The day stretched long, endless, and suffocating.
Elara spent it exploring the penthouse, or rather, pacing through its rooms like a restless animal. Everywhere she turned, she found wealth layered upon wealth—rare paintings, silk rugs, furniture that looked too pristine to touch. It was the kind of place people dreamed of living in, but to her, every polished surface gleamed like a bar on a cage.
The silence was unbearable. She kept waiting for a knock at the door, for someone—anyone—to come looking for her. But no one did. Her father hadn't called. The police hadn't stormed in. It was as if the world outside had swallowed her whole and forgotten.
By evening, she felt half-mad from the stillness. When the woman in black returned—Damian's housekeeper—Elara startled like she'd seen a ghost.
"Dinner will be served in twenty minutes," the woman said, her voice calm, her face unreadable. "You will come downstairs."
Elara wanted to argue, to scream, to tell her she would eat nothing, do nothing. But her stomach betrayed her with a sharp ache. Worse, some stubborn part of her wanted to face Damian again, to prove to herself that he didn't scare her as much as he thought he did.
So she went.
The dining room was different tonight. The table was longer, set with six places instead of two, the chandelier above casting fractured light over silver cutlery and crystal glasses.
And Damian wasn't alone.
Four men were already seated when she entered—men with sharp suits and sharper eyes. They glanced up as she appeared in the doorway, their gazes sweeping over her in open appraisal. Elara felt heat rise in her cheeks, anger mixing with humiliation.
Damian sat at the head of the table, a glass of red wine in his hand. He looked up at her with the calm of a man who had already orchestrated every piece of this evening.
"Come," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
Elara hesitated. Every instinct screamed not to obey, not to play the role he'd written for her. But the weight of four pairs of eyes burned into her. Reluctantly, she crossed the room, the click of her boots on the marble far too loud, and slid into the chair at Damian's right.
The men watched her like she was some curiosity brought for their amusement. Damian's gaze swept over them, and immediately, they all looked away.
"Gentlemen," Damian said smoothly, lifting his glass, "this is Elara Donovan. She will be… staying with us."
Elara's stomach twisted. He hadn't introduced her as a guest. Not a friend. Not even a woman. Just staying. As though she were a piece of furniture, an acquisition.
One of the men leaned forward, his accent thickly Russian. "Pretty thing. Where did you find her, boss?"
Damian didn't answer, but the faintest flicker crossed his expression—a warning.
Elara's spine stiffened. Something reckless surged in her chest. If Damian wanted to parade her like a prize, then she would make sure she didn't act like one.
"I'm not something he found," she said coldly. "I was stolen."
The Russian blinked, surprised. Another man chuckled under his breath, quickly silenced by Damian's icy glance.
The table went still.
Damian didn't look at her right away. He sipped his wine, setting the glass down with deliberate calm, before finally turning his head.
"Elara," he said softly, almost gently. "Do not mistake my patience for indulgence."
Her pulse hammered, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "Do not mistake my silence for obedience."
The tension at the table was suffocating. The other men exchanged looks, some amused, some wary, all clearly aware that they were witnessing something unusual.
Then, to her shock, Damian's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Dinner was served—plates of roasted lamb, vegetables arranged like art, wine poured into delicate glasses. Elara ate mechanically, her appetite dulled by the watchful silence. The men spoke occasionally about business—shipments, deals, names she didn't recognize—but every time her presence was mentioned, a subtle tension rippled through the room.
She realized it then: Damian had brought her here for a reason. Not for companionship. Not for kindness. But as a statement. A demonstration.
She wasn't just his captive. She was his possession, paraded before his men like a reminder of what power looked like.
Her chest burned with humiliation.
When the meal ended, the men stood, bowing their heads respectfully before Damian. Each gave her a lingering look before leaving, and she hated the way their eyes lingered as if she were some exotic pet in a glass cage.
As the last man left, silence fell. Only she and Damian remained.
She shoved her chair back, the scrape loud against the marble. "That's what this was? A show? A chance for you to prove you can steal a girl and keep her at your side like—like—"
"Like what?" Damian asked quietly, his gaze fixed on her.
"Like an ornament," she spat.
He rose, slow and deliberate, and crossed the space between them. She forced herself not to flinch as he stopped inches away.
"Ornaments are fragile," he said softly. "Pretty, but useless. You're not useless, Elara. You're a message."
Her breath caught. "A message?"
His gaze darkened, his voice dropping lower. "That no one touches what is mine."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Anger and fear warred inside her, each breath sharp and unsteady.
She forced a whisper past her dry throat. "I'm not yours."
Damian leaned down, his lips near her ear, his breath cool and steady. "Not yet."
And then he left her standing there, trembling, the chandelier's light shattering across the crystal glasses like broken stars.
That night, Elara couldn't sleep. She lay awake in the vast bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing echoes of his voice. Not yet.
The words curled around her like a promise. Or a threat.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure which one scared her more.