Elara's POV
Dinner with Dante is the longest hour of my life.
We sit at opposite ends of a table built for twenty people. The distance between us feels intentional. Like he can't stand being too close to me.
A woman in a chef's uniform brings out course after course. Fancy food I can't taste. Everything turns to sand in my mouth.
Dante eats in silence, occasionally glancing at his phone. Not once does he look at me.
"Is the food not to your liking?" he asks without looking up.
"It's fine."
"You haven't eaten anything."
"I'm not hungry."
He finally looks at me. "You need to eat. We have our first public appearance tomorrow night—a charity gala. I won't have you fainting in front of cameras because you're starving yourself."
"I'm not starving myself. I'm just—" I stop. What am I supposed to say? That I'm too terrified to eat? Too angry? Too trapped?
"Just what?"
"Nothing." I force myself to take a bite. It tastes like nothing.
Dante watches me for a moment longer, then returns to his phone. "Good. The dress for tomorrow will be delivered in the morning. My assistant chose it. You'll wear what she selected."
"Don't I get a say in—"
"No." He cuts me off without hesitation. "Part of our agreement is that you maintain certain standards. That includes appearance. You'll wear what I approve, when I approve it."
I grip my fork so hard my knuckles turn white. "Anything else, master?"
His eyes flash with something dangerous. "I warned you about your tone."
"And I warned you that I'm not your pet."
"No. You're my wife. Which means you represent me. Everything you do reflects on me." He stands abruptly. "I have work to do. Clean up when you're finished."
"Don't you have staff for that?"
"Not at night. At night, it's just us." He walks toward his office, then pauses. "And Elara? Don't wander. I have cameras everywhere. I'll know if you go somewhere you shouldn't."
The threat is clear. He's watching. Always watching.
After he disappears, I sit alone at the giant table, surrounded by half-eaten fancy food and crushing silence.
This is my life now.
I retreat to my room as soon as possible, locking the door behind me even though I know it won't keep Dante out if he decides to come in. He probably has keys to everything.
The room feels smaller now. Like the walls are closing in.
I open the closet, hoping to find my own clothes. Instead, I find designer dresses. Expensive shoes. Everything organized by color and style. Nothing I would have chosen for myself.
There's a note pinned to one of the dresses: For tomorrow's gala. Wear the diamond earrings in the jewelry box. —AM
AM. Dante's assistant. A woman I've never met who's selecting my clothes like I'm a doll.
I rip the note down and throw it in the trash.
In the very back of the closet, I finally find my own things. My comfortable jeans. My old sweaters. My sneakers with the hole in the toe. Everything I actually own, shoved into the corner like garbage.
I change into my oldest t-shirt and pajama pants. Small rebellions, but they're all I have.
My phone sits on the nightstand, taunting me. Dante said he's monitoring it. Every call, every text, every website.
I pick it up anyway and pull up my messages with Victoria.
Me: I'm here. Moved in.
Her response comes immediately: Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?
I want to say yes. Want to tell her to rescue me. But Dante's watching. Reading every word.
Me: I'm fine. Just adjusting.
Victoria: Liar. Call me when you can. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I set the phone down, fighting back tears. I can't even talk to my best friend without Dante knowing every word.
The apartment is quiet except for a faint sound down the hall. I crack open my door and listen.
Typing. Fast, aggressive typing coming from Dante's office.
I check the time. 10:47 PM.
I close my door and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The sheets are expensive—probably thousand-dollar Egyptian cotton or something ridiculous. But they feel cold. Empty.
I try to sleep. I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else.
But my mind won't stop racing.
The third floor. Inside his bedroom. Inside his closet.
Tomorrow night, I have to find a way to get in there. But how? Dante will notice if I sneak into his room. The cameras will catch me.
Unless I wait until he's asleep.
Unless I'm quiet enough.
Unless I'm brave enough.
The typing continues down the hall. Steady. Relentless. Like Dante himself.
I check the time again. Midnight.
Still typing.
At 1:00 AM, I'm still awake. So is Dante. I can hear him on a phone call now, his voice low and sharp.
"I don't care what Julian Voss thinks he's doing. Shut it down. Now."
Julian Voss. The name from the mysterious email. The man who supposedly framed both our fathers.
I press my ear against the door, trying to hear more.
"He's making moves on the tech division. I want to know every investor he's contacted, every board member he's talked to. Everything." A pause. "No, Marcus. I don't trust anyone. Not after what happened to my father."
My heart pounds. He's talking about his father. About the suicide that might not have been a suicide.
"Richard Sinclair was just the executioner," Dante continues, his voice bitter. "But someone gave the orders. Someone higher up. And I'm going to find out who."
My blood turns to ice.
He doesn't think my father acted alone.
He thinks someone else was involved.
Which means the mysterious emailer might be telling the truth.
"I'll deal with it tomorrow," Dante says. "Right now, I have other problems. Like making sure my new wife doesn't do anything stupid."
He's talking about me.
I back away from the door, my heart racing.
"She's smart," Dante continues. "Too smart. I can see it in her eyes—she's already planning something. I need you to increase surveillance. I want to know everywhere she goes, everything she does."
Footsteps. Coming down the hall.
I dive into bed and close my eyes, pretending to be asleep.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
I hold my breath, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it through the door.
Silence.
Then, quietly: "I know you're awake, Elara."
I freeze. Don't move. Don't breathe.
"You're not as good at pretending as you think you are." His voice is soft, almost gentle. It's somehow more terrifying than when he's cold. "But that's alright. We have two years for you to learn."
The footsteps move away. Back down the hall. Back to his office.
I finally breathe, gasping like I've been underwater.
He knew I was listening.
He knew I was faking sleep.
He knows everything.
At 2:00 AM, the typing finally stops.
At 2:30 AM, I hear Dante's office door close and his footsteps pass my room again. This time, they don't stop. They continue to what must be his bedroom.
A door opens. Closes.
Silence.
I lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, and let myself finally cry. Quietly. Carefully. So he won't hear.
I cry for my father in his jail cell.
I cry for my mother in her hospital bed.
I cry for my old life that's gone forever.
I cry for the girl I used to be—the one who thought her biggest problem was choosing which charity gala to attend.
That girl is dead.
And in her place is someone who has to break into her husband's forbidden room to find the truth.
Someone who has to lie to a man who can see through every lie.
Someone who has to be strong when all she wants to do is run.
I cry until there are no tears left. Until I'm empty.
Then I hear it.
Dante's door opening again.
Footsteps in the hall.
Getting closer.
Stopping right outside my door.
I hold my breath, waiting. Is he coming in? Does he know I was crying? Can he hear everything through these walls?
The footsteps don't move.
He just stands there. On the other side of my door. In the middle of the night.
Waiting.
Listening.
I lie completely still, barely breathing.
After what feels like forever, I hear him speak. So quietly I almost miss it.
"I'm sorry."
Two words. Whispered like a confession.
Then his footsteps retreat. Back down the hall. Back to his room.
His door closes with a soft click.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing.
I'm sorry.
What did he mean? Sorry for what? For buying me? For trapping me here? For destroying my family?
Or sorry for something else entirely?
I pull out my laptop from under the mattress, hands shaking. One new email waiting.
Subject: HE'S LYING ABOUT EVERYTHING
I open it.
Elara,
You heard him on the phone tonight. Good. You're learning to listen.
But he's not telling you everything. He knows more about your father's case than he's letting on. He has evidence that could free Richard Sinclair right now. But he's keeping it hidden.
Why? Because if your father goes free, Dante loses his leverage over you. You'd leave him. And he can't allow that.
Not anymore.
Because here's what Dante won't admit, even to himself: he's starting to care about you. Really care. And it terrifies him.
That's why he stood outside your door tonight. That's why he apologized. That's why he's fighting with himself.
But caring about you won't stop him from keeping you prisoner. It'll just make him hold on tighter.
You need to get to that third floor tomorrow night. Before the wedding. Before it's too late.
Because once you say "I do," the truth won't matter anymore.
You'll belong to him forever.
And he'll make sure you can never escape.
Move fast, Elara. Time is running out.
—A Friend
My hands shake so hard I almost drop the laptop.
Evidence that could free my father. Right now.
And Dante is hiding it.
Using it to keep me trapped.
I close the laptop and slide it back under the mattress.
Tomorrow night. After the gala.
I'm getting into that third floor.
Even if Dante catches me.
Even if it destroys everything.
I have to know the truth.