Gifts from Damien were never just gifts; they were shackles dipped in gold.
Morning light poured through the penthouse windows, painting the marble floors in harsh gold, but the bedroom was still shadowed, the air heavy with the scent of last night's battle. Elara sat on the edge of the bed, her body aching from Damien's relentless conquest, her mind a fractured mosaic of defiance and defeat. The diamond choker pressed against her throat, its lock a constant reminder of the words he'd forced from her lips—I'm yours—and the pleasure he'd wrung from her body despite her will. She wore a silk robe, the fabric a frail shield against the vulnerability that clung to her skin.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. Clara, her stern assistant, entered without waiting, her black suit crisp, her clipboard ever-present. In her hands was a velvet box, large and black, its surface gleaming like a coffin. "From Mr. Vance," Clara said, her voice flat, setting the box on the nightstand before retreating with a nod.
Elara's stomach churned, her fingers trembling as she reached for the box. Damien's gifts were never innocent. They were declarations, claims, extensions of his control. She lifted the lid, her breath catching at the sight within: a necklace, a cascade of emeralds, each stone flawless, set in intricate platinum filigree. The central gem was the size of a quail's egg, its deep green hue a perfect match for her eyes. It was obscenely expensive, a fortune in jewels, and it screamed ownership.
The door opened again, and Damien entered, his presence a storm cloud, his navy suit tailored to perfection, his dark eyes fixed on her with that possessive intensity that made her heart lurch. He carried no box, no wrapping—only the key to her choker, glinting on his chain. "Do you like it?" he asked, his voice low, a velvet blade.
She stared at the necklace, her throat tight. "It's… beautiful," she said, the words ash in her mouth, because beauty in his hands was a weapon.
He stepped closer, his fingers brushing the velvet box, lifting the necklace with reverence. "It matches your eyes," he said, his tone almost tender, but the gleam in his gaze was anything but. "A reminder of your value to me."
Her chest tightened, the words a chain tightening around her heart. Value. Not love, not affection, but worth measured in carats and control. He moved behind her, his hands deft as he unclasped the diamond choker, the faint snick of the lock a momentary release. But freedom was an illusion. He fastened the emerald necklace in its place, the weight of it heavier, the stones cold against her skin, layering over the faint marks left by the choker. His fingers lingered at her throat, tracing the platinum settings, his touch possessive, branding.
She stood, the necklace a new shackle, its central emerald resting in the hollow of her throat, a green eye watching her every move. The mirrors in the bedroom reflected her ruin: pale skin, haunted eyes, the emeralds a crown for a queen in chains. She felt the weight of it, another link in the chain he'd forged around her soul.
Damien stepped back, his eyes raking over her, satisfaction gleaming in their depths. "Perfect," he murmured, almost to himself. "You'll wear it tonight. The board will see what I see."
Her hands clenched at her sides, the urge to tear the necklace off, to hurl it at his feet, surging through her. But the memory of his threat—your father's fraud, your family's destruction—and the board dinner's fallout kept her still. She was his, dressed for his pleasure, his empire, his legacy.
The day passed in a blur of Clara's clipboard and Damien's schedule. Elara moved through fertility yoga, acupuncture, and a nutritionist's lecture, the emeralds a constant weight, their gleam drawing Clara's sharp eyes. By evening, she was dressed in a black gown chosen by Damien, the necklace a focal point, its green fire a beacon of his obsession.
That night, in the penthouse's study, Damien took a call, his voice carrying through the open door. Elara sat on the leather sofa, the emeralds heavy against her chest, her fingers tracing their edges as she tried to detach from the reality of her cage. His tone was ice, each word a scalpel.
"You had one job, Marcus," he said, his voice low, lethal. "The Tokyo deal was yours to close. You failed. You're done. Clear your office by morning."
The executive's pleas crackled through the speaker, desperate, pathetic, but Damien cut him off. "Don't waste my time. You're fired." The line went dead, the silence deafening.
He stepped into the room, his phone pocketed, his eyes finding her immediately. The emeralds glinted in the low light, drawing his gaze to her throat. He crossed to her, his movements fluid, predatory, stopping just inches away. His hand rose, his fingers brushing the central emerald, his touch a claim.
"I reward loyalty and beauty beyond measure, Elara," he said, his voice low, a dangerous purr. "And I destroy anything that disappoints me. Remember that."
Her breath caught, her heart pounding, the necklace a chain she couldn't escape. His eyes held hers, dark and unyielding, the promise of reward and ruin woven into every word. The city lights flickered beyond the windows, cold and indifferent, as Elara sat trapped in his gaze, the emeralds a new shackle, the weight of his obsession heavier than ever.