His penthouse wasn't a home; it was a showcase for a possession. And Elara Larsen was the newest acquisition. The elevator doors slid open, revealing a cavernous space of polished marble, sleek chrome, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a trophy. Every surface gleamed with cold perfection, a reflection of Damien Vance's unrelenting control. Elara's heels clicked against the floor, each step echoing like a countdown to her doom. Her heart pounded, her earlier signature on the Matrimonial and Procreation Agreement a fresh wound in her mind. She was his wife now, his prisoner, bound by ink and desperation.
Damien's hand rested at the small of her back, a possessive touch that guided her deeper into his domain. His scent—sandalwood and power—clung to her senses, a constant reminder of the man who owned her. She wanted to pull away, to run, but the weight of her family's survival kept her tethered to him. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, mocking her with their freedom. She was trapped in his world now, a world where every detail was curated to his exacting standards.
"This is your home," he said, his voice low and commanding, as if the word home could erase the reality of her captivity. He led her through the expansive living area, past a grand piano that looked untouched, past art pieces that screamed wealth but no warmth. Elara's eyes darted to the shadows, searching for an escape that didn't exist. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse, her only remaining tie to her old life.
He stopped at a set of double doors, pushing them open to reveal the master bedroom. The room was a study in opulence: a massive bed with black silk sheets, a crystal chandelier casting fractured light, and a wall of mirrors that made her feel exposed even standing still. Her stomach churned. There was no guest room, no separate space for her. The implication was clear—she would share his bed, his space, his every whim.
"Your things have been moved here," Damien said, gesturing to a sleek wardrobe in the corner. "Your old apartment is no longer yours."
Elara's breath caught. "What? You can't—"
"I can," he interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut. "You're my wife, Elara. Your life is mine to manage." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, new phone, its screen blank except for a single contact: Damien Vance. "Your personal phone has been disconnected. This is yours now."
She stared at the device, her chest tightening. Isolation hit her like a physical blow. Her friends, her family, her lifeline to the outside world—severed with a single command. She reached for the phone, her hand shaking, but he held it just out of reach, his eyes glinting with control.
"Say it," he said softly, dangerously. "Say you understand."
Her throat burned, anger and humiliation warring within her. "I understand," she whispered, the words ash in her mouth.
He placed the phone in her hand, his fingers brushing hers, deliberate and possessive. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise twisting in her gut like a knife. "Now, go shower. Then join me in bed."
Her heart stopped, her eyes snapping to his. "Tonight?" The word slipped out, raw with panic.
His lips curved, not a smile but a predator's promise. "Every night, Elara. You're mine. That starts now."
She wanted to argue, to scream, but his gaze pinned her in place, stripping away her defiance. She nodded, her movements mechanical, and turned toward the en-suite bathroom. The door closed behind her, and she leaned against it, her breath ragged. The bathroom was as cold and luxurious as the rest of the penthouse—marble counters, a glass shower large enough for a crowd, and a mirror that reflected her pale, haunted face. She stripped off her blouse and skirt, the clothes she'd worn as a free woman, and stepped into the shower. The hot water did nothing to warm the chill in her bones.
As the steam enveloped her, her mind raced. She was trapped, a pawn in Damien's game to secure his empire. His grandfather's will demanded an heir, and she was the vessel he'd chosen. The contract was explicit: marriage, a child, her complete submission. In public, she'd play the perfect wife, smiling for the cameras, clinging to his arm. In private, she was his to command, her body his to claim. The thought made her stomach lurch, but beneath the fear, a traitorous heat flickered—her body responding to the memory of his hands on her hips, his voice in her ear. She hated herself for it.
She lingered in the shower, delaying the inevitable, but the water eventually ran cold. She wrapped herself in a plush towel, her heart pounding as she reached for her modest pajamas—a cotton tank top and shorts, a small act of defiance against his opulent world. She stepped back into the bedroom, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, and froze.
Damien was already in bed, shirtless, the black silk sheets pooling around his waist. The chandelier's light cast shadows across his chiseled chest, his muscles taut and commanding even in repose. His dark eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, and his expression darkened with displeasure. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze cutting through her like a blade.
"You're not wearing that," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He pointed to a chair in the corner, where a scrap of silk negligee lay draped, its deep red fabric shimmering in the light. "I bought that for you. You will wear what I provide. Now, take those off."
Her breath hitched, her fingers clutching the hem of her tank top. Fear and defiance surged in her chest, but his eyes held her captive, his command absolute. The air crackled with tension, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical force. She was his wife, his possession, and he would not tolerate rebellion—not even in something as small as her choice of clothes.