The rain didn't stop for two days. It lashed against the tall windows of the estate, trapping us inside. But the weather wasn't the real cage.

On Tuesday morning, he made the new rules.

We were sitting at the long mahogany dining table. I was eating toast. He was staring at his coffee.

"Your phone stays on the kitchen counter at night," he said suddenly. He didn't look up.

I paused, my knife hovering over the butter. "Why?"

"Because it distracts you."

"I use it for my alarm," I said softly. "I always have."

"I'll wake you."

He took a sip of his coffee. Then he kept going. "Don't leave a room without telling me where you're going. And you are not to speak to the housekeeper or the chef unless I am sitting right next to you."

I put my knife down. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet room. "Kane, this is ridiculous. I'm not a child."

His head snapped up. The air in the room went entirely still.

"You think I'm ridiculous?" His voice dropped. It wasn't the warm, deep tone I had loved for four years. It was a cold, jagged scrape.

"I think you're being unreasonable," I said. I kept my voice perfectly level, but my heart started to race.

"I am trying to build a life with you!" he shouted. His hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned stark white. The veins in his neck bulged. "After everything I've lost!" He struck his stump, the pinned-up fabric of his sweatpants slapping loudly. "And you want to sneak around my house and whisper with the help?"

"I'm not sneaking—"

"You're mine now!" he snarled. His dark eyes were wild, completely devoid of the gentle light I used to see in them. "Act like it."

I didn't argue. I just stared at him. I pressed my thumbnail deep into my palm under the table. The sharp pain kept my face blank. The man I loved had never treated me like property.

Three hours later, the rage vanished like it never happened.

I was in the kitchen washing a glass. I heard the squeak of his wheelchair behind me. Before I could turn, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist. He buried his face in my back.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. His voice shook violently. "I'm so sorry, Azalea. I'm just in so much pain. Please don't hate me. Please don't leave me."

His tears soaked through my shirt. It was wet and uncomfortable. I turned around and stroked his hair. He clung to me like a drowning man. But as I looked down at his shaking shoulders, my chest felt hollow. It didn't feel like remorse. It felt like a performance. Like a trap snapping shut, disguised as a hug.

He took a nap every afternoon at three o'clock. The pain medication made him heavy and slow. As soon as I heard his deep, rhythmic breathing from the bedroom, I walked out to the grand foyer.

I needed air. I needed to stand on the porch and feel the rain.

I reached for the heavy brass handle of the front door. It didn't turn.

I frowned and looked closer. The standard deadbolt was gone. In its place was a sleek, black biometric scanner. A tiny red light blinked slowly in the dim foyer.

I pressed my thumb against the glass pad.

Beep. The light flashed a harsh, angry red. Access Denied.

My pulse picked up. I walked quickly down the hall to the side entrance. Another black scanner. Another blinking red light. I rushed into the kitchen and checked the back door. Sealed. I even checked the heavy iron gate leading to the garden. It had a brand-new electronic lock.

Every single exit was modified. They all required a fingerprint.

His fingerprint.

I wasn't living in a house. I was locked in a vault.

I walked back to the living room. My legs felt like lead. I sat down carefully on the edge of the velvet sofa. The room was massive, but the walls felt like they were pressing right up against my skin. I didn't cry. Panic wouldn't help me. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm again, harder this time. I let the sting ground me. I took a slow, deep breath. I had to pay attention. I had to survive.

The next afternoon, the physical therapist arrived. He was the only outsider allowed through the gates. He took him into the therapy room down the hall. I heard the heavy door click shut.

I had maybe forty-five minutes.

I walked quietly down the corridor and slipped into his private study. The room smelled like stale leather and dust. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the gray afternoon light.

I walked over to the massive mahogany desk. It was perfectly neat, except for a black leather journal lying open in the center.

I stepped closer. My eyes fell on the pages. The handwriting was cramped, messy, and frantic. It looked nothing like the sharp, slanted script on the yellow notepad I found at Kane's apartment.

I leaned over the desk and read.

She is finally where she belongs. She was owed to me. The universe owed me this after taking my leg.

A cold chill shot down my spine. Owed?

I turned the page. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

She doesn't know. She looks at me and thinks I'm him. It's perfect. She was returned to her rightful place.

I stopped breathing. Thinks I'm him?

My eyes darted to the next line. There was a name written there. Kane. But it was crossed out. Not just crossed out—violently destroyed. The pen had gouged through the thick paper. Over and over again. Kane. Kane. Kane. Scratched out with blinding hatred.

My hands started to shake. The man in the wheelchair... wasn't Kane.

I didn't know how it was possible. They had the exact same face. The same voice. But the man outside that door was an impostor.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My fingers were trembling so badly I almost dropped it on the hardwood floor. I opened the camera app. Click. I took a photo of the torn page. Click. I took a photo of the page about being 'owed.'

Suddenly, a sound echoed in the hallway.

Squeak. Squeak.

The rubber wheels.

He was coming.

Pure terror flared in my chest. I shoved my phone deep into my pocket. I carefully nudged the journal so it sat exactly where I found it. The angle had to be perfect.

The brass door handle began to turn.

I stepped quickly away from the desk. I grabbed a thick book from the nearest shelf and flipped it open just as the door swung wide.

He sat in the doorway. His chest was heaving slightly from rolling himself down the hall. His dark eyes locked onto me. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

I forced a smile. I kept my thumbnail pressed hard into my palm. "Just looking for something to read," I said lightly. I held up the book. "I finished my other one."

He stared at me. His eyes darted to the desk, lingering on the open journal, then snapped back to my face. He didn't blink. He was searching for a crack in my expression.

I didn't give him one.

"Let's go back to the living room," he said flatly.

"Okay," I agreed.

I walked past the wheelchair. I could feel his eyes burning into my back. My skin crawled with revulsion. The man I loved for four years was gone. And I was locked inside a fortress with a stranger who wore his face.

The next morning, the rain finally slowed to a light drizzle. I needed an excuse to leave the house. I needed to breathe air that didn't smell like his cologne.

I found him in the living room. He was staring at the television. I kept my voice soft and light. "I'm going to look for some potting soil. I want to fix the indoor planters."

He liked it when I played the domestic housewife. It made him feel totally in control. He didn't look away from the screen. "Don't take too long," he muttered.

"I won't," I said.

I grabbed my coat and walked out the back door. The cold air hit my face, and I took a deep, shaky breath. I walked across the wet grass toward the wooden shed near the back wall. The hinges whined as I pulled the heavy door open. The inside was dark. It smelled like wet wood, rust, and dust.

I stepped inside and looked around. There were rusty shovels, empty clay pots, and coiled up hoses. In the far corner, a stack of heavy wooden crates blocked the wall. I walked over and pushed the top crate aside. It was heavy, and the wood scraped loudly against the floor.

Then, a new smell hit me.

It wasn't just damp earth. It was sweet, thick, and rotten. It coated the back of my throat. My stomach twisted into a tight knot.

I pulled my phone out and turned on the flashlight. I leaned over the second crate and shined the beam into the dark gap behind it.

My breath caught. I slapped my hand over my mouth to choke back a scream.

There were three of them. Stray cats. They were dead.

But they didn't just die. They were mutilated. Sliced open and arranged in a neat, perfect row on a piece of plastic tarp. The cuts were precise. Deliberate. One of the cats, an orange tabby, wore a tiny blue collar with a bell.

My vision blurred. I backed away slowly. My hands shook so hard the flashlight beam danced wildly across the walls. I bumped into a shelf, knocking a metal trowel to the dirt floor. It landed with a dull thud.

I stood frozen. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the blue collar.

*Dangerous.*

The word flashed in my mind, sharp and absolute. This wasn't a man struggling with trauma. This wasn't a broken guy lashing out because he lost his leg. This was something else entirely. He was a monster. He liked the control. He liked the blood.

I stumbled backward out of the shed. I slammed the door shut and leaned against the wet wood. I was gasping for air. I had to get out. Tonight.

Two days ago, I was cleaning out a junk drawer in the kitchen. I found a small block of pink craft putty. I had slipped it into my cardigan pocket just to clear the clutter. It was still there. Now, it was my only way out.

Dinner was a quiet nightmare. I served him roasted chicken and potatoes. He ate slowly, his dark eyes tracking my every move.

"Your boots were muddy," he said suddenly. His grip on his fork was tight.

"The grass was wet," I replied. I kept my voice perfectly level. I forced a small smile. "I couldn't find any soil. I'll just order some online tomorrow."

He stared at me. The silence stretched. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm under the table. The sharp pain kept my face blank. I didn't break eye contact.

Finally, he nodded. "Good. Stay inside. It's too cold out there for you."

"Okay," I promised.

At ten o'clock, he took his heavy pain pills. By eleven, the estate was completely silent. He was a deep sleeper when the medication kicked in.

I stood in the dark living room. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs. I wore my black coat and my boots. I didn't pack a bag. I didn't grab my wallet. I just had my phone in my pocket. Anything extra would make noise.

I crept down the long hallway toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open. I pushed it just wide enough to slip inside.

The room was pitch black. I could hear his deep, rhythmic breathing. He was lying flat on his back. Next to his bed was the heavy oak nightstand. On it sat a glass of water. I had watched him hold it earlier to swallow his pills.

I stepped closer. The floorboards groaned slightly under my weight.

I froze.

He shifted in his sleep. He muttered something low and harsh. The blanket rustled. I stopped breathing. I stood as still as a statue in the dark. A full minute passed. He settled back down, his breathing growing deep again.

I reached out with trembling fingers. I brushed the cold glass. I picked it up by the very bottom rim.

I pulled the pink craft putty from my pocket. It was warm and soft from my body heat. I found the thick, smudged fingerprint on the side of the glass. I pressed the putty firmly against the glass, right over his print. I held it there, pressing hard. I counted to ten in my head.

I peeled the putty off carefully. I didn't look at it. I set the glass back on the nightstand without making a sound.

I backed out of the room and slipped into the hallway.

I walked quickly to the front foyer. The biometric scanner glowed with a faint, angry red light in the dark. The rain outside was picking up again. It lashed violently against the tall windows.

I stood in front of the heavy door. My hands were slick with cold sweat. If this didn't work, the alarm would sound. He would wake up. He would find me. And after what I saw behind those crates, I knew what he would do to me.

I took a deep, shaky breath. I pressed the molded putty flat against the glass scanner.

The red light blinked.

It felt like an eternity. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. *Please. Please.*

*Beep.*

The light flashed a bright, solid green.

A loud mechanical click echoed in the quiet foyer. The deadbolt slid back.

I pushed the heavy brass handle. The door swung open.

Freezing rain hit my face instantly. The wind howled, whipping my hair around my eyes. I didn't look back at the dark hallway. I didn't look back at the cage. I stepped out into the storm and started running.

I ran until my lungs burned. The freezing rain was a heavy sheet against my skin, soaking through my coat in seconds. I didn't look back at the dark estate. I didn't stop until I reached the main road and flagged down a passing cab. I slid into the backseat, dripping water all over the worn vinyl.

"Downtown," I gasped, my teeth chattering. "Harrison Corp. Please hurry."

The driver shot me a weird look in the rearview mirror but stepped on the gas. The ride was a blur of neon lights and smeared windows. My mind was a loud, chaotic loop. *Mutilated cats. Biometric locks. The journal.* None of it made sense. I pressed my thumbnail deep into my palm. I needed answers, and I knew exactly where to get them.

I paid the driver with wet bills and stumbled out onto the pavement. The Harrison Corp headquarters towered above me. It was a massive fortress of sleek glass and steel. I pushed through the heavy revolving doors.

The executive lobby was bright, warm, and smelled like expensive coffee. Businessmen in sharp suits walked past me. I stood there shivering, my hair plastered to my cheeks, leaving a puddle of rainwater on the polished marble floor.

Then, I saw him.

He was standing by the reception desk. He wore a dark, tailored suit. He was tall, his shoulders broad and relaxed. He was standing upright on two perfectly healthy legs.

My breath hitched in my throat.

He turned around to take a folder from the receptionist. His dark eyes swept across the lobby and locked onto mine. For a split second, he just stared. Then, the commanding, authoritative mask on his face completely shattered. His jaw dropped. The folder slipped from his hand and slapped against the desk.

"Azalea?"

It was his voice. The real one. Deep, warm, and alive.

He crossed the lobby in three long strides. He didn't care about my soaking wet coat or the mud on my boots. He pulled me hard into his chest. His arms wrapped around me, crushing me against him.

I closed my eyes. It was the exact pressure. The exact rhythm of his breathing. The exact smell of cedar and rain that I had loved for four years.

This was my Kane.

The man in the wheelchair was a stranger.

He rushed me past the staring security guards and led me into his private corner office. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing us in. The room was warm. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his massive desk. He grabbed a dry towel from a cabinet and draped it gently over my shoulders. His hands hovered over my arms. They were shaking.

"You're freezing," he whispered, his eyes wide with panic. "How did you get out? How did you find me?"

I pulled the towel tighter around my neck. I looked at his face. The identical jawline. The identical eyes.

"Who is he?" I asked. My voice was eerily steady.

Kane swallowed hard. He took a step back, as if I had struck him. He ran his thumb along the edge of his silver watch—a tell I had known for years. He only did that when he was cornered.

"Azalea, please sit down."

"Who is he, Kane?" I repeated. The tug-of-war had begun, and I wasn't letting go.

He looked at the floor. "Colten. He's my younger brother. My twin."

Silence filled the room. It was thick and heavy, pressing against my eardrums.

"I didn't know you had a brother," I said flatly.

"I know." Kane looked up, his eyes red. "I kept him separate. Our family... it's complicated. Colten was always sick when we were kids. My parents coddled him. They protected him from everything. He never learned how to handle the real world."

He paced to the window, looking out at the gray city. "Then the accident happened. He lost his leg. He completely spiraled. He stopped eating. He got violent. The doctors didn't know what to do."

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm. Hard. The sting grounded me. "And where do I fit into this medical history?"

Kane turned to face me. A tear slipped down his cheek. "My parents came to me. They begged me. They said Colten had nothing left to live for. They said if I really loved my brother, I would give him my life."

"Your life?" I asked.

"They meant you." His voice cracked. "They knew he always wanted what I had. They told me to step back. To let him take my place. Just until he stabilized. They swore it would save him."

A cold, sharp clarity washed over me. It started in my chest and spread to my fingertips. The terror from the estate was gone. What replaced it was something much colder.

"So you gave me to him," I said.

"I didn't want to!" Kane stepped forward, his hands pleading. "They threatened to cut me off, to destroy the company. My mother threatened to kill herself, Azalea. I was drowning. I thought you would be safe. I thought it was just temporary."

I stared at him. The man who held me when my parents died. The man who drove me to grief counseling every Thursday and whispered that he would never let anything hurt me.

He traded me to a monster to appease his parents.

"I was locked in a house with biometric scanners, Kane," I said softly. I didn't yell. Yelling took energy I didn't want to give him. "He killed stray cats in the shed. He told me I was his property."

Kane turned pale. The blood drained from his face entirely. "What? No, my parents said he was just resting. They said it was a quiet recovery."

"You handed me over like a car," I said. "Like a piece of furniture you didn't need anymore."

"I thought I was doing the right thing for my family," he choked out, stepping closer.

"No amount of love," I said, every word clipped and precise, "justifies handing a person over like property. I am not a resource for your family to spend."

Kane stepped right up to me. He reached out and gently wrapped his hand around my cold fingers.

I didn't pull away immediately.

His thumb brushed my knuckles. It was the exact touch that used to calm my panic attacks. For one single, agonizing second, the past four years flooded the room. The late-night drives. The laughter in his kitchen. The absolute safety I felt when he looked at me.

I really did love him. With my whole heart.

But that heart was beating inside a cage now.

I pulled my hand back. I stood up and straightened my wet coat.

"Azalea, please," Kane begged. "Let me fix this. Let me protect you now. I'll handle him."

"I need time to think," I said smoothly.

"I can get you a hotel. I'll hire security—"

"No." I met his eyes. I kept my face perfectly blank. "I need to do this my way. Give me time."

He nodded slowly, looking completely defeated. "Whatever you need. I'm so sorry, Azalea."

I turned and walked to the door. I didn't look back.

I stepped out into the hallway and pressed the elevator button. The metal doors slid open. I stepped inside and watched Kane's office door disappear as the doors closed.

I wasn't going to a hotel. I wasn't running away.

I was going back to the estate.

Colten thought I belonged to him. Kane thought I needed protecting. They both thought I was a pawn on their board. I reached into my pocket and felt the small lump of pink craft putty.

I was going to play the devoted fiancée. I was going to stroke Colten's ego and suggest a grand, high-society wedding. And when the time was right, I was going to build a trap they would never see coming.