Chapter 7: The Sweetest Jail
The next morning, the mansion was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Vierrah woke up to the smell of roses and expensive perfume, the kind that clung to silk sheets and whispered of luxury.
When she sat up, she saw them—bouquets of white lilies and crimson roses filling the room, boxes wrapped in gold ribbons stacked by the door, and a soft note left on her bedside table.
> "For my beautiful wife. I'm sorry."
— L
Her heart sank even before she read the words twice.
This was how Lucas apologized. Not with time or reflection—he apologized through things.
Through flowers that would soon wilt. Through gifts meant to make her forget.
She closed her eyes and breathed in, the scent both beautiful and suffocating.
When she went downstairs, the mansion buzzed with activity. Chefs, servers, and decorators moved swiftly around the grand dining hall. Candles lined the table, champagne chilled in silver buckets, and a crystal chandelier glimmered above the setting like a scene out of a dream.
Or a bribe.
Lucas was at the far end of the table, wearing that familiar, dangerous calm. He smiled the moment he saw her. "There's my queen," he said softly, his voice dripping with warmth that didn't quite hide the guilt underneath.
"Lucas…"
He raised a hand. "Please. Just have dinner with me tonight. No fights. No tears. Just us."
Vierrah hesitated, but her body moved before her mind could catch up. She sat across from him, her pulse unsteady.
He poured her wine, his movements precise, controlled. "You didn't eat much yesterday," he murmured. "I made sure they cooked your favorites—steak, truffle pasta, crème brûlée."
She stared at him. His tone was gentle. Almost loving. As if last night's violence hadn't existed.
"You didn't have to do this," she said quietly.
"I wanted to," he corrected, eyes soft but sharp. "You deserve to be treated like the most precious woman alive."
She swallowed, unsure what to say.
As they ate, he reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb traced lazy circles on her skin. "I can't stop thinking about how scared you looked," he said, voice low and filled with regret. "I hate myself for it."
Her heart twisted.
He leaned forward slightly. "You know I'd never hurt you on purpose, right?"
She didn't answer.
His hand tightened slightly—gentle, but firm enough to remind her of what he was capable of. "Say you know that," he whispered.
Her throat constricted. "I… I know."
A smile flickered across his face, relief washing over his features. "Good."
After dinner, he led her to the balcony overlooking the city. The night lights glimmered below them, soft wind brushing against her bare shoulders.
He wrapped his coat around her, standing close—too close. "I bought something for you," he murmured, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.
When he opened it, a car key rested inside. Sleek, silver, with her initials engraved on it.
"A new car," he said, smiling. "For you. You can go anywhere you want."
Her eyes widened. "Anywhere?"
He tilted his head slightly, lips curving into that unreadable smile. "As long as my men are with you."
The illusion of freedom. The prettiest cage.
"Thank you," she whispered, though the words tasted bitter.
He turned her toward him, brushing her hair from her face. "I'm trying, Vierrah. I really am."
She met his eyes—and for a fleeting second, she believed him. Because in that moment, he looked human again. Fragile. Broken. The man who had knelt before her, crying, still lingered behind his perfect façade.
When he leaned in to kiss her, she didn't resist. His lips were soft, warm, apologetic.
But underneath that tenderness was power—the kind that told her she'd never truly say no to him.
Her heart pounded wildly as he deepened the kiss, his hands sliding to her waist. For a second, she felt that old spark—the one that once made her think maybe, just maybe, she could love him.
And then, shame hit her like cold water.
What was she doing?
This man had hurt someone in front of her. He had terrified her. And now here she was—kissing him back like a fool.
When he finally pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, she couldn't stop the tears that welled in her eyes.
"What's wrong?" he whispered.
She shook her head. "Nothing."
But everything was wrong.
Lucas smiled faintly, pressing another soft kiss to her temple. "I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you," he said. "Just give me that chance."
Later that night, he carried her to bed, his touch slow and gentle—so unlike the rage she'd seen before. His voice was velvet against her skin, murmuring promises that felt like both a lullaby and a warning.
"I'll protect you," he whispered. "Always. No one will ever hurt you again."
She wanted to believe those words. But as his arms tightened around her in the dark, she realized the truth:
he wasn't protecting her from the world.
He was protecting the world from her.
Her freedom, her laughter, her choices—they all belonged to him now.
And the scariest part wasn't his control. It was the warmth that bloomed inside her chest when he called her his.
Because despite everything—despite the fear—her heart still raced for him.
She hated herself for it.
Every gentle word, every kiss, every lavish gesture pulled her deeper into him, erasing the lines between love and fear.
She was no longer sure which one she was feeling anymore.
Love that hurt?
Or fear that pretended to be love?
When Lucas whispered "I love you" against her neck that night, she didn't answer.
She just closed her eyes, trying not to drown in the sweetness that felt like poison.
The mansion was silent except for the faint hum of the cameras, the soft rhythm of his breathing beside her, and her own heartbeat whispering the truth she refused to face.
This wasn't freedom.
It was the sweetest jail.
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