"She was my lover."
He turned slightly, gaze fixed on the glass enclosure.
"We were young. Reckless. I trusted her in ways I shouldn’t have." His jaw clenched. "She betrayed ."
The words hung heavily in the air, and despite their simplicity, there was a weight to them that chilled Lina.
Betrayal. It didn’t sound like just heartbreak—it sounded deeper. Dangerous.
"She gave information to soone she shouldn’t have," he continued quietly. "People died because of it. I almost died. And in the end . . ." He looked at Lina now, eyes gleaming with sothing that wasn’t quite anger—but wasn’t forgiveness either. "She tried to run."
Lina stared at him, a knot forming in her stomach. "So you locked her up?"
Fredrich didn’t flinch. "I spared her. That’s more than she ever gave ."
His voice was even, too calm. That scared her more than shouting ever could.
Lina swallowed. "And how long has she been here?"
"A few years," he said without sha.
She took a step back, her heart pounding. She had been right all along—Fredrich was more dangerous than Christian, and with every mont she lingered here, the danger only grew.
"You . . . you locked her here because she betrayed you?" Lina whispered, voice trembling.
Fredrich nodded, his expression tranquil—eerily so. A slight, knowing smile curved his lips: not gentle, but predatory. Danger clung to it like a scent.
"That’s not all," he murmured. His tone was low, asured, almost affectionate—as though speaking of an old poem, rather than the woman trapped behind glass. "I didn’t lock her up to punish her. I loved her."
Lina’s breath caught. "Loved her?"
He tilted his head, stepping closer, eyes fixed on the woman inside the glass. "Yes," he said softly. "I loved her . . . so much that I couldn’t let her break my heart again. So I kept her where I could watch and protect her, where she couldn’t betray. Where she couldn’t run away from again."
His words washed over her in waves—logical at a glance, but beneath them, sothing raw and obsessive pulsed.
He loved her by restraining her. It was twisted. Intense. Almost beautiful—if you ignored the bars and the cold silence behind the glass.
And she saw it now. The way Fredrich’s shoulders tensed, the intensity in his eyes, the slight tremor in his voice when he spoke her na. He believed - really believed - that binding soone so completely was the ultimate act of devotion.
Lina swallowed, her voice shaking. "This isn’t love. It’s control. You unmade her to own her."
Fredrich’s gaze narrowed, not angry, but sad. "No." He stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. "Knowing she was here . . . that was my choice. She didn’t die. I didn’t let her go out there, where the world could hurt her—or —again."
Fredrich’s hand lingered against the glass, his fingers trailing down as though the cold barrier might sohow convey warmth. His eyes followed the shape of the woman on the other side—curled on the floor like a painting faded from ti.
"You think I did this out of hatred," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. "But it wasn’t hate. It was love. It still is."
Lina didn’t respond, not at first. She was studying him now—not as a host or a stranger, but as sothing she wasn’t sure how to na yet.
He turned slightly, his gaze settling on her. "You asked why she’s in there. Why I kept her." A pause. "Because I couldn’t lose her again. I tried. God, I tried to let her go after what she did. But so people . . . so people live in your bones. You don’t cut them out. You build around them."
Lina’s eyes narrowed. "That’s not love. That’s possession."
"No," he said firmly, yet without malice. "It’s preservation."
He took a few steps, slowly, as if walking through his own mories. "When I let her back into the world, n looked at her. They tried to talk to her—even doctors, even drivers. And she smiled. Not much, but enough. Enough to break in a hundred different places."
He turned to Lina again. "So I asked her not to talk to them. Simple, isn’t it? If she loved , truly loved , why would she need to speak to anyone else?"
Lina didn’t move. Her arms were crossed now, but her silence was no longer passive. It was resistance.
Fredrich continued, undeterred.
"I asked her not to wear lipstick unless it was for . Not to dress up unless I’d chosen her outfit. Not because I wanted a doll, but because I wanted her—the real her—to belong in my world. Not anyone else’s."
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that chilled rather than ward.
"She didn’t understand that boundaries keep people safe. Keep love safe. She thought freedom was a gift. I knew better. Freedom is a door, Lina. People walk out. Or worse—people walk in."
"You’re talking about caging soone here," Lina whispered.
"I’m talking about shielding it," Fredrich said calmly. "Do you know what the world would’ve done to her if I hadn’t stepped in? Eaten her alive. Chewed up that fragile heart and tossed the rest. I saw it happening. And I stopped it."
"She was alive," Lina said, her voice shaking. "You locked her away, and you call it love."
"She still is alive," he said quietly. "She’s breathing. She’s fed. She’s untouched. You don’t understand the gift I gave her, Lina. I gave her silence. Peace. Safety. Every part of her is protected in a way the world never could."
His words were like velvet over iron—soft but deranged.
"She didn’t have to think. No strangers. No threats. No heartbreak. No lies. Just quiet mornings. Books I selected. Music I approved. She was surrounded by beauty, not chaos."
Well, talk about possessive and controlling, Lina thought dryly.
He looked toward the woman inside the glass again, then back to Lina. "I loved her enough to never let her hurt herself again. Even if it ant becoming the villain in her story."
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