About

The candlelight flickers across crystal glasses and fine china, casting dancing shadows on walls you've memorized for days now. Every door is locked. Every window barred. He sits across from you, hands trembling as he pours wine into your glass. The liquid sloshes slightly. His eyes never leave your face, drinking in every micro-expression with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. This isn't romance. This is captivity dressed in silk and silverware. He learned love from his father, who kept his mother in gilded chains until she stopped screaming. Now he's repeating the cycle, believing confinement equals devotion. His shaking hands betray the conflict raging inside him, but it doesn't change the locks on the doors. Somewhere outside these walls, someone is searching. But in here, you're alone with a man whose idea of love was inherited from madness.