The gilded walls of her cage were closing in.
And the warden was losing his patience.
Elara Larsen stood in the sterile opulence of Damien Vance's penthouse, the city glittering far below. Her white gown was still damp, the crimson stain from Isabella Thornton's "accident" a mocking reminder of her humiliation.
Her hands trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts.
The diamond choker at her throat cut into her skin—cold, sharp, unyielding.
Every moment of the gala replayed in her head: Isabella's barbs. The crowd's whispers. Damien's smirk. The way he'd let her stand there, humiliated, like a pawn in a game she didn't understand.
She turned on him, fury shaking her voice."How could you let her do that?" she demanded. "She humiliated me in front of everyone, and you just stood there—smirking. You enjoyed it, didn't you? Watching me squirm?"
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Damien leaned against the bar, unhurried. His gray eyes were unreadable, his tailored shirt unbuttoned just enough to look carelessly dangerous. The glass of whiskey in his hand glinted in the low light as he swirled it lazily.
"Isabella is irrelevant," he said, voice calm, almost bored. "She's a jealous child throwing a tantrum. You're my wife. Act like it."
Her jaw clenched. "Your wife?" she shot back, stepping forward, trembling but unbroken. "I'm your prisoner, Damien. Your prop. You let her spill wine on me, mock me, mock my family—and you did nothing."
Her voice rose. "You're not a husband. You're a monster."
The word hung in the air like a spark.
Damien's expression barely shifted, but something cold flickered in his eyes. He set his glass down, the soft clink echoing in the silence.
"Careful, Elara." His tone turned razor-sharp. "You're treading on dangerous ground. You don't get to question me."
Her pulse pounded, but she didn't step back. "Why her?" she demanded, voice trembling with rage. "Why let her humiliate me? Was it another test? Another game to break me? Or do you still want her? Is that it?"
The question barely left her mouth before he moved.
His hand caught her wrist, firm and fast, his grip sending a jolt up her arm.
"You think I want Isabella?" His voice dropped to something dark, dangerous. His gray eyes locked on hers. "She's nothing. A distraction. You are the one I chose. The one I own."
Her breath hitched. Heat coiled under her skin where he touched her. She wanted to pull away, to scream—but the words wouldn't come.
"Then why let her hurt me?" she whispered. "Why make me feel like nothing?"
His mouth curved. The faintest hint of a cruel smile.
"Because you needed to learn," he said coldly. "You needed to understand your place."
He paused, his eyes glinting. "And because I can."
Her heart broke a little at that. The tears she'd fought back all night finally fell, sliding silently down her cheeks.
But Damien wasn't done.
He stepped closer, his tone suddenly clinical. "Your first pregnancy test came back negative."
The words hit her like a blow.
Elara froze. Her breath caught, her mind blank. The humiliation of the doctor's visits, the sterile instructions, the nightly routines—they'd all been for this.
"Negative?" she whispered.
He nodded once. Calm. Controlled. "Which means we escalate," he said. "No more periodic attempts. From now on, you will come to my bed every night until you're pregnant. No exceptions."
Her knees nearly buckled. She clutched the edge of the bar to stay upright.
"Every night?" she echoed, disbelief flooding her voice. "Damien, I can't—I need time—"
"You need to obey," he cut in sharply. "The contract was clear. An heir within a year. Your body belongs to me, Elara, and it will do what I require."
Her vision swam. The choker dug deeper into her throat, the diamonds biting her skin.
She felt like she was unraveling.
"You can't do this," she whispered, trembling. "You can't treat me like this. I'm not a machine. I'm not—"
He moved again, predatory and deliberate.
His eyes burned with that terrifying, possessive hunger.
"You're mine," he said softly, almost like a vow. "And you will learn to act like it."
Her back hit the wall.
He caged her there, his hands braced on either side of her head, his body heat suffocating. The wine-stained gown clung cold and damp against her skin. His scent filled the air—sharp, dark, expensive.
Her heart thundered. Fear warred with something darker, traitorous.
"The games are over, Elara," he murmured, his voice low against her ear. "You'll come to my bed willingly. You'll arch into my touch. You'll pretend you want it."
His hand slid up to the choker. The diamonds shifted against her throat.
"Because if you don't," he whispered, "I won't just ruin your father…"
He paused, savoring the moment.
"I'll have him arrested—for the fraud he committed to keep his company afloat."
The world tilted.
Her body went cold.
Fraud. The word detonated like a bomb inside her chest.
Her father—her proud, desperate father—had done things she'd suspected but never dared confirm. And Damien knew. He'd known all along.
He'd been waiting for this.
Her breath hitched, tears spilling freely now.
"Do you understand?" he asked quietly, tightening his fingers around the choker until it bit into her skin.
She nodded. She couldn't speak.
He watched her for a long moment, studying the defeat in her eyes. Then he released her and stepped back, his voice returning to its cool, businesslike tone.
"Good. Go clean yourself up. We have another event tomorrow. You'll be perfect."
He turned away without another word.
Elara stayed where she was—pressed against the wall, trembling, the crimson stain spreading across her gown like a wound.
The choker felt heavier than ever.
And in that silence, one truth burned through the haze of her despair:
Damien Vance owned her.
Body. Mind. Soul.
And every act of rebellion only tightened his grip.
Her father's fate. Her family's survival. Her own breaking point.
All of it hung on a choice that was no choice at all.