It wasn't lovemaking. It was a transaction. A clinical, brutal claiming. Elara Larsen stood in the master bedroom of Damien Vance's penthouse, the silk negligee clinging to her skin like a sentence. The clock on the nightstand read 9:00 PM, its digital glow a silent judge. Her heart pounded, each beat a hammer against her ribs, as she waited for the man who owned her—body, future, soul. The diamond-studded choker around her neck felt tighter, its tiny lock a constant reminder of her captivity. The city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows glittered coldly, indifferent to the storm raging inside her.
The day had been a blur of humiliation. The press conference, Damien's searing kiss for the cameras, the tablet with its suffocating schedule—all of it had led to this moment. The entry for 9:00 PM had burned itself into her mind: Conception Attempt. Her body was no longer her own, reduced to a vessel for his heir, a tool to secure his empire. She'd spent the hours since the car ride in a haze, her mind oscillating between defiance and despair. She wanted to run, to scream, to claw at the walls of this gilded cage, but the weight of her family's survival—Larsen Enterprises, her father's legacy—kept her rooted.
The door opened, and Damien entered, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He wore only a pair of black trousers, his bare chest sculpted and unyielding, a predator in human form. His dark eyes locked on her, stripping her bare with a single glance. There were no sweet words, no pretense of affection. His expression was one of focused intensity, a man on a mission, and she was the objective. Her breath hitched, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the bed, the silk negligee offering no protection against his gaze.
"Lie down," he said, his voice low and commanding, devoid of warmth. It wasn't a request—it was an order, as cold and precise as the contract she'd signed.
Her throat burned, rage and fear twisting into a knot. She wanted to refuse, to spit in his face, but the memory of his words in the car—Your body is at its peak fertility—echoed in her mind, a reminder of her purpose. She obeyed, her movements mechanical, lying back on the black silk sheets. The chandelier's light cast fractured shadows across her skin, amplifying her vulnerability. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to detach, to become numb, but her body betrayed her, trembling under his scrutiny.
Damien approached, his movements deliberate, every step a claim. He loomed over her, his hands finding her wrists, pinning them above her head with a grip that was both possessive and punishing. His touch was calculated, not for her pleasure but for his control, each movement a reminder of her role. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice a dark thread weaving through the silence, his lips brushing her ear. "Every inch of you. Every breath."
She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest heaving as she fought the tears threatening to spill. His hands moved with purpose, stripping away the negligee, exposing her to the cold air and his unrelenting gaze. The act was methodical, a duty performed with ruthless efficiency. There was no tenderness, no trace of the lovesick groom he'd played for the cameras. This was Damien Vance, the billionaire CEO who demanded obedience, who saw her as a means to an end. Her body responded to his touch, a traitor's reaction that filled her with shame, but there was no pleasure in it—only submission, only his dominance.
Her mind screamed against the violation, but her voice was silent, trapped behind the wall of her fear. She was a prisoner in her own skin, her body no longer hers to command. His hands were everywhere, claiming, possessing, marking her as his. The choker pressed against her throat, a physical manifestation of the contract that bound her. She bit her lip, the pain grounding her, keeping her from fracturing entirely. This wasn't love—it was ownership, a transaction sealed in flesh.
When it was over, the silence was deafening. Damien didn't hold her, didn't offer a single word of comfort. He rose from the bed, his silhouette outlined by the city lights streaming through the windows. His back was to her, his posture as cold and unyielding as the marble floors. "The doctor recommends you remain on your back for twenty minutes to increase the probability," he stated, his tone as clinical as a lab report, devoid of emotion. He didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge the tears she couldn't hide. He simply walked away, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone in the dark, feeling used and utterly empty.
Elara lay there, her body trembling, the sheets tangled beneath her. The choker felt heavier, its diamonds biting into her skin, a cruel reminder of her place. Her chest ached with the weight of her humiliation, her anger, her despair. She wanted to scream, to tear the collar from her throat, to run until this nightmare was a memory. But the reality of her situation pressed down on her, as suffocating as Damien's touch. She was his wife, his possession, bound to produce an heir for his empire. Her family's survival depended on it, and that knowledge was a chain she couldn't break.
The city lights mocked her from beyond the windows, a world she could no longer reach. She closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear, but the memory of his hands, his voice, his control lingered like a bruise. She was marked, claimed, reduced to a purpose she hadn't chosen. And yet, beneath the shame, a flicker of something dangerous stirred—a heat she despised, a response to his dominance that made her hate herself even more.
The minutes ticked by, each one an eternity, as she lay there, following his orders even in his absence. Her body was no longer her own, her life no longer hers to live. She was Elara Vance, wife of Damien Vance, and tonight, he had made sure she understood exactly what that meant.