CHAPTER 16:- FIVE FRAGILE MINUTES

The morning sun, a benevolent God, bathed the room in a golden glow. But its warmth failed to penetrate Lorenze's slumber. He was lost in a labyrinthine dream, a memory from a younger age. The grand hallway of his childhood home stretched before him, echoing with his father's harsh laughter. The words, meant to sting, still resonated within him even years later, twisting his features into a grimace even in sleep.

The dream dissolved at the gentle insistence of his ever-present butler, Edward. Edward, a man whose calm eyes had witnessed countless storms brewing within his master, observed Lorenze's troubled expression.

"Did you dream of unpleasant things, sir?" he inquired, his voice a soothing balm. While pouring tea with practiced precision, he added, "Dreams, they say, are whispers from the subconscious, a jumbled reflection of our waking thoughts."

The creak of the chamber door announced the arrival of a guard. His posture was ramrod straight, his expression grave. "Sir Lorenze," he announced, "we apprehended a man attempting to breach the villa grounds early this morning."

A sliver of unease pricked at Lorenze. Mr. Clifford's warning about Mr. Green's potential retaliation echoed in his mind. He sat up, the opulent bedsheets falling away from his muscular form. "Bring him to the hall," he commanded, his voice firm.

As he rose, Edward draped a long, dark brown gown over his shoulders, the fabric whispering against his skin. In the hall, a tense tableau awaited him. A lone figure stood surrounded by guards, a black mask obscuring his face. Anticipation crackled in the air.

One of the guards, impatient, ripped the mask away with a flourish. A gasp escaped Lorenze's lips, not a gasp of fear, but of surprise. The man before him wasn't a hardened criminal, but a picture of weary desperation. It was Mr. Harris, Amelia's father, his face etched with lines of worry and lack of sleep.

A sardonic smile played on Lorenze's lips. "Mr. Harris," he drawled, amusement lacing his voice. "Looking for your daughter, I presume?"

Mr. Harris's shoulders slumped, the defiance draining out of him like a punctured balloon. He looked older than his years, the weight of his worry a tangible presence in the room. "Amelia," he croaked, his voice hoarse with fear.

Lorenze watched the man crumble, a complex knot of emotions tightening in his gut. "Mr. Harris," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "your daughter is safe. Under my protection here, at the villa."

Mr. Harris's eyes widened in disbelief. A flicker of suspicion danced within them, "Safe?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

"Safe," Lorenze confirmed, the word a promise hanging heavy in the air. Lorenze snatched the steaming cup of tea from Edward's tray. The china clattered against his hand, but Lorenze barely noticed. "This time," he growled, the heat of his anger rivaling the tea, "my guards will be merciful. They'll show you the path to the gate...gently." He placed a heavy emphasis on "gently," a clear warning for the future.

"But make no mistake, Mr. Harris," Lorenze continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, "if my eyes are ever again cursed with the sight of you within these walls, you won't be escorted out. You'll be ejected with the trash." He flicked his wrist dismissively, a gesture mirrored by the guards who now stood like silent statues, their expressions grim.

Before Mr. Harris could muster a retort, two guards materialized beside him, their movements swift and practiced. Panic flared in his eyes as they grasped his arms. He struggled, sputtering protests, but against their unwavering grip, it was a futile effort.

Just as Lorenze felt a sliver of satisfaction, the sight of Mr. Harris' desperate attempts fueled a fresh wave of anger. He roared, the sound echoing through the room and halting everyone mid-action. "Enough!" he bellowed. "Five minutes," he spat, each word dripping with contempt. "You may have five minutes with your daughter, but under the watchful eyes of my men."

With that, Lorenze stormed towards the grand staircase, his steps heavy with rage. As he ascended, he noticed Edward subtly signal a guard. The guard disappeared without a sound, presumably to fetch Amelia. Lorenze could only clench his jaw, a bitter taste coating his tongue. This unwanted confrontation had left a foul stain on the day.

•~•

Amelia's heart hammered a frantic tattoo against her ribs as the frantic whispers of the maids reached her ears. Ignoring their concerned calls, she bolted down the hallway, her slippers flapping against the polished marble floor. The scene that greeted her in the grand hall froze the blood in her veins. Her father, a man usually radiating warmth and strength, sat stiffly on a plush couch, surrounded by Lorenze's imposing guards like a lone tree encircled by storm clouds.

A strangled cry escaped her lips before she could stifle it. Ignoring decorum, she flung herself onto the couch, burying her face in his worn leather jacket. The familiar scent of pipe tobacco and woodsmoke, a comforting anchor in her turbulent life, sent a wave of relief washing over her. His hand, calloused from years of hard work, covered hers in a gentle yet firm grip, speaking volumes of unspoken worry.

"Amelia," he rasped, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "How are you, my child?"

She pulled back, tears welling in her emerald eyes. "I'm alright, Papa," she lied, her voice cracking with the effort. How could she be alright when her whole world felt like it was teetering on the edge of a precipice?

"Don't lie to me, love," Mr. Harris said, his gaze hardening. "These brutes wouldn't be here unless something was wrong."

Amelia bit her lip, torn between her fierce loyalty to her father and the desperate need to protect him and the rest of the family. She knew all too well the harsh realities of life under Lorenze's rule. To defy him would be to court disaster.

"It's nothing," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Mr. Harris's gaze narrowed. He knew his daughter better than anyone. Her forced smile and the tremor in her voice betrayed the turmoil within. "Amelia," he said, his voice low and serious, "you know you can't stay here. Come with me. We can start anew, just the two of us."

A flicker of hope ignited in her eyes. The thought of escaping this gilded cage, of forging a life of freedom with her father, was undeniably tempting. But the dream quickly dissolved, replaced by a cold, sobering reality.

"What about Mama and sister?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Lorenze wouldn't hesitate to make them pay if I left."

Mr. Harris's jaw clenched, and a flicker of anger ignited in his usually gentle eyes. He hated his helplessness, his inability to shield his children from the machinations of a cruel and powerful man.

"I know, my love," he said, his voice gruff with frustration. "But there might be another way. Maybe... maybe I can convince him to let you go."

Amelia shook her head, a single tear tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "No, Papa. That wouldn't work. He wouldn't let his prize possession leave so easily."

A heavy silence descended on the room, punctuated only by the shallow rasp of her father's labored breaths. Amelia knew their time was limited. The guards flanking them stood impassive, silent reminders of the invisible bars that caged them.

Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her father's hand. "I'll be alright, Papa," she lied once more, this time for his benefit. "I have to be."

Mr. Harris stared at her for a long moment, a tapestry of emotions playing across his weathered face. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he nodded. "Be strong, my love. Stronger than I ever could be."

His words held a hidden message, a plea for her to keep her chin up, to fight for her survival in the gilded cage she called home. As the guards ushered Mr. Harris out, a silent farewell hanging heavy in the air.