The scent of sandalwood choked the air. It was thick, heavy, and cloying — the kind that didn't just linger in the room but crawled into your lungs and sat there. Soft flickers from a single candle danced across the stone-gray walls, casting grotesque shadows that wavered and curled like silent spectators.
In the middle of the room, a bed stood like an altar — sheets pristine and white, almost blinding against the surrounding darkness. Elle lay atop it, unmoving at first, her wrists bound tightly in cold steel cuffs that clinked every time she stirred. The chains were fastened to the bedposts, giving her only enough room to breathe. A black blindfold pressed against her eyelids, cutting her off from the world.
She blinked beneath the cloth. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. Every sound felt muffled, distant — like she was underwater. Panic crawled up her spine, slow and sticky.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Is anyone there?"
Silence.
Then — a low hum.
It was calm, almost indifferent, like someone savoring a tune only they could hear. From the corner of the room, just out of her range of vision, a man sat comfortably on a velvet armchair, wearing nothing but a loosely tied bathrobe. He was broad-shouldered, his frame casting a long shadow on the far wall. A woman knelt behind him, hands moving in slow, deliberate circles across his shoulders. He held a glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling lazily as he sipped.
Elle's breathing quickened. She pulled against the restraints again. "Please… I don't know where I am… I don't know who you are. Let me go. Please."
The man raised a hand, signaling the masseuse to stop. He stood slowly, deliberately. Every movement radiated arrogance — like a predator who knew his prey couldn't escape.
His footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Elle could hear them growing closer. Her heartbeat was a drumbeat in her ears.
He stopped beside the bed.
"Oh, darling," he said softly. "Don't you recognize me?"
His voice was low, rich, and unnervingly familiar. Elle's entire body stiffened.
"I— I don't know you," she stammered. "Please, you've got the wrong person. I swear—"
He clicked his tongue. "Now that's disappointing. You should try harder. It hurts when someone forgets you… especially when you remember them so vividly."
Then, without warning, he tilted his wine glass. The red liquid poured down, splashing onto her chest. It soaked through the thin fabric of her white dress, seeping into the folds, staining it like fresh blood.
Elle gasped sharply. The sudden chill made her tremble.
He trailed a finger down her chest, slowly, deliberately. Then he slid his finger under the neckline of her dress and tugged it forward slightly, bringing her closer. "Red suits you better," he whispered near her ear.
She turned her head away, shaking violently. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into the blindfold.
"Please," she choked out, her voice rising. "I haven't done anything to you. I don't even know who you are. Please let me go. Please..."
He ignored her.
He let the bathrobe fall to the floor with a rustle of silk and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He placed a knee between her legs, his body pressing close.
Elle screamed. She kicked blindly, her legs flailing, but he caught her ankles and shoved them aside. The chains on her wrists rattled violently as she struggled. Her sobs echoed off the walls, frantic and raw.
And then — the sharp, vibrating trill of a phone.
He froze. A second later, someone hurried into the room — his assistant, dressed in a crisp black suit. The man took the phone, his expression tightening when he saw the name on the screen. He answered, tone clipped.
"Speak."
Elle held her breath. She could hear the faint murmur of a voice on the other end — something urgent, something serious.
After a moment, he hung up. Silence returned.
He leaned down once more, lifting her chin with two fingers.
"Well," he said, voice flat. "Looks like you're off-limits now. Someone wants you untouched. You've been spared."
Elle didn't understand. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and terror, unable to process his words.
He stood, retrieved his robe, and tied it slowly. "Lucky girl," he muttered, almost to himself.
She heard his footsteps retreat. The door creaked open.
"Please," she whimpered. Her voice cracked, throat dry from crying. "Please… someone… anyone… help me…"
The door shut with a soft click.
And she was alone again — bound, drenched in fear and wine, swallowed by darkness. Her sobs were the only sound that remained.