In front of the flashing cameras, he was the doting, lovesick groom. But his hand on the small of her back was a brand, and his whispered words were a command. Elara Larsen stood frozen on the stage, the diamond-studded choker around her neck a cold reminder of her captivity. The press conference room in Vance Enterprises' headquarters buzzed with reporters, their cameras clicking like vultures circling a carcass. Damien Vance, her husband of less than a day, stood beside her, his tailored suit and easy smile a perfect mask for the predator beneath. To the world, he was a billionaire CEO announcing his fairytale marriage. To Elara, he was the architect of her prison.
The spotlight burned her skin, amplifying the weight of the black velvet dress he'd chosen for her—a gown that hugged her curves, elegant but possessive, leaving no doubt who she belonged to. His hand rested at the small of her back, his fingers pressing just hard enough to keep her anchored to him. "Smile, Elara," he murmured, his voice low, meant only for her. "The world is watching."
Her lips curved, a brittle imitation of joy, as her heart pounded with rage and humiliation. She wanted to scream, to rip the choker from her throat and expose the lie of their "whirlwind romance." But the memory of her father's desperate voice, the threat of her family's ruin, kept her silent. She was trapped, playing the role of the perfect wife while the man who owned her spun a tale that made the reporters swoon.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Damien began, his voice smooth and commanding, filling the room with effortless charisma. "I'm thrilled to introduce you to my wife, Elara Vance." The crowd murmured, cameras flashing as he turned to her, his dark eyes gleaming with something that mimicked adoration. "For years, I admired her from afar, my brilliant assistant who kept my world in order. But it was only recently that I realized I couldn't live without her."
The lie was flawless, delivered with a sincerity that made Elara's stomach churn. He wove a story of secret glances, stolen moments, a love that bloomed in the shadows of their professional lives. The reporters ate it up, scribbling notes, their faces alight with the romance of it all. Elara stood rigid, her smile a mask, her mind screaming at the injustice. She was no bride in love—she was a prisoner, blackmailed into submission, her body and future bartered to save her family's legacy.
Damien's hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer, and the crowd sighed as if choreographed. "She's my everything," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent a shiver down her spine, unwanted and betraying. "And I'm the luckiest man alive to call her mine."
Before she could brace herself, he turned to her, his hand cupping her face with a tenderness that felt like a violation. His lips claimed hers in a searing, possessive kiss, his tongue demanding entrance, his grip ensuring she couldn't pull away. The cameras erupted, capturing every moment of the lie. To the world, it was passion, devotion, a fairytale come to life. To Elara, it was a public claiming, a reminder that she was his to control, even in front of a hundred witnesses. Her hands pressed against his chest, instinct urging her to push him away, but his hold tightened, his kiss deepening until she was drowning in it.
When he finally released her, the applause was deafening, but Elara's ears rang with the sound of her own heartbeat. Her lips burned, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her composure. Damien's smile was triumphant, his hand returning to her back, guiding her off the stage as if she were a prized possession on display. The reporters shouted questions, but he waved them off with a charming laugh, promising more details later. The performance was over, but Elara's ordeal was just beginning.
They stepped into the private elevator, the doors closing with a soft thud that sealed her back into his world. The mask of the lovesick groom vanished instantly, his face hardening into the cold, calculating expression she knew too well. He didn't look at her, his attention on his phone, as if the kiss had meant nothing. Her hands clenched into fists, the choker around her neck feeling tighter, its tiny lock a constant reminder of her captivity.
"You performed adequately," he said finally, his voice devoid of warmth, a stark contrast to the honeyed words he'd fed the press. "But you'll need to do better next time. Hesitation isn't acceptable."
Her jaw tightened, fury bubbling beneath her fear. "I did what you asked," she snapped, her voice low but sharp. "I stood there, I smiled, I let you—"
"You let me?" His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, crowding her against the elevator wall. "You don't let me do anything, Elara. You belong to me. Every smile, every touch, every breath you take is mine to command."
Her breath hitched, her body trapped between the cold metal and his searing heat. She wanted to shove him, to scream, but the intensity in his eyes pinned her in place, stripping her bare. "I hate you," she whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them.
His lips curved, not a smile but a predator's satisfaction. "Hate me all you want," he murmured, his fingers brushing the choker, lingering on the diamonds that marked her as his. "It changes nothing. You're mine."
The elevator dinged, the doors opening to the underground garage where his black Rolls-Royce waited. He stepped back, releasing her, and she stumbled slightly, her legs unsteady. He didn't offer to help, merely gestured for her to follow, his stride confident and unhurried. She trailed him, her heels clicking against the concrete, her mind a storm of defiance and despair.
In the car, the silence was suffocating. Damien settled beside her, his thigh brushing hers, a deliberate invasion of her space. She stared out the tinted window, the city blurring past, a world she could no longer reach. Her fingers traced the choker, its weight a constant reminder of her new reality. She was his wife, his possession, bound by a contract that demanded her body and her future. The kiss on stage replayed in her mind, the memory of his lips, his hands, igniting a heat she despised herself for feeling.
Damien reached into his briefcase, pulling out a sleek tablet and handing it to her. "Your new schedule," he said, his voice cold, clinical. "Memorize it. Every appointment, every meal, every moment of your day is accounted for."
She took the tablet, her hands trembling as she scanned the screen. Doctor's visits, stylist consultations, media training—all designed to mold her into the perfect wife, the perfect vessel for his heir. Her eyes caught on an entry for tonight, marked in bold: 9:00 PM - Private Residence. Her stomach dropped, her breath catching as she read the note attached: Conception Attempt.
Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and fury.
He leaned back, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned with possession. "We begin attempts to conceive tonight," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing a business deal. "Your body is at its peak fertility. Be ready for me at 9 PM."
The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath. Her fingers tightened around the tablet, her nails digging into the case. The car felt smaller, the air thinner, as the reality of his words sank in. Tonight, he would claim her fully, his control extending to the most intimate parts of her being. Fear coiled in her gut, but beneath it, that traitor's heat flickered, a response she couldn't suppress.
She turned away, her eyes fixed on the window, but his presence filled the space, his command inescapable. The choker pressed against her throat, a mark of ownership she couldn't remove. She was his, body and soul, and tonight, he would make sure she never forgot it.