The car pulled up to the towering glass building that scraped the clouds, Damian Blackwood's penthouse residence. From the outside, it gleamed like a monument of power, each floor radiating wealth and exclusivity. But as Elena stepped out, her heart thudded against her ribs. To her, it wasn't the home she was entering. It was a cage.
Damian's bodyguard didn't say a word as he escorted her to the private elevator. The walls gleamed with polished silver, but Elena felt trapped in the reflective box, her own ghostly reflection staring back at her in the wedding dress she still hadn't taken off.
When she had looked at herself for the first time in the wedding gown after the beautician was done with her. She looked so ethereal. Her blond hair was open in waves reaching her waist. Her crystal blue eyes looked beautiful but full of sadness, but now as she stared at her reflection. She looked devastated. The satin that had once been a dream felt heavy, suffocating, a shroud for the death of her freedom.
When the elevator doors slid open, the bodyguard stepped outside first, escorting her to the giant mahogany doors, and the penthouse unveiled itself.
It was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the sprawling city lights below, glittering like stars scattered at her feet. Marble floors stretched endlessly, expensive art hung perfectly spaced on the walls, and the chandeliers shimmered like captured constellations. Every detail screamed perfection.
And yet, there was no warmth.
It was sterile, almost clinical, as if no one actually lived here. A place to display wealth, not a place to breathe, laugh, or love.
Her father was rich himself, and she was brought up in a rich family, but that was nothing compared to this. Even the sculptures placed on the consoles were made of silver and gold. It was absurd.
Elena stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the marble. Each step echoed, reminding her she was alone in this beautiful cage.
She turned, half-expecting Damian to appear behind her, his cold gaze cutting her down the way it had at the altar. But the doorway was empty. The bodyguard had left without a word. She was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
Her eyes darted around in alert. This was the first time she was out of her house, and that too alone in someone else's place. Her husband, who didn't even bother to come home with her. What can she complain about when there was nothing between them to begin with?
Her chest tightened. This was supposed to be her wedding night. A night she had once naively dreamed would be filled with love, whispers, and tenderness with the love of her life. Instead, it was a night stolen from her. She was not a bride. She was a prisoner.
Maybe fate hasn't written love in her destiny, but a respectful partner would've been enough, but it seemed like that wasn't the case either.
Elena moved through the penthouse, each room amplifying her isolation. A vast living room with sleek leather couches no one had sat on. A bar stocked with rare vintages she had never tasted or even seen. A bedroom draped in velvet and silk, designed for decadence, yet empty.
There were bedrooms in the whole apartment. One was the master bedroom with his huge picture hanging on the front wall.
Elena stepped into the other room. She sank onto the edge of the massive bed, her wedding dress pooling around her like a cage of white satin. Her trembling fingers touched the veil still pinned into her hair, and suddenly, the weight of the day came crashing down.
Her father's pleading eyes. His threats. His words echoed like chains around her throat: "You'll destroy this family if you don't agree."
Damian's voice at the altar, cold and detached, his ruthless hold on her delicate frame as if she were nothing more than a contract he had signed.
Her chest heaved as silent tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn't want to cry, not for Damian, not for this sham of a marriage. But the tears came anyway, staining the silk she wore.
Hours passed. The city lights dimmed as the night grew deeper, but Damian never appeared. She was hungry and all alone. Elena checked the kitchen for anything, and it was empty; even the fridge had nothing except energy drinks and beer.
She simply drank a glass of water and walked back to the room. She got rid of her diamond necklace and earrings, which were sent by him, and placed them on the dressing table. She wanted to cry, but at the same time, she wanted to stay strong.
The doorbell rang, startling her as her breath hitched. She inhaled sharply as she padded to the main door, as she had already taken off her heels. She was clutching her dress up with one hand so she could walk properly. She opened the door expecting Damian, but it was his bodyguard. He had her suitcases. She stepped aside as he stepped in. "Where shall I put them, Mrs. Blackwood?" He asked. That name felt so foreign and awkward to her.
She guided him to the room, the one opposite the master bedroom, as the man placed her stuff there and stepped back, facing her.
"My name is Victor. If you need anything, feel free to contact me." He forwarded her a black card, which also had his number on it.
"I'll be taking my leave," he said as she watched his retreating back. He was as tall as Damien and had an intimidating look on his face.
"I... I'm hungry," she blurted out. He paused, glanced at her over his shoulder, and nodded. "I'll bring something for you," he said and left, closing the door behind as it locked automatically.
Elena grabbed some comfy clothes from her suitcase and hopped in the shower. She changed into new sets of clothes and decided to take a tour of the place once again. The skyscrapers looked magnificent, and it felt like no one had ever lived in the place before. And his study was also locked. Elena went to her room as she plopped on the bed.
When she finally reached for her phone, desperate for some distraction, a notification lit up the screen. The headline made her breath catch in her throat.
Breaking News: Billionaire CEO Damian Blackwood spotted leaving his wedding reception with a mysterious beauty who wasn't his wife.
The photo beneath the headline sealed the knife in her chest. Damian, still in his tuxedo, his hand possessively gripping the waist of a woman whose red dress clung to every curve. His expression wasn't cold in the photo. It was smoldering, alive, as though Elena had never existed. He was still living his life the same as if he were a bachelor, but there was no news or article of any scandal regarding him before.
Despite not having any feelings for him. Her hands shook violently, the phone slipping onto the bed as the tears came harder this time.
On her first night as Damian's wife, Elena realized the truth with soul-crushing clarity.
This wasn't even close to a marriage. This was a life sentence for her.
Damian wasn't just cold, he was cruel enough to flaunt his betrayal before the ink on their vows had even dried.