stand the way he's been treating me. Only a serial killer, a psychopath, or an organ harvester will do what you've been doing. I can't push too much, too hard; I feel if I demand too much, he's not going to let me go.
She locked eyes with him. With a brittle smile, she replied, "Yes, I actually have an appointment today. That's why I'm asking," she lied.
"Oh, really? Well, it's still morning," he responded, pulling his buzzing phone from his pocket.
What? That's not how you tell time! she muttered under her breath.
"Okay, I've to be on my way now. Thanks for taking care of me. I'll need my clothes now," she added, getting off the bed.
Before she could stand, he scooped her into his arms – effortless, like she weighed nothing – and carried her out.