CHAPTER FOUR — FIRST NIGHT IN THE GILDED CAGE
Aria didn't remember how long she stood in that hallway after Elise disappeared. The corridors all looked the same—smooth, silent, suffocating in their perfection. Eventually, she forced herself to move, even if she didn't know where she was headed.
She didn't trust the cameras she couldn't see or the footsteps she couldn't hear. In a place built by a man like Damian Blackwood, nothing was accidental. Even the silence served him.
By the time she returned to the suite assigned to her, the sun had lowered behind the distant hills. The room glowed with soft amber lighting that did nothing to warm her.
She shut the door harder than necessary.
Her hands were shaking.
Not out of fear—out of rage she couldn't direct anywhere yet.
She crossed the room and went straight to the balcony. The glass doors slid open without resistance, and a breath of cool air slipped over her skin. The stone terrace overlooked the same expanse of trees and water she'd seen earlier from his study, but from here the horizon stretched farther. The world beyond the estate was still out there—untouched, uncontrolled, hers… in theory.
She gripped the balcony rail.
Somewhere below, she could hear the faint trickle of the reflecting pool, the whisper of leaves shifting against one another. There was a fence—there had to be—but it was hidden, masked by nature and money.
She wondered how many had looked out from here and thought of running.
A soft chime sounded inside the room.
She ignored it.
Another chime. Then a voice—calm, female, synthetic.
"Miss Dawson. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. Attendance is required."
Required.
She almost laughed.
She slid the balcony door shut and stalked back into the room. A tablet device had lit up on the desk near the window, its message displayed plainly.
ATTEND DINNER — SOUTH DINING HALL
DRESS CODE: FORMAL
Below the message was a note:
Wardrobe has been prepared in the closet.
She didn't touch the tablet. She didn't need to. The closet doors opened with a muted glide when she approached them.
Inside hung a line of gowns and dresses, all tailored to her size. Neutrals, black, deep hues, no bright color. High-end fabrics, structured silhouettes, elegant without softness. Clothes chosen for display, not comfort.
She stared at them with cold disbelief.
He'd measured her body without touching her. Bought a wardrobe for a wife she never agreed to be.
She picked one at random—a dark emerald dress with a slit that climbed her leg and a back left open to the waist. It was designed to impress without invitation.
She didn't bother admiring it. She put it on like armor.
In the mirror, her reflection looked like a stranger. Her makeup had smudged around the eyes, her hair tangled from stress, but the dress made her look deliberate—dangerous, even.
She wiped her face clean, reapplied the bare minimum, then twisted her hair into a low knot she secured with steady hands. She left her feet bare for now.
Ten minutes before the scheduled time, there was a soft knock.
She opened the door herself.
Carmella stood there again. Not surprised. Not curious. Simply present.
"You're ready," she observed.
Aria didn't dignify it with a response.
"Shoes," Carmella said, glancing down briefly.
Aria turned back inside, selected a pair of black heels from the closet, and slipped them on with silent precision.
Carmella led the way.
---
The South Dining Hall was nowhere near as warm as its name suggested.
The room was designed for twenty, but only one place was set at the long table. Crystal glasses, polished silverware, white linen. A single arrangement of dark calla lilies stood at the center.
He was already there.
Damian sat at the head of the table, jacket back on, tie in place, every line of his body relaxed in a way that warned more than invited.
He didn't stand when she entered.
He didn't look at her immediately.
He finished reading whatever file was open on the tablet before him, clicked it off, and only then gave her his attention.
"Sit."
She took the chair farthest from him—not beside, not across, but down the table. A deliberate insult.
He looked at the space between them but said nothing.
A staff member appeared at her elbow with a cart. She hadn't heard the door open. Her food was served on porcelain that probably cost more than her monthly rent used to. Roasted vegetables, seared fish, something delicate atop something expensive.
She didn't lift her fork.
He began eating without acknowledging the delay.
Five minutes passed in silence.
She didn't move.
Finally, without looking up, he spoke.
"You can glare at the food all you like. It won't surrender."
She leaned back slightly. "I'm not hungry."
"You are," he said calmly. "You just prefer to starve yourself out of spite."
"If spite were enough to kill me," she said, "you'd be planning a funeral."
He cut a piece of his food with surgical precision. "Death would be less troublesome than defiance. Funerals end. You, on the other hand, persist."
She said nothing.
His eyes flicked to her untouched plate. "Eat, Aria."
She didn't lift a finger.
His tone didn't change, but the air shifted when he spoke again. "I won't tolerate self-destruction on my time."
"You don't own my time."
"I own the contract that binds it."
She smiled. Slow. Icy. "You think everything you touch becomes yours."
"No," he said. "Everything I bind does."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You can cage my body. You'll never own my obedience."
He didn't blink. "Obedience bores me. Results do not."
She wanted to throw the plate at his head.
Instead, she picked up her fork and began eating with the elegance of someone raised to make the world believe she was in control.
They finished the meal in total silence.
When she set the fork down, he finally addressed her again.
"Tomorrow morning, you'll meet with legal counsel regarding your new identity documentation. The press statement will follow this week."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not changing my name."
"You already did," he replied. "You just haven't signed the remaining documents."
"You can forge whatever you want. My name will still be Aria Dawson."
He considered her a moment. "Your refusal changes nothing."
"My refusal is all I have."
"Not anymore."
She stood.
Damian didn't.
She pushed her chair back slowly, deliberately scraping the floor. "I'm done here."
"You're not."
Aria's jaw clenched. "Are you going to drag me back into the seat?"
He lifted his gaze to hers—cool, assessing, unshaken. "No. You're going to sit because you're not finished yet."
She let out a quiet, mocking breath. "What else do you want? Applause?"
He nodded once toward the seat. "Sit. We aren't finished discussing terms."
"I didn't agree to your terms."
"You did," he said, voice soft but lethal, "when you signed."
She didn't move.
He watched her calmly. "Defiance here is pointless, Aria. You'll learn where to spend your fire."
"I'll spend it burning you," she said.
He didn't laugh. He didn't flinch. He only reached for a glass of water, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I don't burn," he said. "I endure."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She leaned forward. "Everything breaks, Damian. Even gods fall."
"Then aim higher," he said, unshaken. "You'll need more than anger to kill me."
Her breath stilled in her chest.
She didn't reply.
She turned and left the dining hall without another word.
He didn't stop her.
---
Back in her room, she locked the door even though she knew it was symbolic.
She approached the balcony again and stepped outside. The night air chilled the heat in her blood but didn't soothe it.
She looked out over the estate—the winding paths, the tall trees, the water reflecting the moonlight. Somewhere far beyond all that, people moved freely.
Her phone was still gone. No one knew where she was. No one knew what she'd signed.
She pressed her palms against the stone rail and lowered her head.
Then a voice drifted from behind her.
"You shouldn't lean too far over. The drop isn't kind."
She spun.
A man—late twenties, tall, sharp-featured, dark hair—stood just inside her room, leaning against the wall with the posture of someone entirely too comfortable in someone else's space.
He wasn't a guard.
He wasn't staff.
He wasn't announced.
And he was definitely not surprised to find her there.
Aria straightened slowly. "Who the hell are you?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Family," he said. "Unfortunately for both of us."
She didn't move, didn't speak. She waited.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "Adrian Blackwood. Damian's younger brother."
Her pulse tightened.
He glanced around the room like inspecting a hotel suite. "Welcome to the house, sister-in-law."
Her expression sharpened into something cold. "Get out."
He laughed once. "You'll need thicker skin if you plan on surviving here."
"I said," she repeated, voice dropping, "get out."
He tilted his head. "I like you already."
She glared. "I don't like you."
"You don't have to," he said easily. "Just don't bore me."
He was halfway to the door when he paused.
"Oh—and a word of advice, since Damian won't give it. Don't try to run."
She didn't answer.
Adrian glanced back a
t her with a smile that held too much knowledge. "He doesn't chase. He replaces."
Then he left.
And for the first time since arriving, the silence felt like a warning.