The collar around her neck felt tighter every day. She had to try, or she would shatter.
Elara Vance—once Larsen—stood barefoot in Damien's private study, the marble floor cold against her soles. It was 3:17 a.m., the penthouse silent except for the low hum of the city thirty floors below. She'd waited until his breathing had evened out in the master bedroom, until the weight of his arm across her waist had lifted and he'd rolled away, satisfied with her stillness. Then she'd slipped from the bed, the silk negligee whispering against her thighs like a warning.
She'd memorized the layout of the penthouse in the three days since the press conference, mapping every camera, every motion sensor, every creak in the floor. The study was the only room without a visible lens. The landline sat on the mahogany desk like a relic, its cord coiled neatly, untouched since Damien had cut her off from the world. She'd watched him use it once, dialing a single number with the same decisive precision he used to sign her life away. The phone was her last thread to the outside.
Her fingers shook as she lifted the receiver. The dial tone was a lifeline. She punched in her mother's number from memory—her childhood home, the one Damien had saved with his "miraculous" investment. The ringtone sounded too loud in the hush, each trill a risk. One ring. Two. Then—
"Ellie?" Her mother's voice, thick with sleep and joy, cracked through the line. "Oh, baby, is that you?"
Elara's throat closed. She pressed the receiver harder to her ear, as if she could crawl through the wire and back into the life she'd lost. "Mom," she whispered, tears burning. "It's me."
"Sweetheart, we've been worried sick! Your father said the phones were down, but then—oh, Ellie, the money came through. The bank called it off, the house is safe, the company… it's a miracle. Your husband—he's an angel, Ellie. An absolute angel."
Each word was a dagger. Angel. The man who'd pinned her to the bed two nights ago, who'd left her staring at the ceiling while he walked away without a backward glance. The man whose child she might already be carrying. Elara's knees buckled. She gripped the desk, the choker's diamonds biting into her skin.
"Mom, I—" The truth clawed at her tongue. He blackmailed me. He owns me. I'm a prisoner. But the words wouldn't come. If she told her mother, the fragile peace would shatter. Damien would retaliate. He'd take everything back—the company, the house, her family's last shred of dignity. She swallowed the confession, tasting blood where she'd bitten her lip.
"I just wanted to hear your voice," she managed, her voice cracking. "I miss you."
"We miss you too, darling. Damien said you're adjusting to married life—such a whirlwind! He's taking such good care of you. The photos from the press conference… you looked radiant."
Radiant. Elara closed her eyes, the memory of Damien's mouth on hers for the cameras flashing like a brand. Her mother kept talking—about the new investors, the relief, the future—her voice buoyant with hope Elara had sold her soul to provide. Every syllable was a chain tightening around her heart.
She didn't hear the door open.
A shadow fell across the desk, long and lethal. The air shifted, charged with the scent of sandalwood and danger. Elara's breath froze. She turned slowly, the receiver still clutched in her white-knuckled hand.
Damien stood in the doorway, barefoot, wearing only black trousers, the city lights carving sharp angles across his bare chest. In his hand dangled the tiny silver key to her collar, glinting like a threat. His face was a mask of cold fury, his dark eyes promising retribution.
"I told you the rules," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, each word precise as a scalpel. "Did you really think you could disobey me in my own home?"
The line went dead in her hand—her mother's voice cut off mid-sentence as Damien pressed a button on the base unit, ending the call with surgical calm. The silence that followed was deafening.
Elara's heart thundered, her body rooted to the spot. The choker felt like a noose now, the key in his fingers her only salvation—and her doom. She'd rebelled. She'd reached for freedom. And he'd caught her.