Morning came too bright, too cruelly ordinary for a girl who had been stolen in the night.
Elara blinked awake to sunlight spilling across silk sheets, painting golden streaks over a room that was not hers. For a fleeting second, she could almost pretend it had been a dream—that she hadn't been dragged from her crumbling apartment into the arms of a monster draped in Armani. But then her gaze caught the glittering skyline through the vast windows, the expensive furniture arranged like an art exhibit, the closet door standing ajar with designer dresses in colors she never would have chosen.
And reality sank its claws in again.
She sat up slowly, the silk sliding over her bare arms. She still wore her old jeans and t-shirt from the night before, creased and wrinkled, out of place among the opulence. Her throat felt raw from screaming, her body heavy from hours of restless half-sleep where every sound made her jolt awake.
The door creaked open before she could gather her thoughts.
A woman entered—tall, elegant, dressed in black with her hair swept into a sleek bun. Not one of the guards. Not Damian. Her face was impassive, but her eyes held a sharpness that made Elara straighten instinctively.
"Breakfast is ready," the woman said. Her accent was faintly Italian, her tone brisk, businesslike.
"I'm not hungry," Elara muttered.
The woman's gaze flicked over her, assessing, then softened just slightly. "Eat anyway. You'll need strength." Without another word, she stepped aside, holding the door open.
For a long moment, Elara considered refusing. But her stomach betrayed her with a low growl. Besides, she needed to see more of this place, to map it, to look for weaknesses.
So she rose, ignoring the way her knees wobbled, and followed.
The penthouse revealed itself like a maze of wealth. Corridors lined with art worth more than her entire apartment building. Rooms she caught glimpses of through half-open doors—a private gym, an office with bookshelves of leather-bound volumes, a lounge with velvet sofas arranged before a massive fireplace. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, leather, and the sharp citrus of cleaning products.
Everywhere, she noticed cameras. Tiny, black, tucked into corners, their lenses gleaming like watchful eyes.
Her chest tightened.
The woman led her into the dining room, where a long glass table gleamed beneath a chandelier of crystal teardrops. At one end sat Damian Moretti, dressed in a charcoal suit despite the early hour, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong wrists and the glint of a watch worth more than her life. He was reading something on a tablet, expression unreadable.
He didn't look up when she entered.
The table was set for two. Plates of food lay waiting—eggs, fruit, fresh bread still steaming. Silver cutlery gleamed beside crystal glasses filled with orange juice.
Elara stopped at the doorway, crossing her arms. "You could've just chained me to the bed and slid food under the door. Would've saved time."
Damian's gaze lifted, finally meeting hers. Those gray eyes struck her like a blow. Calm. Measuring. As if he already knew her better than she knew herself.
"Sit," he said simply.
The woman who had fetched her lingered near the wall, silent, watchful.
Elara hesitated, then forced herself forward, chin high. She dropped into the chair opposite him with deliberate defiance, picking up a piece of bread but not eating it.
"Who was she?" she asked, nodding toward the woman.
"My housekeeper," Damian replied smoothly. "She sees, she hears, she does not speak. You'll find that discretion is valuable here."
"I'm not interested in living here," Elara snapped.
He ignored the jab, cutting into his eggs with elegant precision. "You'll eat. You'll dress. You'll behave as instructed. And in return, you'll find life far more comfortable than you deserve."
Her jaw clenched. "Comfortable? You kidnapped me."
"I collected what was owed," he corrected softly, his eyes glinting. "Your father made a bargain. You are the payment."
Her stomach twisted. "So I'm just—what? A trophy? A pet? Another shiny object in your collection?"
He set his fork down, leaning back in his chair. "If you were just a trophy, you wouldn't be sitting here speaking freely."
His calmness rattled her more than rage ever could have.
"You think I'm going to just… accept this?" she demanded.
"I think," Damian said, sipping his juice with maddening ease, "that you'll resist until you learn resistance is meaningless. Then you'll adapt. People always do."
Her nails dug into her palms. "You don't know me."
The faintest smile touched his lips. "You're wrong, Elara. I know exactly what you are."
Her name on his tongue sent a shiver through her.
She forced herself to eat, if only to hide her trembling. Each bite tasted like ash, her throat tight. She hated that the food was good, hated that her body craved it while her mind screamed rebellion.
When the meal ended, Damian rose. He was taller than she remembered from the night before, or maybe it was just the daylight making everything too real.
"Come," he said.
She didn't move. "Why?"
"Because I told you to."
Something in his tone left no room for refusal. Reluctantly, she followed as he led her into another room—a study lined with bookshelves. The windows were tinted, the light dimmer here, the air heavier.
Damian gestured to a chair. She remained standing.
He studied her for a long moment before speaking. "There are rules here," he said finally. "Break them, and you'll regret it. Follow them, and you'll find me… generous."
Her lips twisted. "Generous? You think keeping me like some… some doll in your penthouse is generous?"
He stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head back again. His presence stole the air from her lungs.
"Rule one," he murmured, his voice low, smooth, terrifying. "You don't leave this penthouse without me. Ever. Not even for a second."
Her pulse hammered.
"Rule two: You don't lie to me. I'll always know if you do."
She wanted to scoff, but something in his eyes silenced her.
"Rule three," he said softly, his gaze dipping to her mouth for the briefest moment, "you are mine. No one touches what is mine."
Her stomach knotted.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "You obey these, Elara, and you'll survive here. Maybe even thrive. Break them…" His lips curved, and she swore she felt the brush of a smile against her skin. "…and you'll learn what it means to cross the Devil."
Her breath came shallow, but she forced herself to whisper, "Then maybe I'll cross him."
He drew back slightly, studying her with that same unnerving interest as before. Not anger. Not amusement. Something darker.
"You're going to be… interesting," he murmured. Then he turned away, leaving her trembling in the silence.
That night, Elara stood on the balcony of her gilded cage, the city spread below like a sea of stars. The air was cool, the hum of traffic faint in the distance. For the first time since arriving, she was alone.
And yet, she could still feel his presence. Watching. Waiting.
She gripped the railing, her resolve hardening.
He thought she would break. He thought she would bend, submit, become his obedient little possession.
But Damian Moretti didn't know her. Not yet.
And she would make sure he regretted ever thinking she could be owned.