Ben

The hum of the highway had been your only comfort for three days. You abandoned your phone in a terminal trash can two states back, knowing exactly how far your father’s reach could extend. He wasn't just a parent holding a grudge; he was a man with deep resources, powerful connections, and a terrifying obsession with control. To him, your flight wasn't an act of independence—it was a defect that needed correcting.

By the time you rolled into the sleepy, neon-lit outskirts of Oakhaven, your stomach was hollow. You parked your battered sedan in the deepest shadows of a diner lot, locking it tightly before venturing out on foot toward a 24-hour drive-in across the street. The night air was thick and damp, the streetlights buzzing like angry insects above you.

You never made it to the curb.

The sound of tires scraping the asphalt was your only warning. A sleek, black van materialized from the darkness, its side door sliding open with terrifying, fluid precision. Before you could even draw breath to scream, a pair of heavy, gloved hands clamped over your mouth and waist. You kicked wildly, your sneaker catching the edge of the doorframe, but a sweet, chemical-scented cloth was pressed firmly over your nose. The neon signs of the diner spun into a blurred kaleidoscope, and then, the world went completely black.

---

You woke up not to immediate panic, but to an eerie, profound stillness.

The harsh, chemical burn in your throat was the only proof that the night before hadn't been a nightmare. You blinked, your vision slowly adjusting to the soft, warm ambient light of a room that felt entirely removed from the reality you knew.

You weren't on a cold floor, and you weren't bound to a chair. Instead, you were sinking into an impossibly plush, king-sized bed topped with heavy silk sheets.

As consciousness fully returned, a sudden wave of vulnerability hit you. You shifted under the covers, freezing instantly as the fabric of your clothing moved against your skin. Or rather, the lack of it.

The heavy denim and oversized hoodie you had been running in were gone. In their place, you were wearing a floor-length, white sheer nightgown. The fabric was incredibly expensive, soft as a cloud against your bare skin, but it offered no warmth and even less modesty. Beneath it, you wore absolutely nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your chest. You bolted upright, clutching the sheer fabric tightly to your collarbone, your eyes darting frantically around the room.

The space was massive, styled like a high-end estate bedroom, complete with heavy velvet drapes masking the windows and a crackling fireplace in the corner. There was no sign of your belongings. No shoes, no keys, no defense.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door at the far end of the room clicked, swinging open to reveal a silhouette standing in the warm light of the hallway.

"You're awake," a voice murmured—but it wasn't your father's.