Chapter 25: 21. The game was over

Ashely had planned it carefully, every detail burned into his mind during the long, sleepless nights inside the mansion. He had been patient, biding his time, waiting for Vincent to grow complacent, to believe that his control had worked so thoroughly that Ashely no longer harbored thoughts of escape. But Vincent had underestimated him.

It was during their second outing, just three days ago, when the opportunity presented itself. They had been walking through the park again, a routine that had become almost comforting. The security guards were there, as always, but Ashely had noticed their patterns—how they would occasionally drift further behind when they thought Ashely was fully compliant.

On the third day, when Vincent turned his attention to a phone call and the guards momentarily relaxed their focus, Ashely had acted. He ran. He hadn't looked back, sprinting through the park, weaving through the crowds, the sounds of the city blending into a deafening roar in his ears. His heart hammered in his chest as he bolted down side streets, disappearing into the maze of alleyways and unfamiliar faces.

For three days, Ashely had tasted freedom. Three days of endless walking, hiding, and sleepless nights in cold corners of forgotten buildings. His body was exhausted, but the fire in his chest kept him moving. The fear of being found by Vincent haunted him at every turn, but each step forward had been a victory. Every minute away from the mansion was a reminder that he was more than Vincent's possession.

He had tried to keep his head down, blending in with the city's life, but deep down, Ashely knew the truth. Vincent would come for him. He had too many resources, too much obsession driving him to ever let Ashely go. But even knowing that, Ashely had needed to try. He had needed to believe that escape was possible, that his life didn't have to be dictated by Vincent's whims.

It wasn't until the third night, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, that Ashely's world came crashing down.

He had been sitting in a small, hidden park in the quiet part of the city, thinking he might finally be safe. The air was cool, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead. Ashely had begun to let himself believe that he had a chance—that he might really be free.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw them.

Two men, dressed in plain clothes, but their gaze was unmistakable. They were Vincent's men.

Ashely's stomach twisted in terror. He leapt up, running before they could even react, his legs burning with the effort. But the moment he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.

Vincent was standing there, waiting for him.

The world seemed to narrow in that instant, Ashely's breath catching in his throat. Vincent's face was calm, his usual composed mask firmly in place, but Ashely could see the dangerous glint in his eyes—the rage simmering just beneath the surface.

"Ashely," Vincent said softly, almost too softly. "Did you really think you could run from me?"

Ashely's chest heaved, panic surging through him, but he knew it was over. His legs were trembling, the exhaustion from days of running weighing him down. He took a step back, but there was nowhere left to go.

Vincent approached slowly, his movements deliberate, predatory. He raised a hand, gently brushing Ashely's cheek as if he hadn't just spent the last three days hunting him down like prey. "You're tired," Vincent said, his voice sickeningly soothing. "Let's go home."

Home. The word hit Ashely like a punch to the gut. That mansion was not his home. It was a prison, a nightmare he had desperately tried to escape. But now, with Vincent standing in front of him, there was no escape.

Without another word, Vincent turned, motioning for Ashely to follow. The guards stood nearby, ready to intervene if needed, but Vincent didn't think it would come to that. He knew he had broken Ashely's spirit. He could see it in the way Ashely's shoulders slumped in defeat, in the way his eyes dulled as he took that first reluctant step forward.

The ride back to the mansion was silent. Ashely stared out the window, his hands clenched into fists in his lap, his mind racing. How had he let this happen? How had he let himself believe that he could ever truly get away?

When they finally arrived back at the mansion, the familiar cold walls seemed to close in on Ashely like a noose. Vincent led him up to his room, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. As the door clicked shut behind them, Vincent turned to Ashely, his face unreadable.

"You disappointed me, Ashely," Vincent said, his voice cold now, the warmth from before completely gone. "I thought we were making progress."

Ashely didn't respond, his throat tight with emotion. His mind flashed back to the past three days—the hope, the fear, the brief taste of freedom. He had fought so hard, only to end up back where he started.

Vincent stepped closer, his hand gripping Ashely's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "But don't worry," he whispered, his breath hot against Ashely's skin. "You won't be trying that again. Will you?"

Ashely shook his head, the weight of his defeat crushing him. He had no choice. He was trapped again, and this time, Vincent's grip was tighter than ever.

"Good," Vincent murmured, releasing Ashely and stepping back. "I'll make sure you never feel the need to run again."

Ashely didn't answer. He couldn't. All he could do was stare at the door as it closed behind Vincent, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing in his ears.

~~~~~~~~-~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment Ashely ran, Vincent felt something inside him snap. It wasn't anger, not at first. No, it was something colder, sharper—like a thin blade of ice sliding into his chest. He watched the younger man bolt through the park, his heart pounding, a small part of him almost impressed by the audacity. Ashely had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to slip away, thinking he could escape.

Foolish.

Vincent allowed him to run. He didn't immediately react or give chase. Instead, he calmly finished his phone call, feeling the weight of his obsession tighten its grip around him like a vice. He knew exactly what Ashely was thinking—freedom, a life away from him, away from the mansion that had become a prison. But Ashely didn't understand. He couldn't grasp the reality Vincent had already accepted: there was no life for him outside of Vincent's reach.

That night, back at the mansion, Vincent sat alone in his study, his fingers tracing the rim of his whiskey glass as he stared out the window. Ashely was out there, somewhere. For the first time in over a year, the boy was free to roam the streets, breathe air not tainted by Vincent's presence. But the thought didn't bring Vincent the satisfaction he'd expected. It didn't make him feel powerful or in control.

Instead, it unsettled him.

Ashely's absence gnawed at him in ways he hadn't anticipated. The house felt hollow without him. Every time Vincent walked past Ashely's room and saw the door wide open, it sent a jolt of anger through his veins. It wasn't the anger of losing control, no—it was the fear. A fear he hated to admit, even to himself.

The first night passed in silence. Vincent didn't order his men to sweep the city immediately. He knew Ashely was running on adrenaline, panic likely guiding his every step. He'd let him exhaust himself. He'd let him experience the bitter taste of hope before crushing it.

By the second day, the game began.

Vincent had his men monitor the cameras, search the streets, but it wasn't a full-blown manhunt. Not yet. He needed Ashely to think he had slipped through the cracks, that freedom was within his grasp. He imagined the exhaustion setting in for Ashely, the panic of trying to stay hidden. It excited Vincent in a strange, twisted way. He could picture Ashely—dirty, terrified, unsure of where to go next. He would come to realize soon enough that the world outside wasn't as welcoming as he'd imagined.

And then, on the third day, Vincent found him.

It hadn't taken long, really. Vincent knew Ashely better than the boy realized. He knew where Ashely would hide, where his desperation would drive him. He had anticipated the pattern—the frantic running, followed by hiding in the shadows, never staying in one place for too long. He had given Ashely the illusion of escape, but the leash had never truly been loosened.

When the report came in that his men had located Ashely, sitting alone in that quiet, forgotten park, Vincent felt a cold wave of satisfaction wash over him. He had waited long enough. The game was over.

As he arrived at the scene, Vincent's eyes locked onto Ashely. There he was—worn out, vulnerable, like a cornered animal that didn't yet know it was trapped. Vincent took in every detail, the dirt smudging Ashely's clothes, the wild, frantic look in his eyes when he saw the guards.

Vincent stepped forward, calmly, deliberately. He had no need to rush. Ashely was his, and there was no escaping that.

When Ashely's eyes met his, something flickered there—fear, yes, but also defiance. The kind of defiance that only fueled Vincent's obsession. He closed the distance between them with measured steps, every movement purposeful. When he stood before Ashely, he didn't need to say much.

"Did you really think you could run from me?"

The question wasn't a taunt. It was a genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand what Ashely had felt in those three days of freedom. Had it been worth it? The dirty clothes, the sleepless nights, the constant anxiety of being found—had any of that brought Ashely the peace he sought?

Vincent watched as Ashely's shoulders slumped, the fight slowly draining from his eyes. Good. It was better this way. He couldn't let Ashely believe that freedom was ever truly possible. If Ashely had learned anything from this, it would be that there was no life outside of Vincent's grasp. And while a part of Vincent regretted how far he had to let Ashely fall, another part relished the reminder that he was in control.

The ride back to the mansion was quiet, and Vincent found himself glancing at Ashely from time to time. He wasn't angry—not in the way his men expected. No, the fury Vincent felt was directed inward. He had allowed himself to give Ashely a glimpse of something better, something different. And now that Ashely had tasted it, there was no undoing it.

As they stepped through the mansion doors, Vincent felt the familiar possessiveness creep back in. Ashely was his, and he would never let him go again. But beneath that possessiveness was a darker, deeper fear—the fear that maybe, just maybe, Ashely had felt something during those three days. Maybe freedom had planted a seed in him that would never fully die, no matter how tightly Vincent held him.

That thought made Vincent's chest tighten. He couldn't afford to lose Ashely, not after everything he had invested in him, not after everything he had done. But as he led Ashely back to his room, Vincent made a silent promise to himself: he would make sure Ashely never wanted to run again. He would break him in just the right way, so that even the idea of freedom would feel more like a curse than a blessing.

And if that meant locking the doors a little tighter, keeping Ashely closer, then so be it.

Vincenthad learned something in those three days as well—he couldn't let his obsessionslip for even a moment. Not again.