The morning sun felt like an accusation, illuminating the shame that clung to her skin.
Elara woke to an empty bed, the black silk sheets cool and undisturbed on Damien's side, a void that screamed of his absence and her solitude. The penthouse was silent, but his scent—sandalwood, power, possession—lingered in the air, on the pillows, woven into the very fabric of the room. It was inescapable, a ghost that haunted every breath, every movement. The diamond choker pressed against her throat, its lock a constant, biting reminder of the performance she'd given last night, the whispered lies, the forced submission that had stripped her soul bare. Her body ached in places she didn't want to acknowledge, a dull throb that echoed the violation of her mind.
She lay still for a moment, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the chandelier's crystals catching the harsh morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city beyond glittered, indifferent, a world she could no longer touch. Her chest tightened, a mix of rage, humiliation, and bone-deep exhaustion threatening to swallow her whole. Last night had been a breaking point, a transaction sealed in flesh and fear. She'd obeyed, arched into his touch, whispered yes, Damien, please as he'd demanded, each word a betrayal of everything she was. And he'd held her afterward, his voice a dark promise in the silence: This is how you keep them safe.
Now, the bed was cold, his side untouched since he'd risen, leaving her to wake alone with the weight of her compliance. She sat up slowly, the silk negligee twisted around her hips, her hair a tangled mess against her shoulders. The diamond necklace from the gala lay on the nightstand, its teardrop pendant glinting like a tear frozen in time. She was still here, still his, and the world outside these walls was a dream she'd sold for her family's survival.
Her tablet buzzed on the nightstand, its screen glowing with a new notification. She reached for it, her hands trembling, the device heavy in her grip. The schedule was open, a new entry added in Damien's precise, unyielding style:
7:00 AM – Fertility Yoga (Studio, 32nd Floor)
10:00 AM – Acupuncture (Dr. Chen, Medical Suite)
1:00 PM – Prenatal Nutritionist (Dining Room)
Her life was no longer her own. It was a production line, every minute engineered to optimize her body for the heir he demanded. The negative pregnancy test had only sharpened his obsession, turned his nightly mandates into a daily regimen of control. Fertility yoga to align her pelvis. Acupuncture to balance her hormones. A nutritionist to dictate every bite she took. Her womb was a factory, and she was the machine, monitored, maintained, and operated under his command. She stared at the screen, her throat burning, until a sharp knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.
"Mrs. Vance," came a crisp, unfamiliar voice, clipped and professional. "It's 6:45. You need to dress for yoga."
Elara pulled on a robe, her movements sluggish, her body heavy with the weight of last night. She opened the door to find a woman in her forties standing in the hallway, tall and severe, her black suit tailored to perfection, her hair pulled into a tight bun that pulled her features taut. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, devoid of warmth or empathy. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, a sleek earpiece glinting in her ear. "I'm Clara," she said, stepping inside without invitation, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "Your new assistant. Mr. Vance has instructed me to ensure your schedule is followed to the minute."
Elara's stomach churned, her hands clenching at her sides. "Assistant?" she repeated, her voice hoarse. "You mean warden."
Clara's expression didn't flicker. "I mean efficiency," she said, her tone flat. "Yoga attire is laid out in the wardrobe. Black leggings, white tank. Move."
The command was a slap, stripping away any illusion of autonomy. Elara wanted to scream, to hurl the tablet at Clara's impassive face, to run until this nightmare was a memory. But the choker pressed against her throat, the memory of Damien's threat—your father's fraud, your family's destruction—chained her to the spot. She moved to the wardrobe, her fingers trembling as she pulled on the clothes Clara had chosen. The fabric was high-end, seamless, but it felt like a uniform, another layer of her prison.
Clara led her to the private elevator, her stride brisk, her clipboard a constant presence. The 32nd floor opened to a glass-walled studio, the city sprawling below like a taunt. A yoga instructor waited, a lithe woman with a serene smile that felt like a mockery. "Mrs. Vance," she said, bowing slightly. "We'll focus on hip openers and pelvic alignment today. Optimal for conception."
Elara's cheeks burned, humiliation scalding her as she took her place on the mat. Clara stood at the edge of the room, her eyes never leaving Elara, her clipboard poised to note any deviation. The instructor guided her through poses—cat-cow, pigeon, goddess squat—each one designed to "prepare the body for pregnancy." Elara moved mechanically, her muscles straining, her mind detached, floating above the scene like a ghost. The choker's diamonds bit into her skin with every stretch, a physical echo of the contract that bound her. She was a machine, her body no longer hers, her every breath dictated by Damien's will.
The session dragged on, each pose a reminder of her purpose. The instructor's voice was soothing, but the words were clinical: "Breathe into your womb space… visualize implantation… relax your cervix." Elara's stomach lurched, her hands trembling as she held a deep squat, her thighs burning. Clara's gaze was a weight, unyielding, ensuring compliance. The city lights beyond the glass mocked her, a world of freedom she could no longer reach.
As the session ended, Elara collapsed onto the mat, her chest heaving, sweat beading on her forehead. The instructor offered a serene smile, packing up her props, while Clara checked her watch. "Nine minutes to acupuncture," she said, her voice clipped. "Shower first. You have seven minutes."
Elara stumbled to her feet, her legs unsteady, her mind a haze of exhaustion and resentment. She showered in the studio's adjacent bathroom, the water scalding but useless against the shame embedded in her skin. Clara waited outside, her presence a constant shadow, her clipboard a ledger of Elara's obedience.
The acupuncture session was worse. Dr. Chen's medical suite was sterile, all white walls and steel instruments, the air sharp with the scent of herbs and alcohol. Elara lay on the table, her body prickled with needles, each one placed with precision to "stimulate blood flow to the uterus." Clara stood nearby, her eyes flicking between Elara and her clipboard, noting every flinch, every shallow breath. The doctor's hands were gentle, but the procedure was invasive, another violation of her body's autonomy. Elara stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles, willing herself to detach, to survive.
By the time the prenatal nutritionist arrived at 1:00 PM, Elara was a ghost of herself, moving through the motions with a numbness that bordered on dissociation. The dining room was set with a single place setting, a plate of meticulously arranged food—quinoa, kale, salmon, a rainbow of nutrients designed to "support follicular health." The nutritionist, a wiry man with a tablet and a clipboard of his own, lectured her on macros and micronutrients, his voice droning as Clara loomed in the corner, ensuring every bite was consumed.
Elara ate mechanically, the food tasteless, her stomach churning with every swallow. The choker felt tighter, the diamonds cutting into her skin, a constant reminder of the performance she'd given, the price she'd paid. Her family was safe—for now. The funds unfrozen. Her father's fraud buried. But the cost was her soul, her dignity, her every waking moment.
Back in the yoga studio for a late-afternoon follow-up session, Elara moved through the poses with the same mechanical precision, her body obeying while her mind screamed. Clara stood at the edge of the room, her earpiece buzzing with a call. She answered, her voice low, her expression blank as she listened. Elara held a warrior pose, her muscles trembling, her eyes fixed on the city below, when Clara hung up and turned to her.
"Mr. Vance has been informed you completed your… cooperation last night," Clara said, her voice flat, clinical, as if discussing a business merger. "The freeze on your father's funds has been lifted. He expects the same level of compliance tonight."
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing Elara's breath. The transaction was complete, and the price was set. Her performance had bought her family's safety, but only for a day. Tonight, she would perform again, and tomorrow, and every night until Damien's heir was secured. The yoga mat blurred beneath her, tears stinging her eyes, but she blinked them back, her jaw clenched. Clara's gaze was unyielding, her clipboard a silent judge.
Elara lowered herself from the pose, her body trembling, the choker a noose around her throat. The city lights glittered beyond the glass, cold and indifferent, as the truth sank in: she was a machine in Damien's factory, her compliance the currency that kept her family alive. And tonight, the production line would run again.