He didn't take her that night. He simply made sure she understood that every inch of her was his to claim, on his timeline. Elara lay in the vast expanse of Damien Vance's bed, the black silk sheets cool against her skin, but his body was a furnace, his arms a vice around her. His grip never loosened, even in sleep, as if he feared she might vanish into the night. Her body ached from the tension of being held so tightly, her mind a storm of fear, anger, and something darker—something that stirred when his breath grazed her neck. She slept in fragments, waking every time his fingers twitched against her waist, a reminder of her new reality: she was his wife, his possession, his prisoner.
The silk negligee he'd forced her to wear clung to her like a second skin, its delicate straps a mockery of the chains she felt tightening around her soul. She'd stood frozen in the bedroom the night before, her cotton pajamas discarded on the floor as Damien's eyes raked over her, his command to wear the red silk absolute. The way he'd watched her change, his gaze heavy with possession, had left her trembling with humiliation and a traitorous heat she couldn't name. He hadn't touched her beyond that, hadn't crossed the line she'd feared, but his restraint was its own kind of torment—a promise that he would take what he wanted when he chose, and she would have no say.
Morning light filtered through the penthouse's towering windows, casting cold shadows across the marble floor. Elara stirred, her body stiff, but Damien was already awake, his dark eyes fixed on her. "Good morning, wife," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, a velvet blade that cut through her defenses. She flinched, pulling away, but his arm tightened, holding her against his bare chest. "Don't," he warned, his tone soft but unyielding. "You stay where I put you."
Her throat burned with unshed tears, but she forced herself to stay still, her breath shallow. "What do you want from me today?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with defiance she couldn't suppress.
"Everything," he said simply, his lips brushing her temple before he released her and rose from the bed. His movements were fluid, predatory, as he pulled on a crisp white shirt, his muscles shifting beneath the fabric. "Get dressed. We have a busy day."
Elara sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, her heart pounding. She wanted to scream, to demand her freedom, but the weight of her family's survival—Larsen Enterprises, her father's legacy—kept her silent. She slipped into the wardrobe, her fingers shaking as she found a rack of clothes chosen by him: tailored dresses, silk blouses, nothing like the practical outfits she'd worn as his assistant. Every item was a reminder of his control, a brand on her identity.
By the time she emerged, dressed in a fitted black dress that felt like a costume, the penthouse was buzzing with activity. A team of strangers had arrived, their presence an invasion. A stylist, a severe woman with a clipboard, assessed Elara's appearance with a critical eye, muttering about haircuts and makeup palettes. A nutritionist, a wiry man with a tablet, handed her a meal plan designed to "optimize fertility." Elara's stomach churned at the words, her face burning with humiliation as the reality sank in: her body was no longer her own, not even in its most intimate functions.
The worst came when the doctor arrived, a middle-aged woman with a clinical demeanor that did nothing to soften the ordeal. "Mrs. Vance," she said, the title a slap, "we'll need a full fertility work-up. Bloodwork, hormone levels, the works." Elara stood frozen as the doctor set up her equipment on a sleek side table, the sterile clink of instruments echoing in the cavernous living room. Damien stood nearby, his arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression. He didn't speak, but his presence was a command, a reminder that resistance was futile.
The needle pierced Elara's arm, and she bit her lip to stifle a gasp, her eyes fixed on the floor. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, stealing her breath. Her body, her future, her very essence was being dissected, analyzed, optimized for his needs. The doctor worked efficiently, filling vials with Elara's blood, each one a piece of her autonomy stolen. "We'll have the results soon," the doctor said, packing up her kit. "Mr. Vance, I'll coordinate with your team."
Elara's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to hurl the vials at the wall, to run until this nightmare was a memory. But Damien's gaze pinned her in place, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He was orchestrating her life, micromanaging every detail, and she was powerless to stop it.
As the doctor left, the stylist and nutritionist trailing behind her, Damien turned to Elara, his expression softening into something dangerous—something that mimicked affection but felt like possession. "Come with me," he said, his voice a low command. He didn't wait for her response, striding toward his home office, expecting her to follow.
Her legs moved automatically, her heels clicking against the marble as she trailed him. The office was a smaller version of his corporate one, all dark wood and sharp edges, a throne room for a king. On the desk sat a velvet box, its presence ominous in the sterile space. Damien opened it, revealing a set of elegant, custom-made jewelry: a delicate choker studded with diamonds, its beauty masking its purpose. He stepped behind her, his fingers brushing her neck as he fastened it around her throat. The metal was cold, the diamonds sharp against her skin, and then she heard it—a faint click, a tiny lock snapping into place.
Her hand flew to the choker, her fingers searching for a clasp, but there was none. Panic surged in her chest, her breath hitching as she realized the truth: it wasn't jewelry. It was a collar.
Damien held up a small key, its silver glinting in the light, and slipped it onto his keychain with deliberate care. "My mark," he said, his voice a dark caress, his fingers brushing the skin beneath the collar. "So you never forget who you belong to, even when I'm not there to remind you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs, fear and fury twisting into a knot. The choker was tight, not enough to choke but enough to feel like a chain, a constant reminder of her captivity. She wanted to tear it off, to scream, but his touch held her captive, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. The air crackled with tension, the weight of his words sinking into her like a brand. She was his, marked and claimed, and there was no escape.