Captive by the Billionaire Uncle

A detonation. Dry, brutal, tearing the air like a cleaver. My breath is strangling in my throat. A hand closes on my arm, pulling me back with an implacable force. I vacillate, but the embrace does not weaken. A car. Open door. The smell of leather and gasoline. A blow against my temple. Darkness.

I wake up with a start. The back of my skull pulses violently, as if someone had fun driving burning nails in my skull. I try to move, but my wrists are hampered. Rigid plastic encloses my flesh. My ankles too. I'm sitting on hard, cold soil. A window without window. Only the artificial glow of a sigen neon lights up the cramped space.

A noise. Light, imperceptible, but threatening enough to make my heart jump. A key turns in a lock. A door opens, projecting a massive shadow in the embrasure. He enters. Large, silhouette carved in an almost unreal precision. He does not wear mask or hood. His face is discovered, assumed. A quiet arrogance, a contained power. Pleasing eyes, with a steel gray, analyze me with an intensity that makes me shiver.

- You are awake.

His voice is serious, perfectly controlled. No nervousness. No impatience. Just a fact stated as obvious.

- Where am I?

He does not answer. He crouches himself in front of me, agreeing for a second to detail as we evaluate an object which we have just acquired. His gaze touches my linked wrists, goes back to my neck, lingers on my face. He does not smile, but something, in the corner of his jaw, suggests a contained satisfaction.

- Why did you remove me?

- You ask too many questions.

He gets up, impassive. My muscles are stretched, ready to jump, but it is faster. A fluid movement, barely a thrill, and his hand closes on my jaw, now my motionless face.

- Listen to me, Émilie. You are here for a specific reason. You will understand soon.

I refuse to look away. He wants to dominate me, establish a dynamic of fear. I will not give him this power.

- Damn you.

A silence. A heartbeat suspended in the air. Then a laugh, discreet but vibrating with a deaf threat.

- I'm already there.

He releases my chin and steps in a step. His shadow blends into the darkness of the corridor when the door closes on him. A slap.

I am alone. For the moment.

The hours are stretched, heavy. I refuse to give in to panic, but my body betrays my mind. My breath is too fast, my fingers tremble. I always thought I was strong. Independent. But how do you hold on when everything escapes?

I close my eyes. Think. Every detail counts. The metallic smell of air. The intermittent sizzle of neon. The soil frozen under my fingers. My brain records, class, analysis. The key is to understand where I am, with whom I am dealing.

Maxim. He did not give his name, but I heard one of his men calling him as well. His attitude leaves no room for doubt: he is in control. Not a simple performer, but the chief. Which means he has a plan.

And I have to find a way to destroy it before it destroys me.

The door opens again. Two men enter, framing Maxime as silent shadows.

- Detach it.

A click. My wrists are released. I could try something, but the two gorillas by his side dissuade me from any impulsive movement.

Maxime observe me, gauge my reaction. He awaits an explosion, an insult, an attack. I don't give him anything.

- Silence changes, he comments with a smirk.

I support his gaze.

- What are you waiting for, exactly? That I thank you for this hospitality?

His smile is erased.

- Follow me.

He pivots and leaves the room. I have no choice. Either I stay here, locked in this cage, or I take the risk of facing the outside world alongside him.

I am.

We cross a weakly lit corridor. Each step resonates on the concrete floor. Closed doors, no window. An underground labyrinth.

Maxime stops in front of a larger room. An office. Minimalist. A large black leather chair sits behind a glass desk. He settles there and designates the chair in front of him.

- Sit.

I meet my arms.

- No.

A thrill of annoyance crosses his gaze.

- You will quickly understand, Émilie, that I am not a patient man.

- And I am not a docile woman.

Electric silence is installed.

He ends up getting up, slowly bypassing his office. Its presence is overwhelming, each step calculated to impose its control.

- Very well, he whispers. Let's play.

And in his eyes, a new glow. A dangerous spark.

The game has just started. I still stand in front of him, refusing to submit to his silent authority. His gaze fixes mine, an invisible tension floating between us. He waits for me to give in, that I take place in this chair which he designated as if I were a pawn on a chessboard.

I don't move.

- You like challenges, he whispers, slightly leaning your head.

- No. I just like not to obey the orders of a man who kidnapped me.

A smile, barely sketched. He has fun. Worse, it seems to appreciate this game of power.

- Do you want freedom, Émilie? It's simple. Respect my rules.

I clench my fists.

- Your rules do not concern me.

He advances, slowly, measuring each step as a predator who gauges his prey. He is not in a hurry. He already knows that he will win.

- You are here because I decided, he said calmly. This means that your existence, in this place, depends entirely on my will. You eat when I order it. You sleep when I allow it. You speak if I give you permission.

An ice wave spreads along my spine, but I refuse to show the slightest weakness.

- What if I refuse?

He stops right in front of me. A brutal heat emanates from him, contrasting with the thrill that crosses me.

- So you will learn to obey.

His insurance destabilizes me. He does not threaten. He states a fact, as if he already knew the outcome of our confrontation.

- I will not obey.

His gaze slides on me, calculator.

- We will see.

With a sign of head, he orders his men to leave the room. They compared without a word, closing the door behind them. I find myself alone with him, the tension doubling of intensity.

- Sit, he repeats.

I remain motionless.

He does not repeat a third time. Instead, he reaches out and, with frightening speed, grabs me with the wrist. His embrace is firm without being painful, a demonstration of absolute control. He trains me towards the chair and made me sit on guaranteed pressure.

I straightened up immediately, the burning eyes of challenge.

- You cannot force me to submit to me.

He does not respond immediately. His gaze explores my face, lingers on my mouth, on the tension in my jaw.

- I don't need to force you, Émilie. You will end up understanding that everything is simpler when you do not fight against the inevitable.

His tone is freezing, devoid of all emotion. However, a shadow runs through its gaze fleetingly. A tiny, almost imperceptible hesitation, as if it were not as unshakeable as it wanted to appear.

He walks away and settled behind his desk.

- Do you want to know why you are here?

- Obviously.

He crosses his fingers, taking the time to observe my reaction.

- You represent a value.

My heart tightens.

- What value?

- It depends. You can be a problem or an opportunity.

I can't stand his enigmatic tone.

- Speak clearly.

His smile disappears.

- You crossed the road to people you shouldn't have approached.

I frowns.

- I don't know what you're talking about.

He leans slightly forward, placing his forearms on his desk.

- You will know it soon.

My belly contracts. He plays with me, distills the drop-down information to destabilize me.

- And in the meantime, I'm supposed to follow your orders blindly?

- Not blindly. Just intelligently.

I shake my head.

- You are sick.

A silence. He doesn't cille.

- And you are too daring for your own good.

He gets up, going around the office to come and plant himself in front of me. This time, he looks, bringing his face closer to mine.

- You have two choices, Émilie. Fight you against me and make your captivity unbearable ...

His hand borders on my chair, locking me in his shadow.

- ... Or learn to play intelligently.

I remember my breath.

- I am not a pawn.

His gaze plunges into mine.

- So prove it.

Heavy silence sets in. I don't give in. He does not move.

Finally, he straightens up and walks away.

- You will be escorted to your room. Clothes are waiting for you. Once changed, we will dine together.

I'm about to protest, but he raises his hand.

- It's not an invitation. It's a rule.

He fixed me one last time before ordering one of his men to renew me.

The room is spacious, far beyond what I imagined. Not a cell, nor a dismal place. Sober furniture, an adjoining bathroom, a wardrobe filled with carefully arranged clothes.

I should feel relieved. I am not.

All this is part of a plan. A way to like me, to make me believe that this captivity is not one.