Shattered Innocence

XX

Lily
*THE RIDE***
17 years old.

"He told me to get ready," I murmured, staring at myself in the mirror. His words echoed in my mind, lingering with an unsettling weight.

He had stood there, watching me, his gaze unwavering as he gave his instructions. "I'm taking you somewhere," he had said, his voice firm but not threatening. "Put on the leggings and a hoodie."

I hadn't questioned him, though part of me had wanted to. Instead, I nodded and retreated to the closet. I chose a pair of black leggings and an oversized hoodie, the fabric soft against my skin. It felt strange to wear something so normal in this world where nothing felt normal anymore. A hoodie wasn't armor, and yet, in this moment, it was the only thing between me and the unknown.

I glanced at him in the mirror as I dressed. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes scanning me in that same intense way that always left me unsure of his thoughts. His presence filled the room—commanding, overwhelming, but oddly grounding.

"You'll feel free again," he had promised, the words hanging in the air like a distant hope. Freedom felt like a memory, something unreachable, but still, a part of me wanted to believe it could exist, even with him.

"Are you ready?" his voice pulled me back to reality, breaking through my thoughts. I turned to face him, a knot of uncertainty tightening in my chest.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, though I wasn't sure I meant it.

He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. "Trust me," he said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "Today, I'm going to show you something different."

I swallowed hard and nodded, even though doubt lingered. With him, nothing was ever simple.

"Let's go," he said, taking my hand. His touch was warm, yet it felt like a reminder of how easily I was tethered to him now.

As we walked out of the room, my mind raced with thoughts of where he was taking me and what his version of freedom could possibly mean.

He led me down a long corridor until we reached a door that opened into a massive room. My breath hitched as we stepped inside. The space was filled with rows of gleaming cars—luxury, power, and speed in every shape and color. The polished metal reflected the dim lights overhead, and I couldn't help but be struck by the sheer opulence of it all.

I didn't say a word as he guided me through the collection, his hand firm around mine. It was surreal, walking past so many expensive cars, each one more extravagant than the last. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces—machines meant for power and status, just like him.

But then, as we reached the far end of the room, my eyes landed on something different. My heart skipped a beat.

There, standing in a perfect line, were a few of the most beautiful motorcycles I had ever seen. Sleek, powerful, and intimidating, just like everything else in his world. The deep, glossy black of one in particular caught my attention, its lines sharp and aggressive, the chrome reflecting the faint light.

"Do you like them?" he asked, his voice low and close to my ear.

I nodded, still mesmerized by the machines. I'd never been near anything like this before. There was something freeing about the idea of riding one, something that hinted at escape, even if only for a moment.

He smirked slightly, clearly satisfied by my reaction. "You said you wanted to feel free," he murmured, leading me closer to the bike. His hand slipped from mine as he stopped in front of the sleek, black motorcycle. He ran his hand over the handlebars, almost reverently. "This is how you do it."