Elara woke with a single thought burning through her: I need to get out.
Sleep had been fitful, haunted by Damian's words—Not yet. They echoed in her chest like a drumbeat, rattling her nerves until she sat up in the wide bed, her skin damp with sweat. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room with gold, mocking her. She felt no freer than she had the night before.
Her gaze slid to the door.
It wasn't locked. She had checked that much already, creeping across the room in the dead of night, testing the knob. No bolt. No obvious chains. But the moment she stepped past the threshold, she had felt eyes on her, like invisible threads tugging at her every move. Cameras. Guards. She wasn't stupid—Damian would never leave her without a leash, even if it wasn't made of iron.
Still… if she never tested the walls of her prison, how would she know where the cracks were?
Her jaw tightened. Today, I'll find them.
The penthouse was strangely silent when she ventured out. No footsteps, no voices, only the hum of air conditioning and the distant thrum of the city beyond glass. Her bare feet padded softly across marble tiles as she walked, her pulse quickening with every step.
She found herself in the living room again, vast and cold, its sleek furniture arranged too neatly to look lived-in. She turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning. Where were the exits?
Her gaze caught on a set of double doors at the far end. She crossed the room quickly, heart hammering, and gripped the handle. Locked.
Her teeth clenched. She tried another—locked. She moved through the penthouse like a thief, testing, pushing, yanking on polished chrome handles until her palms ached. Every door that might have led out was secured.
At last, she came to the elevator. Her pulse spiked. This had to be it—the way down. She jabbed the call button, holding her breath as the light blinked.
But nothing happened.
She pressed it again. And again. The light glowed red, unyielding. She hit it harder, her chest tightening, panic rising with every failed attempt. Finally she slammed her palm against the cool metal, her breath ragged.
"Going somewhere?"
Her heart lurched.
She spun around—and froze.
Damian leaned casually against the wall a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same unreadable calm. His charcoal suit was immaculate, his tie loosened just slightly, as though he'd just returned from some meeting she couldn't imagine.
"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded, her voice sharp with fear and fury.
"Long enough," he said evenly.
Her fists clenched. "So what is this? Am I supposed to wander around like some mouse in your maze while you sit back and laugh?"
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "You're not a mouse, Elara. Don't insult yourself. Mice are easy. Predictable." His eyes glinted. "You're more interesting than that."
Heat flared in her cheeks. "You can't keep me here. Someone will notice I'm gone. The police—"
He cut her off with a soft laugh, the sound chilling. "The police?" He tilted his head, studying her like a teacher correcting a foolish child. "Do you think they don't know who I am? Do you think they haven't looked the other way a thousand times before?"
Her throat tightened.
"Face it," he said softly, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. "Out there, you're invisible. In here…" His eyes swept over her, deliberate, unnerving. "…you matter. Because you're mine."
Her skin prickled, anger boiling under her fear. "I'm not yours."
"Yet," he murmured again, and the word sank into her like poison.
She fled from him then, retreating to the safety of her room, slamming the door behind her. Her chest heaved, fury and despair battling for dominance. She paced the room like a caged animal, her mind spinning.
But then her gaze landed on the balcony.
The glass door stood unlocked, sheer curtains stirring with the breeze. Beyond it stretched the city, glittering under the late afternoon sun.
Her heart pounded. Maybe…
She shoved the door open and stepped out. The wind tangled her hair, cool and sharp, and for the first time since she'd been dragged here, she felt something like freedom.
The balcony wrapped around the penthouse, sleek railings of glass and steel holding her back. She gripped the edge, peering over.
Her stomach dropped. The ground was impossibly far away, the street below no more than a gray ribbon lined with toy cars. If she jumped, she wouldn't survive. But her eyes caught on the neighboring building—close, but not close enough. A gap of maybe six feet yawned between the two rooftops.
Her palms dampened. Could she do it? Could she climb, leap, run before anyone noticed?
A voice broke the silence behind her.
"Don't."
She whirled. Damian stood in the doorway, framed by the curtains, his expression unreadable.
Her pulse roared in her ears. "Stay away."
He stepped forward, slow and steady. "If you fall, Elara, it won't be freedom waiting for you at the bottom. Only pavement."
Her breath came fast, her fingers tightening on the railing. "I'd rather risk pavement than you."
For the first time, something flickered in his gaze—something sharp, dangerous, almost wounded. It vanished as quickly as it came.
He closed the distance between them until he was just a breath away. His hand came up—not to grab, but to brush lightly against the railing beside hers. His voice was low, a murmur meant for her alone.
"You think you want freedom," he said. "But what you really want… is control. And out there, you'll never have it. Not with your father's debts. Not with the wolves who'd swallow you whole. Here…" His eyes darkened, pulling her in against her will. "…here, at least, you have me."
Her throat tightened, fury choking her words. She yanked her hand from the railing, shoving past him, retreating back into the room.
But even as she slammed the balcony door, she knew the truth: he was right about one thing. Out there, the world was full of wolves.
And in here, she was locked in with the Devil himself.
That night, Damian didn't appear at dinner. She sat alone at the vast table, food untouched, her thoughts spinning. Every failed door, every camera lens, every calculated move of his pressed against her like invisible chains.
But the fire inside her hadn't died. If anything, it burned hotter.
She wouldn't stop testing the walls of her cage. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking.
Because even devils could bleed.
And one day, she swore, she'd make Damian Moretti bleed for her freedom.