Listen to Bad blood by Taylor Swift and Kendrick lamar

I woke up to the soft press of Enzo's hand on my shoulder pulling me out of my sleep. His voice cut through the haze of my exhaustion as he tried to get my attention.

"We're here."

I glared at the sight of his hand still resting on my shoulder, he got the message and pulled his hand away.

The car ride was uneventful. The familiar sights of the villa came into view as we approached, but my heart didn't leap at the sight of the building. There was no comfort in this place, only dread.

We pulled into the driveway, and I caught sight of a woman waiting near the entrance.

She was fierce-looking—tall, with sharp features that could slice through glass. Built like a model, effortlessly exuding an air of luxury and confidence. Her clothes were expensive, every detail tailored to perfection.

"That's my sister, Guilia," he said, gesturing toward her like she was some kind of prized trophy.

She looked at him like he was the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one. I half expected her to start chanting his name in reverence.

I couldn't help but wonder if he was sending me back to the basement again. Was I about to be left to freeze and starve like last time? The questions swirled in my head as the car finally came to a stop.

Guilia's eyes flicked to me as I stepped out, but I wasn't about to make eye contact. Instead, I took in my surroundings, squinting against the sun like I was some kind of vampire in daylight. I hadn't really noticed the view last time. Probably because I was too busy trying not to get killed.

"Your room is ready." Enzo said.

Ignoring both of them, I turned sharply and made my way inside.

"Welcome back," Enzo called after me, his tone so sweet it could've given me diabetes.

I put up a middle finger, not looking back.

I slammed the bedroom door shut with a mix of frustration and exhaustion, my body too drained to deal with anything more. The jetlag hit me harder than I expected, the weight of everything that had happened over the past few days pressing down on me. I collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow, wishing I could disappear. Every part of me was angry, not just at Enzo but at myself for getting caught in his world, for letting it go on for this long.

Sleep came quicker than anticipated, and before I knew it, morning arrived. I barely had time to process the fact that I had just slept for 14 hours straight, when I heard a sharp knock on my door.

"Amari, I need you downstairs for breakfast," Enzo's voice called out, insistent and demanding.

The last thing I wanted to do was to be around him.

With a groan, I dragged myself out of bed and slowly made my way downstairs, the exhaustion still clinging to me. I walked into the dining room to find him sitting there, calm as ever, his usual confident posture unshaken. The tension between us felt like a heavy fog that had settled over the entire room.

I glared at him as I sank into the chair across from him, the tension in the room thick enough to suffocate.

"Why are you so angry with me?" he asked, his voice disturbingly casual, as though he weren't the one who had plunged my life into this chaotic abyss.

My fists clenched under the table, rage clawing at the edges of my restraint. "You want me to pretend like everything's fine? Like I'm not some kind of prisoner?" I spat, each word laced with the venom I'd been holding back for weeks.

His expression remained unfazed, cold and calculating, those eyes of his piercing through me without a flicker of emotion. He didn't flinch.

"What do I need to do to prove I'm not some spy you're convinced is out to destroy you?" I asked, my voice rising with the heat of frustration.

His gaze darkened, the only indication that he had heard me, but his face showed nothing. He was like stone, his calm demeanor a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside me. "I need proof," he said simply, as if this was some trivial request. "I need you to show me that everything is a coincidence. That you're not tangled up in something bigger than you're letting on. I need evidence, Amira."

I shook my head, anger surging up once again. "I've told you, damn it! I was set up!"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing, sizing me up as if I were an enigma he couldn't quite crack. "You're an investigative journalist, aren't you?" His words were heavy, like they should mean something profound.

"So what?" I retorted, my voice bitter. "You want me to prove I'm not a spy? You want me to gather evidence that I'm not a threat?"

"Exactly," he said, his tone unshakable. "I want you to prove it. Because right now, all I see is someone playing a dangerous game, trying to expose me, to take me down. I need to know you're not against me."

I met his gaze. "And what happens if I prove it? What if I show you I'm not the enemy you think I am?"

He sat back, folding his arms with a calculating glint in his eyes, as if he were already weighing the possibilities. "If you prove your innocence... I'll let you go."

I stared at him, incredulous, the words bitter on my tongue. "You'll let me go if I prove it?" The sarcasm laced in my voice couldn't mask the hollow desperation that bubbled just beneath the surface.

He didn't smile, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something dark and knowing. It was as if he had already decided how this would end. "We'll see. But first, you have to convince me."

The knot in my stomach twisted tighter at his words. "So it's just a game to you, isn't it?" I whispered, my voice trembling under the weight of everything he had done to me.

He was giving me a chance, but only because he thought he had me cornered. He was playing with me, and I hated it. But part of me knew that if I wanted to escape his world—if I wanted to be free again—this was my only option.

"I'll prove it," I finally forced out, my voice tight and brittle, like the words themselves were a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

He nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. His expression was all too knowing, as though he was already ten steps ahead of me. "Good luck."

"I don't have my laptop. I can't even work on the investigation without it." If I wanted any chance at freedom, I had to play by his rules—even if I was walking blindly into a trap.

He didn't blink, the same cold smirk never leaving his face. "I have someone who can help you with that. You'll get everything you need."

Uncertainty twisted inside me like a knife, sharper than anything I'd felt in days. Trusting him—or anyone connected to him—seemed impossible. His world was a tangled mess of lies and manipulation, and I didn't know if I could stomach stepping deeper into it. More than that, I wasn't sure I could afford to trust anyone in his circle.

"You want me to trust you?" I asked, my voice thick with suspicion. "After everything that's happened?"

He shrugged, his indifference cutting through me. To him, it was just another round in his game, another challenge to conquer.

I stared at him, trying to read the game beneath his calm exterior. "What's your endgame, Enzo?" The words came out before I could stop them. "You think I'm going to believe that you're really giving me a chance to prove myself? To escape all of this?"

His lips curled into a small, almost amused smile as he leaned forward, his voice low, like he was toying with me. "You're worried I'll sabotage your investigation? That I'll make sure you don't get anywhere with it?"

I narrowed my eyes, the chill of doubt creeping through my veins. "I don't know if I should trust you at all."

He leaned back, unfazed, the smirk never slipping from his face. "You have no choice but to trust me."

He was dangling a promise of freedom, a glimpse of hope that I could prove myself, but the temptation was almost too dangerous to entertain.

But something in the back of my mind told me this was just another part of his twisted game. He wanted me to believe in the illusion of a way out. He wanted me to doubt myself, to question my every instinct. He knew how to manipulate me, how to make me play by his rules.

Still, that voice in the back of my head wouldn't quiet. What if there was a chance? What if he was truly willing to let me go if I proved myself? Or was I just fooling myself, walking straight into his hands by even considering it?

I stared at him, studying the quiet confidence in his eyes, searching for a hint of vulnerability—something that might tell me this was more than just a game. His silence stretched, thick and oppressive, as I wrestled with the thoughts twisting in my head. I didn't know if I could trust him, but I also didn't know how much longer I could keep fighting without a lifeline.

He didn't need to say anything. His presence alone was a constant reminder that my every move was being watched, and that, for better or worse, I was at the mercy of his whims.