Chapter 4 : The Rules of the Cage

Rowan POV

The first thing Rowan noticed when she woke was the silence.

Not the heavy hush of morning, but the unnatural stillness that follows when sound has been deliberately removed—thick, oppressive, aware.

She lay there for a moment, dazed, staring up at a ceiling so high it could have been on display at a museum. Fragments of yesterday crowded her mind: screech of tires, child’s scream, the man with eyes like dead winter steel.

Asher Vance.

Her heart stuttered. She sat up. Someone had changed the sheets while she slept; even the air smelled different—fresh linen, underlying smoke, hints of his cologne. The room itself was lovely in a way that seemed aggressively hostile: cream marble, black glass, not a single soft line in sight.

A low chime sounded near the door. She turned.

It didn’t open.

Rowan crossed the floor, reached for the handle. Locked.

She tried again, harder. Nothing.

“Okay,” she said to herself as she paced back. “That’s not ominous at all.”

A voice crackled from a hidden speaker above the door. “Miss Hayes, your breakfast is ready. Mr. Vance would like you to join him when you are prepared.”

Not invited. Requested.

She glanced down at herself—still in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and smelling of city rain. On the dresser was a folded set of clothing that hadn’t been there when she fell asleep: soft gray knit, understated, not too large or small. Clearly her size. No note. No mistake.

Someone had been in here while she slept.

Rowan quickly dressed in the fine clothes, the whisper of the soft fabric against her skin like a reminder of a debt to be repaid. She told herself she was only going to eat, then leave. Call a cab. Call anyone. But when she stepped into the hallway, two men in sharp suits were waiting by the elevator. Neither spoke. One just gestured for her to come.

The ride down was silent, save for the whir of the cables. Rowan could feel their eyes in the reflection, watching, sizing her up. By the time the doors opened into a glass-walled dining room, she was a bundle of nerves.

Asher Vance stood by the window, the cityscape behind him. He wore a dark suit that fit him like a second skin, coffee in one hand. Morning light cut him into shadow and silver. He turned slightly to face her when she entered, and the full force of his attention was on her.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“Define well,” she said before she could stop herself.

His mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile, gone too quickly to be sure it was real. “Sit.”

She did because the alternative felt wrong. Dangerous. The table between them was set for two, though the food still looked untouched. He did not eat, only watch.

“I owe you thanks,” he said at last. “You saved my daughter.”

The words were right, but not the way he said them. Gratitude shouldn’t sound like a pronouncement.

“You’re welcome,” Rowan said carefully. “I should go now.”

“You can’t.”

Rowan blinked. “Excuse me?”

He set the cup down with deliberate care. “Someone tried to hit my child in broad daylight. Until I know who and why, no one who touched her leaves this tower.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s protection,” he corrected. “For her. For you.” A pause. “Mostly for her.”

Rowan swallowed hard. “So, what am I supposed to do? Stay here and… wait?”

“You’ll be compensated. You’ll take care of Emma until I decide otherwise.”

Rowan laughed once, harsh and without humor. “You’re hiring me?”

“I’m keeping you.”

The words hit her like a door closing.

He stepped closer, not touching her, but the air changed when he moved. Rowan’s breath caught; something inside her chest gave way in the face of him. Fear. Fascination. She couldn’t tell which. Close up, the precision of him was unreal: no wasted movement, no small unsteadiness. Not even in stillness was he truly at rest.

“Do you always get what you want?” she asked in a low voice.

“Eventually.” His voice was measured enough to give her goosebumps. “Everyone learns it’s easier that way.”

He stepped back, giving her the illusion of space. “You’ll find a phone on the nightstand. It only calls one number—mine. Anything else goes through my staff.”

“So, I’m a prisoner with concierge service,” she said.

“If that helps you sleep.”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “You can’t do this.”

“Miss Hayes.” His voice was softer now, polite in a way that made it even more dangerous. “If the people who tried to kill my daughter believe you saw them, you’re already dead out of this building. Here, you’re breathing because I say so.”

Silence stretched between them, brittle with unspoken things. She wanted to hate him. Part of her did. But another part of her—a reckless, impossible part—saw the truth in his words. Saw the weight hiding under the arrogance.

When Rowan finally found her voice again, it came out low and hard. “And if I decide I don’t trust you?”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes gray and unreadable. “Then pray you never have to find out what it means when I stop trying to earn it.”

The elevator chimed behind her, but it didn’t break the spell. He turned away, already giving orders to someone she couldn’t see. Dismissed.

Rowan backed into the open car, watching her own pale face, wide eyes reflected in the mirrored walls around them. Pale and wide with shock, or fear? She wasn’t sure. Pale and wide with something else, something younger and more reckless that shouldn’t have been there at all, that made her pulse race.

She was supposed to be free this morning.

Instead, she’d woken up in a castle of glass, guarded by wolves.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, traitorous voice whispered that maybe it wasn’t freedom she’d been afraid of losing, but the man who took it away from her.