The elevator rose in silence, but Elara's heart didn't. It thundered, wild and erratic, as if it might break free of her ribcage and escape before the rest of her could. Two men flanked her inside the mirrored walls, their faces blank, their hands never straying far from the weapons tucked beneath their suits. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to catch her own reflection.
Behind her, Damian Moretti stood with the ease of someone who owned not just the elevator but the entire building it traveled through. His presence pressed against her spine like gravity—inescapable, suffocating.
The elevator chimed. Chrome doors slid open, revealing a hallway lined in black marble that gleamed beneath soft golden lights. Elara hesitated, but the grip on her arm tightened, steering her forward. She stumbled once, her boots squeaking faintly on the polished floor, and hated herself for it. Weakness was exactly what he wanted to see.
They stopped before double doors of dark oak, carved with intricate designs that looked more like battle scenes than art. Damian stepped ahead, entered a code, and the doors unlocked with a low click.
What awaited inside stole the breath from her lungs.
The penthouse wasn't a home—it was a kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, opening the night sky like a canvas of bruised clouds and glittering city lights. Expensive art lined the walls—some abstract, some disturbingly violent. Every surface gleamed: black stone counters, glass tables, leather sofas arranged with precision. It was the kind of wealth she'd only seen in magazines, the kind that didn't just display money but power.
And yet, beneath the beauty, it felt cold. No warmth, no clutter, no trace of humanity. A museum, not a home. A cage of glass and gold.
Her throat tightened.
"Take her upstairs," Damian ordered, his voice low and final.
The men nodded, guiding her toward a staircase that curved upward like a serpent's spine. She dug her heels in. "No."
Both men paused, glancing back at Damian. He raised a brow, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is," she demanded, forcing her voice to steady even as her pulse shook her. "What do you want from me?"
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then Damian dismissed the men with a flick of his hand. They obeyed instantly, melting into shadows. Suddenly it was just the two of them, the room vast and echoing with her quick breaths.
Damian stepped closer, each movement precise. The soft light caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the sheen of his black hair, the storm still brooding in his gray eyes. He stopped a mere breath away, so close she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
"What I want," he murmured, "is obedience."
Her stomach turned. "I'm not a dog."
"No," he said, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "Dogs are loyal. Predictable. You…" His gaze swept over her face, her trembling hands clenched at her sides. "…you'll be more interesting."
Her skin crawled. "So that's it? I'm just… entertainment for you?"
His lips curved faintly, though it wasn't a smile. "Call it what you like."
The fury that burned in her chest pushed against the fear. She lifted her chin, glaring into those storm-gray eyes. "You can chain me here, you can lock me in your glass palace, but I will never be yours. Do you understand? Never."
For the first time, something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not amusement. Something else—interest, maybe. Like a predator pausing at the sight of unexpected prey that fought back.
"We'll see," he said softly, and then turned his back on her.
The dismissal stung worse than any threat. He walked to a bar at the far side of the room, pouring himself a drink as casually as if she weren't standing there, as if her life hadn't just been ripped apart.
Elara stood frozen, every nerve alive with rage. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to shatter the perfect glass that surrounded her. Instead, she swallowed the fury, forcing herself to breathe. If she exploded now, she would lose. And she couldn't afford to lose—not yet.
"I want a phone call," she said suddenly. Her voice echoed in the wide space.
Damian didn't look up. "To whom?"
"My father," she bit out, though the word tasted like ash.
That made him pause. He lifted his glass, swirling the amber liquid, then finally glanced over his shoulder. "Your father has made his choice. So have you, by extension."
Her nails dug into her palms. "I didn't choose this."
"Life rarely asks permission."
The casual cruelty in his tone stole the breath from her. He turned back to his drink, and something inside her snapped.
She moved before thinking, grabbing the nearest object—a crystal vase—and hurling it at the floor. It shattered with a violent crash, shards scattering across the pristine marble. The sound rang through the room like a scream.
Damian turned slowly. He didn't shout, didn't curse. He only studied her with that same unnerving calm, as if measuring the depth of her defiance. Then he set his drink down with care and crossed the room until he stood in front of her again.
Elara braced herself.
Instead of striking, he reached out. His gloved hand caught her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes locked. His grip wasn't painful, but it left no room for escape.
"Break everything in this room if you wish," he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek. "It won't change what you are now."
Her voice shook, but she forced the words out. "And what's that?"
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, deceptively gentle. "Mine."
Her heart thudded violently, equal parts rage and fear. She wanted to spit in his face, to tear free and run, but her body betrayed her—frozen, caught in the intensity of his stare.
Then, just as suddenly, he released her.
"You'll sleep upstairs," he said, turning away. "First room on the right. You'll find clothes, food, anything you need. You'll not leave this penthouse without my permission. Tomorrow, we'll discuss… expectations."
The final word curled like smoke in the air.
He walked back to the bar, as if the conversation was over. For him, it probably was. For her, it was just beginning.
Elara stood trembling, the shards of glass at her feet catching the light like tiny daggers. Slowly, she backed toward the staircase. Her legs shook with every step, but she refused to let him see her run.
At the top of the stairs, she found the room he'd promised. It was lavish—king-sized bed draped in silk, a balcony overlooking the glittering city, a walk-in closet filled with clothes in her size. Too perfect. Too planned.
She shut the door behind her and slid to the floor, burying her face in her hands.
The sob broke free then, raw and painful.
Her father had sold her. Damian Moretti owned her.
And tomorrow, she would have to find out what that truly meant.