Dawn at the Sterling Coastal Estate was grey.
Thick fog swallowed the cliffs. It muffled the world. Elara woke to the same nothingness she'd fallen asleep to. The opulent bedroom was a bubble. A suspended prison.
At 0800 exactly, a sharp rap hit her door. Not a chime. A command.
Before she could answer, Kaelen entered. Posture rigid. A tablet in her hand.
"Security briefing," the woman stated. No greeting. "Perimeter secure. Motion sensors active."
She listed the schedule like a warden reading a sentence.
"Breakfast in quarters. Monitored walk on east terrace. 1000 to 1015. Indoor leisure time follows."
Leisure time. The words were a joke. How do you have leisure in a cage?
"Mr. Sterling requests your presence at dinner. 1900. Main dining hall. It is mandatory."
Kaelen's flinty eyes pinned her. "He is not a man who repeats invitations."
The threat was clear. This was a command performance.
"Is there anything you require to comply?" Kaelen asked. The concern was fake.
Elara's voice was rough. "My mother. Can I call her? Just to hear her voice?"
"All external communication must be vetted by Mr. Sterling's office. Submit a request through the device on your desk." Kaelen nodded at the encrypted tablet. "It will be evaluated."
Evaluated. Like a business proposal.
Helplessness washed over Elara. She couldn't even call her own mother.
"Understood," she whispered.
"Your breakfast arrives shortly. I return at 0955 for your walk."
Kaelen left. The door clicked shut.
Elara stood alone. The "monitored walk" wasn't freedom. It was a dog's scheduled yard time. Victor's control was absolute. Kaelen was its enforcer.
He wasn't just hiding her from Lucian.
He was breaking her to his rules.
---
The walk was controlled humiliation.
At 0955 exactly, Kaelen returned. She escorted Elara to a glass terrace over the churning ocean. The air was cold and salty.
"Fifteen minutes," Kaelen stated. She took position by the door. Arms crossed. Her eyes never left Elara.
Elara walked to the railing. The metal was cold. She could only pace a predetermined length.
She was a specimen in a terrarium.
Back in her room, "leisure time" was an empty chasm of hours. The encrypted tablet offered no escape. No internet. No games. Just corporate reports, a calendar, and one blank form: "Communication Request."
She picked it up. Her finger hovered.
What would she say? Hi Mom, I sold myself to my terrifying boss. Hope you're well!
The absurdity hurt. She tossed the tablet aside.
Her gaze fell on the wall-mounted television. She turned it on.
A news channel flickered to life. Financial reports. Weather. Then the scene shifted.
A red carpet from last night.
Her breath hitched.
There he was. Victor Sterling. Impeccable in a black tuxedo. His white hair stark.
On his arm, clinging with a dazzling smile, was Isabella Montague. Old money. Glamour.
The newscaster chirped with gossipy delight. "…a surprise appearance by Victor Sterling with Isabella Montague. The pair looked very cozy. Sparking rumors of a merger between powerful families…"
Elara stared, frozen.
He was out. In public. With another woman. While she was locked in this fortress.
Clarity pierced her shock. This wasn't just about hiding her.
This was about his freedom. He had his public life. His "mergers." She was his dirty secret. A tool to be stored away.
The door opened without a knock.
Kaelen stood there. Her eyes flicked from Elara's pale face to the TV screen.
"Mr. Sterling is a public figure," Kaelen said, her tone flat. "His engagements are strategic. Do not misinterpret."
Her earpiece crackled. She listened.
"Dinner is moved to 1830. He suggests the black dress." A faint, almost imperceptible hint of warning entered her eyes. "He is in a strategic mood."
---
The black dress was a weapon.
Simple. Sleeveless. Heavy silk. It clung to every curve. Elegant and severe.
Putting it on felt like donning armor.
At 1825, Kaelen escorted her to Victor's private study. Not a dining hall. A smaller room. Books. A roaring fire.
Victor stood before the flames. A tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He wore dark trousers and a black sweater. He looked like a predator in its den.
He turned. His gaze swept over her. Assessing. A flicker of approval, then nothing.
"Punctual. Good." He gestured to a table set for two. "Sit."
A silent attendant served the meal. Exquisite. Tasteless.
The silence was heavy. Broken only by the fire.
Victor spoke, his voice a low rumble. "I trust you are acclimating."
It wasn't a question. It was a demand.
Elara put her fork down. "Acclimating to what? To being a prisoner? Or to seeing my husband on a date on national television?"
Victor took a slow sip. Unruffled. "Isabella Montague is a business associate's daughter. Her presence sends a market message. It was a transaction."
"Like our marriage," Elara shot back.
A cold smile touched his lips. "Precisely. You are beginning to understand."
He leaned forward. Firelight danced on his face. "Your value, for now, is in your absence. You are my secret. My strategic reserve."
He laid out his plan coldly. Like she was a junior officer.
"Lucian will tear the city apart looking for you. He will find nothing. Frustration will make him reckless. When he is most vulnerable, I will strike."
The cruelty stole her breath.
"He loves me," she whispered. A last defense.
Victor's smile vanished. Replaced by icy contempt. "What he feels isn't love. It's the rage of a child who had his toy taken. He doesn't want you back because he loves you. He wants you back because you are his."
He held her gaze. His eyes were Arctic ice.
"And I do not share what is mine."
---
The finality was an iron door slamming shut.
I do not share what is mine.
Elara shivered. This wasn't just revenge. It was possession. She was the object between two Alphas.
Victor leaned back. The intensity cooled to control. "Your cooperation in this seclusion is essential. The more invisible you are, the faster Lucian breaks."
He was making her an accomplice.
"Now," he said, changing subjects with brutal efficiency. "Your first official duty."
Elara looked up, wary. "I thought my duty was invisibility."
"For the most part. But a ghost must occasionally prove it exists." He tapped his tablet. "In one week, Sterling Enterprises hosts the annual gala. You will attend. With me."
The words were a physical blow. "What? But you just said—"
"The narrative must be controlled," he interrupted. "Lucian will be there. He is a donor. He will see you. On my arm. Wearing my ring. Presented as my chosen consort."
He paused. Letting the cruelty sink in.
"It will be the final proof you are beyond his reach. It will break him."
The cold genius was horrifying. He wasn't hiding her. He was sharpening her into the weapon for the killing blow.
"You can't be serious," she breathed.
"I am always serious." He stood. Discussion over. "The event is black-tie. A gown will be delivered. You will smile. You will remain by my side. You will not speak to him. Is that clear?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked to the door. Paused for his final order.
"Prepare yourself, Elara. The game is moving to the next stage."
He left her.
Alone at the table. Fine food like ash in her mouth.
The gala. Lucian. A public display. It was imminent reality. Her gilded cage was becoming a stage.
---
The silence after him was heavier.
Elara sat frozen. The weight of the gala pressed down. One week. One week to prepare to be a human weapon.
The fire popped. She pushed her chair back. The scrape was loud.
She couldn't stay here. Surrounded by his presence. His plans.
She walked back to her suite. The hallway was empty. Inside, she leaned against the door. Mind racing.
A strategic reserve. A secret weapon. That was all she was.
The image of him with Isabella flashed again. His life continued. Hers was weaponized.
She walked to the encrypted tablet. The "Communication Request" form was still blank.
A reckless idea formed.
Victor wanted to control the narrative. He wanted her silent, shocking appearance to break Lucian.
But what if she wasn't silent?
What if a different version slipped out first? A whisper. A rumor. Not enough to break the contract. Just enough to sow doubt.
Her finger hovered.
She could request a call to her mother. It would be vetted. But what if she used a code? A phrase only her mother would understand? Hinting she wasn't willing.
It was a huge risk. If Victor discovered it…
But being his compliant pawn made her skin crawl. She was trapped, but not broken.
She took a shaky breath. Opened the form. Typed carefully.
"Request to speak with my mother, Lillian Whitethorn, for five minutes to reassure her. I'd like to tell her about the beautiful seaside property I'm staying at."
To a censor, it was innocent.
To her mother, "beautiful seaside property" was their childhood code for a cold, unwelcoming house. A place they hated. It was a cry in the dark.
A tiny act of defiance. A thread to the outside.
She pressed "Submit."
Request Received. Under Review.
The act left her exhilarated and terrified. She'd thrown a grain of sand into his machine.
The tablet chimed instantly. A new notification.
SECURITY PROTOCOL UPDATE.
She opened it. The message was brief and brutal.
Effective immediately, all outgoing communication requests will be accompanied by a mandatory, recorded video feed. Any attempt to convey non-verbal signals, use coded language, or display distress will result in permanent revocation of privileges and re-evaluation of contract terms.
Her blood ran cold.
He knew. He'd anticipated her. The video feed killed her plan. Any code would be seen and crushed.
It was a demonstration of power. His control was absolute. Her defiance was meaningless before it began.
She was not a player. She was the prize. The board was rigged.
The tablet chimed once more. A single line from an unlisted sender.
Victor: I advise you to spend your time preparing for the gala, Elara. Not on futile exercises.
He was watching. Always watching.
The first move would always be his.