The next morning, Elara woke to find her old clothes gone.
Her jeans, her t-shirt, the jacket she'd left draped over the chair—all of it had vanished as though the room had swallowed them. She sat up sharply, the sheets tangling around her legs, her pulse pounding. Panic flared until her gaze caught on the wardrobe across the room.
The doors were open now, revealing neat rows of dresses, blouses, skirts, and shoes that gleamed under the light. Silks, satins, cashmere—luxury in every thread. Colors she would never have chosen for herself—deep reds, midnight blacks, emerald greens. Dresses that clung to curves, skirts that stopped scandalously high, heels sharp enough to stab.
On the bed lay a single outfit: a black dress with a fitted bodice and delicate straps, paired with a thin gold necklace.
Her stomach knotted.
This wasn't an accident. It was a message.
She swung her legs off the bed, bare feet pressing into the plush carpet, and stormed toward the door. She yanked it open—only to find the housekeeper standing just outside, her posture rigid, her face as unreadable as always.
"Good morning," the woman said, her voice calm, practiced. "Mr. Moretti requests that you dress for breakfast."
Elara's jaw clenched. "What did you do with my clothes?"
"They were unsuitable," the woman replied.
Her fists tightened. "They were mine."
The woman's eyes flickered, the faintest hesitation, before her mask slipped back into place. "You should get ready. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Elara wanted to scream. To slam the door in the woman's face and barricade herself inside. But something in that last sentence made her hesitate.
He doesn't like to be kept waiting.
It wasn't advice. It was a warning.
With her chest tight, Elara slammed the door shut and turned back to the bed. The dress waited there like a trap.
Breakfast was set in the sunlit dining room again. Damian sat at the head of the table, reading from a leather-bound book this time instead of a tablet. His suit was lighter today—gray with a crisp white shirt, the collar undone just enough to reveal a hint of skin at his throat.
When she entered, his eyes lifted immediately. They swept over her with a slowness that made her skin burn.
The dress fit, of course. Too well. The fabric clung to her waist, the neckline dipping lower than anything she'd ever worn. She felt exposed, paraded, humiliated.
"You look," he said softly, closing the book, "as though you belong."
Her teeth sank into her tongue. "I don't."
His smile was slight, almost indulgent. "Not yet."
Her stomach twisted at the repetition.
She dropped into her chair, refusing to meet his eyes, and attacked the toast on her plate with unnecessary force. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain.
Finally, she couldn't hold it in. "You had no right to take my clothes."
Damian looked up, his expression unreadable. "You don't need them anymore."
Her head snapped up. "They were mine. You can't just erase who I am because it doesn't fit your—your aesthetic."
Something flickered in his gaze then—amusement, sharp and cutting. "Aesthetic," he repeated, as though savoring the word. "You think this is about fashion?"
Her throat tightened. "Isn't it?"
"No." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze pinning her where she sat. "It's about reminding you who you are now. Clothes are not just fabric, Elara. They are symbols. Armor. Chains. Yours were weak, worn, forgettable. Mine…" His eyes swept over her again, deliberate, scorching. "…make you unforgettable."
Her chest heaved. "I don't want to be unforgettable to you."
His smile didn't waver. "You don't have a choice."
The words hit like a slap. She gripped her fork so hard her knuckles whitened, imagining for a fleeting second what it would feel like to drive it straight into his hand.
He noticed, of course. He always noticed. His gaze flicked to her hand, then back to her eyes, a warning gleaming in his calm.
"Don't," he said softly, almost kindly.
Her fork clattered against the plate as she dropped it.
The rest of the day passed under invisible chains. Every time she moved, she felt watched. The housekeeper shadowed her at a distance, silent but constant, as though reporting her every step. When she lingered too long near a locked door, she found a guard in the hallway, expression blank, presence undeniable.
It was suffocating.
By evening, she was exhausted from the constant pressure, her defiance bruised but not broken. She had taken to sitting on the floor of her room, her back against the wall, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, just to feel grounded.
That was when the knock came.
Three sharp raps. Then silence.
She swallowed hard. "What?"
The door opened without waiting for permission. Damian stepped inside, his presence filling the room. He didn't carry a book or a phone tonight—only a small velvet box in his hand.
Her pulse spiked.
He crossed the room with unhurried steps and set the box on the nightstand. "For you," he said simply.
Her voice was dry. "What is it? Another chain?"
His lips curved faintly. "Open it."
Her fingers itched to throw it across the room. But curiosity—it betrayed her, always—made her reach out. She flipped the lid open.
Inside lay a delicate gold bracelet, thin as silk, gleaming in the lamplight.
She looked up at him sharply. "You think I'm going to wear this?"
His gaze was steady. "You already are."
Her chest tightened. "Excuse me?"
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper against the tension. "Whether you place it on your wrist or not, Elara, you're already wearing my mark. The difference is whether you acknowledge it."
Her breath caught, anger and fear tangling in her throat. "I'll never acknowledge it."
For the first time, his expression hardened, the softness peeling away. "Careful," he said quietly. "Defiance is intoxicating… but too much of it can become dangerous."
She held his gaze, refusing to drop her eyes, even as her body trembled.
Finally, he straightened, his mask of calm sliding back into place. "Dinner will be ready soon," he said, as though nothing had passed between them. "Don't keep me waiting."
And then he was gone, leaving the bracelet glinting like a shackle of gold beside her bed.
That night, Elara didn't touch it. But she couldn't stop staring.
The truth was clear now.
Damian didn't need bars or chains. His prison was made of silk, gold, and velvet.
And somehow, that made it so much harder to fight.