The limousine was silent, but not peaceful. Shadows clung to the windows, and the hum of the engine filled the air like a steady pulse.
Elara sat rigid, her gown heavy against her skin, the phantom sting of every gaze from the ballroom still burning across her body. She could still hear the words she had forced from her mouth—I chose him.
Her throat tightened. She had meant them as survival. Damian had made them sound like devotion.
Now, his hand rested lazily on her thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles against the silk of her dress. Possessive. Leisurely. As if claiming her was as natural as breathing.
"You spoke beautifully tonight," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the city lights passing by. "No hesitation. No cracks."
Her chest ached. "You forced me."
At that, Damian finally turned his head. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, sharp and unreadable. "Forced you? No, Elara. I gave you a stage. You chose your lines."
She wanted to scream, to rip his hand away, but the words tangled in her throat. Anger and shame warred inside her chest, leaving her trembling. "You made me lie."
Damian leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Lies told often enough become truth. And tonight, little dove, you didn't just convince them—you convinced yourself."
Her pulse hammered. "That's not true."
He chuckled low, dark. "Then why did your voice tremble like confession? Why did your body lean toward me when you swore you didn't want to?"
Elara pressed back against the cold leather seat, desperate for distance. "Because you trap me. Because you don't give me a choice."
Damian's fingers tightened suddenly on her thigh, the pressure enough to make her gasp. His voice dropped, softer than silk but sharper than steel. "There's always a choice. You could scream. You could run. You could betray me. Yet here you sit, trembling… but still mine."
Tears pricked at her eyes. She hated him. She hated the way his words burrowed deep, scraping at truths she didn't want to face.
"Why me?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Out of everyone you could've destroyed, why me?"
For the first time, Damian didn't answer immediately. His grip eased, and his gaze shifted—not softer, but distant, like shadows flickering behind his eyes.
"Because," he said at last, "you remind me of something I lost."
The words hung in the silence, heavier than the night. Elara stared at him, her breath caught. She wanted to ask what he meant, but his jaw had tightened, shutters slamming down over the glimpse of vulnerability.
The limousine slowed, pulling into the gated drive of his fortress. The iron gates groaned open like the mouth of some great beast swallowing them whole.
Damian leaned closer, his hand sliding up her thigh, slow and deliberate. His lips brushed her ear. "Tonight, you proved your loyalty. But don't mistake that for freedom. Every word you speak, every smile you fake—it belongs to me now. As do you."
Her heart pounded violently. She clenched her fists in her lap, nails digging crescents into her palms. She wanted to fight. She wanted to burn the entire cage around her.
But when Damian pressed a final kiss against her temple before stepping out, she didn't move. Her body betrayed her again, frozen between terror and longing.
Alone in the car for a moment, Elara exhaled a shaky breath. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window, her reflection staring back at her with haunted eyes.
The ballroom had been a stage. The limousine was a confession box. And the silence left her with one truth she could no longer deny:
She was beginning to lose herself in Damian's chains—and she didn't know if she wanted to be saved, or ruined.