THE PENTHOUSE CAGE
Alina didn't remember falling asleep after the chaos of the morning—the bruise on her wrist throbbed, her eyes still swollen from crying—but she remembered the look on Damian Voss's face when he dragged her back inside.
Cold. Controlled. Annoyed… and something else she couldn't name.
Now she stood in the hallway with two maids behind her, her feet tucked into soft indoor slippers that didn't feel like they belonged to someone like her. She was still wearing the clothes from earlier, her sleeves pulled down to hide the marks on her arm.
"Miss, please," one of the maids urged gently. "Mr. Voss asked us to show you around the penthouse so you can move freely."
Move freely? She almost laughed.
There was nothing "free" here.
But she nodded because she was tired—tired of crying, tired of being scared, tired of feeling like she didn't understand anything happening around her.
The maids led her forward, and the elevator doors opened. Alina blinked. She had never been in a private elevator inside someone's home and wasn't sure she ever wanted to be.
"This goes directly to the rooftop helipad," the first maid explained.
Helipad.
Of course he had a helipad. She shouldn't even be surprised anymore.
The elevator chimed softly, and they stepped into the main living area. The doors opened into a space so large she had to pause. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the entire city, and the afternoon sun painted the room in soft gold.
She didn't gasp, but the maid saw the way her eyes widened.
"Mr. Voss had the place redecorated recently," the maid offered. "He doesn't bring guests. You're… the first."
Alina didn't know what to feel about that. It didn't make her special. It made her trapped.
The living room looked like something from a billionaire's magazine—sleek black couches, a wide marble coffee table, hidden speakers in the walls. But luxury didn't impress her. Not when she knew what it cost her.
Her freedom. Her dignity. Her entire life.
The second maid walked ahead toward the balcony. "You can come out here anytime. There are guards stationed below, so you don't need to be scared."
I'm not scared of what's outside, Alina thought. I'm scared of him.
But she didn't say it.
She stepped onto the balcony. The wind swept her hair back, the city lights starting to blink awake far below. Up here, the world looked unreal—beautiful, distant, unreachable.
Just like her freedom.
"Miss Alina?" the maid called softly behind her.
She turned.
"Mr. Voss asked us to prepare your room. Would you like to see it?"
Her room. As if she was staying voluntarily. As if this were a hotel.
But she nodded again.
They walked down a long hallway. The place was huge, but instead of feeling spacious, it felt like a maze she wouldn't escape. The maids pushed open a door, and Alina stepped inside.
Her steps faltered.
The room was… beautiful.
Cream-colored walls. A large king-sized bed with soft blankets. A vanity table. A walk-in closet that probably cost more than her family's house. Plush carpet. Soft lighting.
Everything looked warm.
Safe.
A lie.
"This is your space now," the maid said gently. "If you need anything—food, clothes, medicine—you can call any of us."
Alina's chest tightened. "Medicine?"
"For your fever," the maid replied. "Mr. Voss asked the doctor to be on standby tonight."
She blinked. "He… did?"
"Yes."
Alina looked away sharply. She didn't want to think about him worrying. He had hurt her earlier—dragged her so roughly she bruised. He didn't get to be caring after that.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
The maids bowed slightly and stepped out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Finally alone.
Alina sat on the edge of the bed. Her fingers trembled as she touched the bruise on her arm. It stung, but the physical pain wasn't what made her eyes blur again. It was everything else. The fear. The confusion. The helplessness. And the strange feeling that she didn't want to examine too closely… how he looked at her before he left.
She buried her face in her hands.
Why me?
Why did he buy me?
Why didn't he just leave me there?
Why did he bid so much—three million dollars?
Why…
A soft knock broke through her thoughts.
She stiffened.
The door didn't open immediately—that was how she knew it wasn't one of the maids.
"Alina." His voice slid through the door, deep and low.
She swallowed.
Of course. He always came when her emotions were the messiest.
She quickly wiped her face and sat up straighter.
"May I come in?"
He was asking? That was new.
"...yes," she murmured.
The door opened, and Damian Voss stepped inside.
He was still wearing the same suit from earlier—dark, crisp, immaculate. But his sleeves were rolled up now, showing the veins running along his forearms. His tie was gone, and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone.
He looked… tired.
And irritated.
But his eyes immediately dropped to her arm.
"Let me see it."
She instinctively pulled her sleeve down.
"It's fine."
"Alina." His tone dropped a note. Not angry—just firm. "Let me see."
Her heart pounded. She didn't want him close. She didn't want him touching the bruise he caused.
She shook her head. "I don't need your help."
"Too bad," he replied quietly.
He walked toward her.
She stood quickly and backed up. "Don't— don't come near me."
He stopped.
Not because she told him to.
Because he noticed the way she pressed her back to the wall, her breathing quickening, her fingers trembling.
He realized she wasn't resisting him.
She was scared.
Damian's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered—anger, frustration… guilt?
"Sit," he said, softer this time.
She hesitated.
He exhaled once. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just sit."
She slowly lowered herself onto the bed.
He approached slowly—not like earlier, not rough, not dragging her. He knelt in front of her without saying anything.
Her breath hitched.
Damian Voss—billionaire, feared man, ruthless in the auction hall—kneeling?
He gently took her wrist. She flinched, but he didn't grip her. His fingers barely touched her skin as he pushed her sleeve up.
His jaw locked when he saw the bruise.
A deep purple mark. Clear. Ugly.
On her.
Because of him.
He didn't speak for a moment.
Then, quietly: "I didn't mean to do this."
Alina blinked. "You dragged me."
"You were escaping."
"You terrified me."
He looked up, eyes sharp. "I terrified you more by not catching you."
She froze.
He continued, voice lower. "You would have fallen from that gate. You would've broken something."
She didn't know if that was true. She didn't know if he meant it.
All she knew was that he looked… conflicted.
Damian stood up and took something from the table behind him—a small medical kit.
"You could've let the maids handle it," she whispered.
"I caused it. I'll fix it."
He sat beside her this time, not too close. Carefully, he applied ointment on her bruise. His fingers were warm, steady, surprisingly gentle. Not the hands of a man who hurt.
But the hands of a man who didn't know how not to.
"You can't keep me here," she whispered shakily. "You can't."
"I can," he answered simply.
Her chest tightened painfully. "Why are you doing this to me?"
He paused.
His fingers stilled on her skin.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he finished bandaging her wrist and stood up slowly.
"You're safe here," he said. "Everything else… you'll understand soon."
She looked up. His expression was unreadable.
Then he turned to leave.
At the door, he paused again.
"Alina."
She didn't respond.
"You don't have to be scared," he said quietly. "Not of this place."
And softer:
"Not of me."
She stared at him, unsure what to believe.
He left without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
And Alina sat alone in the luxurious room, nursing a bruise and a truth she couldn't ignore:
The penthouse wasn't a sanctuary.
It was a cage built with silk.
And Damian Voss wasn't her savior.
He was the lock.