chapter 3
“There’s no place for physical violence in this house,” my father said, his voice cold with displeasure.
The irony was so bitter I could taste it along with the blood inside my mouth.
“Yeah, only emotional apparently,” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could swallow them.
Father’s jaw tightened, but he directed his attention to my mother instead.
“Take care of her. Make sure her face stays perfect.”
The study door clicked shut. Mother straightened her blouse, eyes scanning my face with clinical detachment.
“Get ice for that mark.” No apology, no tears—just damage control for damaged merchandise.
I nodded, another perfect, obedient response from the perfect, obedient daughter.
As we separated in the hallway, the truth crystallized like ice in my veins: she wasn’t trapped in this gilded cage with me, she was one of the zookeepers.
Her manicured hands held the same keys as father’s, just wore prettier gloves while turning them.
What I needed was something cold—for my face, for my heart, for the realization that I was completely alone. I made my way downstairs, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards that might alert the house to my wandering.
The kitchen light was already on when I rounded the corner, and I stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.
Caleb sat at the island counter, scrolling through his phone with casual ease.
He’d changed from his formal attire into sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt that clung to the contours of his wide muscular chest and shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry.
The domesticity of the scene, this powerful man in simple house slippers, relaxed in our kitchen, created an intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.
My body reacted before my mind could intervene, a flush creeping up my neck that had nothing to do with my injury.
He looked up immediately, his expression shifting from surprise to concern in an instant.
“What happened to your face?” he asked, already moving toward me.
Before I could respond, he was in the freezer, pulling out a pack of frozen berries.
His movements were efficient, purposeful. One hand guided me to the stool he’d just vacated, the other gently pressed the makeshift ice pack against my burning cheek.
The cold relief was immediate, but it was nothing compared to the jolt that ran through me at his touch—careful, tender, concerned.
Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us.
I wondered if he could feel my pulse racing beneath his fingertips, if he knew that my breath had shortened not from pain but from his proximity.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
I looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. “No.”
My mind swirled with confused emotions. I tried to recall a single instance when my father had shown me the kind of immediate care that Caleb just had.
The blank space where those memories should have been yawned inside me like an abyss. But what disturbed me most wasn’t the absence of fatherly care in my life.
It was that I didn’t want Caleb to be fatherly at all.
The feeling coursing through me wasn’t daughterly gratitude, but something far more dangerous—curiosity. Attraction.
A visceral pull toward him as a man who saw me, who responded to my pain with gentleness instead of calculation.
I fought to banish the thought, ashamed of its persistence.
“It’ll be gone by morning,” Caleb said softly. “The mark.”
I looked back at him and smiled, a real smile, unguarded and genuine.
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of emotion quickly masked.
He swallowed visibly, and I felt a surprising surge of power at having affected him.
Desperate to break the tension crackling between us, I asked, “So… what kind of business do you have with my father?”
Caleb hesitated, his expression tightening momentarily before relaxing into something more vulnerable.
“Your father and I… we were close, once. Good friends, not just business partners. But something happened years ago put a strain on that. We haven’t really spoken since.”
I watched him closely, sensing the weight behind his words. The careful editing of a story too complex for casual sharing.
“I’m here now,” he continued, “partly for business… but also because I want to fix what I broke. I’m hoping there’s still a friendship worth saving.”
His honesty disarmed me.
I wanted to ask if he was a good man, if I could trust the strange feelings he stirred in me.
Instead, I just asked, “Is that why you’re not sleeping?”
He nodded, his lips curving slightly.
“That, and some messages I didn’t have time to reply to during your birthday dinner.”
I laughed softly, the sound strange to my own ears after so much tension.
“Sorry for the disruption.”
His smile widened. “It’s alright.”
The cold pack had warmed against my skin, but neither of us had moved to adjust it. His hand remained gentle against my face, the point of contact between us charged with something I didn’t dare name.
“This should be enough,” he finally said, pulling away and returning the pack to the freezer.
When he turned back to me, his expression had softened into something that made my chest ache.
“Happy birthday, Mikaela.”
The simple wish, delivered with such genuine warmth, struck me more deeply than any formal toast or expensive gift.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, letting the silence between us speak the words I couldn’t form.
After he left, I lingered in the kitchen, my cheek still tingling—from the cold or from his touch, I couldn’t tell. My body felt like a stranger’s, alive with sensations I’d never allowed myself to acknowledge.
Sleep came in restless fragments that night.
My dreams are a confusing blur of people and feelings—my father’s cold ultimatum, Caleb’s gentle hands…
Then the nightmare fractures, and suddenly it’s just Caleb.
His fingers no longer pressing frozen berries to my cheek but tracing fire down my neck instead.
Dream-logic shifts the kitchen to a bedroom I’ve never seen but somehow recognize as his. The night air feels electric against my bare shoulders.
“You deserve better,” dream-Caleb whispers, his mouth dangerously close to my ear, sending ripples of heat spiraling down my spine.
His reverent hands are everywhere, the antithesis of everything I’ve been taught about men and their desires.
I arch against him, greedy and unrestrained in a way waking-me could never be. Here, in this nocturnal fantasy, I’m not anybody’s precious commodity or careful investment.
I’m just wanted. The distinction breaks something open inside me.
When I wake, sheets twisted around my legs, my skin feels simultaneously too tight and too sensitive. The ghost of his touch lingers like a question I’m finally brave enough to ask.
There, on my nightstand, sat an exquisite bouquet of flowers. Fresh. Vibrant. Beautiful.
I blinked, startled into full wakefulness. My heart quickened as I sat up and reached for them.
I hadn’t heard anyone enter my room during the night.
