The elevator doors slid open with a whisper that sounded almost ceremonial.
Elena Cruz stepped into the penthouse of Vega Tower, the place that would now be her cage.
The air inside was sharp and sterile, a blend of cold marble, glass, and the faint scent of rain filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The entire top floor stretched before her like a museum of power. Black, silver, and silence. No family portraits, no warmth. Just a view of Singapore glittering like diamonds in the dark.
Her heels clicked once, twice, and stopped. She could hear her own breathing, shallow, uneven, echoing in the vastness.
A voice broke the silence.
"Take a look, Elena. This is what debt looks like when it's dressed in luxury."
Adrian Vega stood by the bar, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the glow from the skyline painting him in silver and shadow. He didn't move toward her. He didn't need to. His presence filled the room the way fire filled oxygen, absolute and consuming.
She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I didn't ask for this."
"No," he said coolly. "You asked for mercy. This is the price."
Her jaw tightened. "You think this makes you merciful?"
He poured himself a drink, the sound of crystal meeting glass too deliberate, too calm. "Mercy is subjective. Control, however, is measurable."
He crossed to her then, slow, deliberate steps that reminded her of every heartbeat she wished she could silence. When he stopped inches away, she caught a faint trace of his cologne, expensive and familiar. The same scent he wore the night he kissed her for the last time.
"Let me make the rules clear," he said. "This marriage exists for one reason, to repay what your father stole. You'll live here, attend functions as my wife, and smile when the cameras flash. In return, I'll cover every debt, every ruin your family left behind."
Her throat constricted. "And when the year ends?"
"You disappear," he said simply. "As if you never existed."
She flinched, then forced her chin up. "You really think you can erase me that easily?"
His eyes, dark, unreadable, softened just for a heartbeat. Then they hardened again.
"I already did once."
Silence.
The city lights blinked behind them like a thousand indifferent witnesses.
Adrian handed her a thin black folder. "Read it. Every clause, every condition. I don't tolerate surprises."
She opened it with trembling hands. The contract was cold legal precision, rules, restrictions, obligations. One clause caught her breath: Public affection as required for corporate image.
She looked up sharply. "You expect me to act like we're in love?"
He smirked. "You were always a good actress."
The sting was immediate, cruel. "And you were always good at pretending not to care."
For a moment, his expression fractured. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late. My staff will show you to your room."
"My room," she echoed. "Not ours."
Adrian's lips curved faintly. "Did you think this was a honeymoon?"
The staff led her down a corridor lined with muted lights. Every step echoed her unease.
The room she entered was beautiful, white linen, minimalist art, a window that framed the skyline. But it felt borrowed, temporary. She stood by the glass and looked down at the city below, where people moved freely, unaware that somewhere above them, a woman had traded freedom for survival.
She pressed her palm against the window, feeling the faint hum of the city through the glass.
She hated that her heart still reacted when she thought of him, that beneath the anger, there was a wound that never closed.
A soft chime interrupted her thoughts. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mother:
"Elena, are you safe? Don't do anything foolish. We're depending on you."
Her fingers tightened around the phone. Depending on me.
The words were heavy, suffocating.
She typed a reply, then erased it. What was there to say? That she'd married the man she once loved? That her life now belonged to his terms?
She shut off the phone.
When she turned, she caught her reflection in the mirror, elegant, poised, and utterly foreign.
Elena Cruz, daughter of a fallen tycoon.
Elena Vega, wife by contract.
Two women in one body, neither of them free.
A knock sounded.
"Come in," she said, forcing her voice steady.
It was Adrian's assistant, a polished woman in black. "Mr. Vega asked me to inform you, dinner will be served in fifteen minutes."
Elena nodded, but her gaze shifted to the nightstand, a drawer slightly ajar.
She hesitated, then pulled it open.
Inside was a photo.
Old, faded, tucked between sheets of unused paper.
It was them.
A campus photo, she in her white dress, he in a shirt too casual for how serious his eyes were when he looked at her. The memory hit her like a punch. The laughter, the plans, the way his hand once fit perfectly around hers. The photo wasn't recent. Which meant he'd kept it.
Her pulse raced.
Why would he keep it if she meant nothing?
"Dinner, Mrs. Vega," the assistant reminded gently.
Elena slipped the photo back, her mind spinning with questions she wasn't allowed to ask.
He stood in the dining room, staring at the two plates of untouched food.
He'd expected defiance. He hadn't expected silence.
When she entered, she was all composure, a black dress, hair pinned, eyes unreadable. The perfect image of a wife. He pulled out her chair without a word. She sat, just as silent.
The cutlery gleamed between them like weapons.
"You didn't eat much at the wedding," he said finally. "I assume it wasn't the food."
Her lips barely moved. "I wasn't hungry for humiliation."
He gave a quiet laugh, low and humorless. "You've grown sharper."
"And you've grown cruel."
He met her gaze. "Cruelty is what's left when kindness fails."
The words hung between them. The storm outside pressed against the glass.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, voice trembling despite herself. "Was this your plan all along? To wait until I had nothing and make me crawl back?"
He set down his glass. "I didn't make you crawl. You came."
Her breath hitched. "Because you left me no choice."
"Exactly."
He leaned back, studying her, the tension in her shoulders, the defiance in her eyes. There was something intoxicating about watching her fight her pride while trapped under his terms.
He told himself it was victory.
But deep down, it felt like punishment.
He looked away. "This arrangement will be easier if you stop looking for meaning where there's none."
"Meaning?" She laughed bitterly. "You think I'm searching for meaning? I just want to understand how a man can turn his love into this."
For the first time, his expression flickered, just slightly.
Then he said, "Maybe you should ask your father."
Her fork clattered against the plate. "Don't bring him into this."
"He's the reason you're here."
"He's dead," she snapped.
"And yet," Adrian said quietly, "his debts are alive. You wear one as a ring."
She looked at the diamond on her finger, beautiful, cold, heavy.
Every facet gleamed like the cage he'd built around her.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. The kind that screamed.
When she returned to her room, the lights of the city blurred through her tears. She didn't let them fall. Not one.
She changed into her nightgown, turned off the lights, and stood again by the window, the only thing separating her from freedom.
Two doors down, Adrian Vega sat in his study, whiskey untouched, eyes fixed on the same storm.
They were under one roof, bound by paper and resentment, and yet a single wall between them felt thicker than the world.
She heard footsteps outside her room. A pause.
Then, nothing.
He didn't knock.
She didn't call out.
But they both stood on either side of that silence, listening to the echo of what used to be.
When she finally lay down, sleep didn't come easily. Her mind replayed his voice, calm, cutting, merciless.
You'll marry me.
Be my wife, in name, in contract, nothing more.
Nothing more.
And yet, her chest ached with everything unspoken.
He leaned back in his chair, the storm outside finally fading to drizzle. On his desk lay a folder, her contract, signed with perfect penmanship. A symbol of victory that felt strangely hollow.
He should've felt satisfaction. She was here. The past was balanced.
But instead, all he could see was her face at dinner, pale, proud, refusing to break.
He reached for the photo he'd hidden years ago.
It was still there, in his drawer. He should've thrown it away.
He never could.
His phone buzzed, a message from his mother.
"She looked fragile tonight. Don't destroy what's already broken, Adrian."
He turned the screen face-down.
From down the hall came the faint sound of a door creaking, then closing again. He listened for her footsteps, but heard none. Just silence, stretching between them like a promise neither could keep.
He poured himself another drink and whispered into the empty room,
"This isn't love, Elena. It's justice."
But even he didn't sound convinced.
Morning light broke through the skyline.
Elena stepped into the kitchen, hair still damp, the scent of coffee cutting through the chill.
Adrian stood by the counter, sleeves rolled, tie in hand, the picture of control.
Their eyes met.
For a second, something passed between them, not warmth, but recognition.
Of two people trapped in a war neither could win.
Then his voice cut through the fragile quiet.
"From now on, Mrs. Vega, remember this, affection in public, silence in private. Don't confuse the two."
She met his gaze evenly. "You don't have to worry, Mr. Vega. I learned my lesson the first time."
He smiled faintly, a cruel echo of something once tender.
"Good," he said. "Welcome home."