HER PRISONER

(Cassian's POV)

It's been exactly six days since she walked into my house — tired, cautious, and a little too curious for her own good.

She didn't recognize me.

Of course she didn't. The lights at that gala were dim, her world was too small, and my name wasn't important to her then. But I never forgot her. Not after that night. Not after the way she looked at me — as if I wasn't someone to fear. As if I was someone worth knowing.

She's here now. Under my roof. Wearing my uniform. Scrubbing my dishes with those same hands that once held a plastic champagne flute in a world that didn't deserve her.

Ziva.

She doesn't speak much. She thinks I'm just the man who signs her wages — the one who's "never home," who "lives upstairs," who keeps his distance. She has no idea I watch her every evening from the hallway shadows, from the security screen in my office, from the library window when she thinks she's alone.

I didn't bring her here to watch.

I brought her here to keep.

And now, it's Saturday — the day the other girls pack up their worn bags and head home for two days. Freedom. Rest. Families. Lovers.

But not Ziva.

Because I've arranged it that way.

She signed the contract like they all did, desperate for a job, too afraid to ask questions. But hers had one extra clause. One she didn't read. One I made sure of.

Her weekend leave has been… suspended. Indefinitely.

Today she asked one of the senior helps when she'd be able to go home. I watched her lips move through the camera feed. She was too polite. Too unsure. Her shoulders were curled in like she was already bracing for disappointment.

She's starting to feel the difference.

Good.

Let her wonder why. Let her pace the room she was assigned and try to remember something she never even knew she forgot.

Because sooner or later, she'll see me. Not just the man upstairs. Not the boss.

Me.

The man from the gala.

The one she smiled at without knowing the damage it would do.

And when that moment comes, it won't be sweet.

It'll be the sound of a door locking behind her.

And me, on the other side.

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