CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2: The Gilded Cage

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. Elara stepped out into a massive penthouse of white marble and glass. It was beautiful, sure, but it felt like a tomb.

She walked onto a thick rug, her bare toes sinking into the soft fabric. Everything in this place looked like it cost a fortune. It didn't just look expensive; it looked like the kind of place where someone bought and sold people.

"Don't get too comfy."

Elara jumped. A guy was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette blocking the city lights. Vane. She’d heard of him—Abram’s Enforcer. He was leaner than Abram, built for speed, with the dead eyes of a shark.

"The last girl thought the views were for her," Vane said, stepping into the light. He leaned against a pillar, his hand resting on the holster at his hip. "She tried to open a window once. They don't open, Elara. Not even for air. You breathe what the Master tells you to breathe."

Elara’s chest tightened. She walked to the glass and pressed her palm against it. No latches. No seams. Just a thick wall between her and the world she’d been traded away from.

"I'm not a prisoner," she whispered.

Vane laughed, a dry, nasty sound. "You're an investment. You screw up, and I’m the one who handles the liquidation. Remember that."

The heavy click of boots on the floor cut him off. Vane straightened up immediately, tucking his chin in a show of respect. Abram walked in, tossing his suit jacket onto a chair.

"That’s enough, Vane," Abram said.

He walked toward Elara. He didn't even look at Vane; his eyes were locked on her. He reached out and ran his fingers through her messy hair.

"You look exhausted," he said. His voice was suddenly soft, which was almost scarier than the threats. "Go to the bedroom. There's a gift on the bed. Put it on and join me for dinner."

Elara pulled back, her heart racing. "I want to go home, Abram. Please. My father, he—"

"Your father is currently drinking my best bourbon, Elara. Trust me, he isn't thinking about you." Abram gave her a small, cold smile. "Go wash off the scent of that shack. You’re in the clouds now."

Elara retreated to the bedroom. It was huge, draped in silk and silver. On the bed lay a midnight-blue gown. The fabric felt like water. It probably cost more than her father’s entire house.

She took a shower, the hot water stinging the bruises on her arms. As she dried off, the reality of her situation started to sink in. Back home, she was nobody. Being "wolfless" in a pack of shifters made her a broken toy. Her sisters were the stars—strong, fast, and already mated to powerful men. She was just the daughter her father used to pay off a debt.

She put on the dress and went to the dining area. Abram was waiting. He didn't say a word as he pulled out her chair. Then, he stood behind her and picked up a silver hairbrush.

He started brushing her damp hair in long, steady strokes.

"See?" he murmured, his breath warm against her neck. "I'm not the monster they said I was. I provide. I protect. All I want is for you to be here."

For a second, the warmth and the steady rhythm almost tricked her. Maybe this was a fresh start. Maybe she wouldn't be the "broken Miller girl" anymore.

Then the brush hit a tangle. Instead of being gentle, he yanked it through. Elara winced, tears pricking her eyes. He didn't apologize. He just kept brushing.

"And," he added, his voice dropping an octave, "I expect total obedience."

Later, after he left her to "rest," Elara scrambled for her handbag. She’d hidden her phone in the lining. Her hands shook as she pulled it out. John. Her childhood sweetheart. They’d promised to get married when they turned eighteen. He would find her. He had to.

She punched in his number.

Nothing. The screen just stayed on the keypad. She tried again, hitting the buttons harder.

"What the f**k?" she whispered.

No matter what she pressed, the screen only showed one name: ABRAM.

She threw the phone against the wall. It didn't break; it just sat there, glowing. It wasn't a real phone. It was a tracker. A toy.

Then, she heard a sound. A faint scratching from the ceiling.

Clink. Clink. Thud.

Something fell through the air vent, fluttering down to the floor. Elara knelt, her fingers searching the dark until she found a scrap of heavy fabric.

She pulled it into the light. It was forest-green corduroy. Her breath hitched. She knew this jacket. She had sewn a button back onto the sleeve for John just last week.

The scrap was stiff and stained a deep, crusty red.

John wasn't coming for her.