I pull my knees up onto the couch, setting the laptop across my legs as Vivian's face pops up on the screen. The sight of her immediately softens something in me. She's in her kitchen, her hair pulled into a messy bun, a steaming mug in her hand.
"Well, look who finally decided to grace me with her presence," she teases, narrowing her eyes in mock offense. "Do you know how many messages I've sent you, woman? I thought you got abducted."
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "You're being dramatic. I've just… been busy."
"Busy being a newlywed?" she says with a smirk. "Come on, spill—how's married life treating you? Is that man of yours spoiling you or what?"
I hesitate for a second, forcing a smile. "Yeah, something like that. He's… nice to me." The lie tastes sour, but I don't let it show.
Vivian leans closer to her screen, studying me like she can see through me. "Hmm. You don't sound very convincing, Ella. Don't tell me he's one of those men who leave their socks everywhere and expect you to worship them."
I laugh at her words. The thought of him doing such a ridiculous thing is funny in itself—he's far too strict and polished for that kind of mess. "No, trust me, he'd probably burn his own socks before leaving them on the floor."
Vivian snorts into her mug. "Well, that's a relief. Still, don't let him fool you. Most men always have some kind of nonsense you discover too late."
I shake my head, smiling even though the truth isn't half as light as she makes it sound. "I'll keep that in mind."
We talk for a while—about her annoying coworker, about the weather being too hot for spring, about the series she insists I watch even though I know I won't have the peace to. For a moment, it almost feels normal, like I'm back home and not locked into this… gilded cage.
But when the call ends and the screen goes dark, the emptiness rushes back in.
After a long moment on my laptop, I step out of the bedroom with the bowl that I had come here with.
He is nowhere to be found. Probably busy with his work or something…
+++
I spend most of the day locked up in my room, trying to apply for jobs. I don't know if there's any way to convince him to let me work, but I can't just spend my days imprisoned here with guards everywhere, making it impossible to escape.
I studied Human Resource, my performance has always been excellent, so finding a job won't be a problem. And by some miracle, three companies have already called me back today. I only hope Vincent won't make things harder for me, otherwise he might drive me straight to my grave.
By evening, supper has already been prepared for us—well, for me. It smells heavenly, and the taste is even better. I've always been a foodie, the kind who appreciates every bite, but that blessing also comes with the curse of endless exercise to stay fit.
Still, I can't enjoy it the way I want to. My thoughts keep circling back to him.
I decide to wait. To give us a chance to have a proper adult conversation—something we've failed to manage since yesterday.
I don't know how long I sit there, but it feels like forever when finally, the front door opens.
His footsteps are heavy, deliberate, echoing down the hall until he appears. He looks worn from the day—dark suit still clinging to his tall frame, his jacket draped carelessly over one arm, the faintest shadow of stubble on his jaw. But the moment his eyes land on me sitting there at the table, waiting, his expression hardens.
I straighten in my chair, refusing to look away.
"Decided to wait up for me?" he asks, voice cool, unreadable.
I nod once, my grip tightening around the edge of the chair. "We need to talk."
His brows lift, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Talk?" He drops his jacket on a nearby chair and slowly rolls up his sleeves, every movement deliberate, controlled. "That's surprising. I thought you would be busy plotting how to leave me."
My chest tightens, but I hold his gaze. "Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to if you stopped treating me like some prisoner you bought instead of your wife."
For a moment, silence stretches between us, sharp enough to cut. Then his eyes narrow, and the smirk fades.
He takes a seat opposite me and leans back comfortably. His calmness only makes my pulse race harder.
"It's not about that," I say, steadying my voice. I'd been rehearsing this all afternoon, and I won't let him make me stumble. "I want to work, Vincent. I studied for years, and I can't just sit here, waiting for you to decide what my days should look like. I need to live my life too—not just exist in yours."
His eyes flicker, something unreadable crossing them, but his mouth curves slightly. "Of course you can work. You're not a prisoner here."
I blink, caught off guard. That wasn't the battle I expected. My whole speech, my carefully built argument—it suddenly feels useless. Was this not the same man who swore he'd lock me in if I dared leave?
Still, I press on. "Good. Because I've already applied. Three companies called me back today for interviews, and I plan on showing up. It's better to start now than wait until it's too late."
His head tilts, his gaze sharpening. "When I said you'd be working, Ella, …I meant you'll be working for me." His voice drops, low and unhurried.
I stare at him, the words sinking in like stones. "What?"
He doesn't look like he's joking.
"I recently fired my secretary," he says simply, as though he's discussing the weather. "And who better to replace her than my wife?"
I feel my jaw tighten. "What if I don't want to?"
That's when his lips tug upward, slow and deliberate, into that infuriating smile that always means trouble.
"Then you won't be working at all."
My glare sharpens, but he remains unbothered, leaning forward now, elbows resting on the armrest.
"This way. " He continues smoothly. "I know where you are. I know who you're with. I don't have to worry about you slipping past my guards, or testing my patience again. You want freedom, Ella? Fine. But it will always be on my terms."
His words slam against me, heavy and unyielding.