Chapter 5. The strategy of a caged bride

Ariella’s POV

Marcus was stiff-backed when Damon called him to his office. He didn’t sit. Not even when Damon gestured toward the chair.

“He left the country,” Damon said flatly. “And you’re telling me my wife still managed to disappear?”

Marcus kept his voice level. “She claimed it was a last-minute PR appearance. She had the credentials.”

“You’re supposed to vet her moves. Not rubber-stamp them.” Damon thundered.

“I did vet them. Everything checked out.”

Damon’s jaw flexed. He said nothing for three seconds. Then he pressed a button beneath the desk. A screen blinked on, footage. Marcus froze.

Security feed. Ariella is on the phone. Her mouth moved. Her body language is open. The timestamp didn’t match the event she claimed to attend.

“You missed this?” Damon asked coldly.

Marcus stiffened. “That camera’s off protocol. No one told me there was a backup feed.”

Damon stood. “Of course, no one told you. That’s the point.”

He walked to the bar, poured a drink, and didn’t sip. “She’s shifting. I can feel it. And if she’s using Jace as leverage, then we don’t have a marriage. We have a ticking bomb.”

“I’ll tighten the circle,” Marcus offered. “Increase shadows.”

“No,” Damon said. “Tighter shadows scare her. Give her more space. Make her think she’s free.”

He downed the drink and dismissed Marcus with a wave. “Let the cage feel like a palace.”

I knew Marcus was watching me again. He was subtle, but not perfect. Damon’s most trusted man always left a trace. I played along. Took calls on the speaker. Stuck to meetings that meant nothing. Wore obedience like perfume.

But I’d learned from Damon himself, never play just one game.

That’s why I contacted Layla.

She met me in the back room of a wellness spa, clipboard in hand, nails glossy and perfect. The façade of a stylist. The voice of something else entirely.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said without looking up. “He has three layers of surveillance running.”

“That’s why I came. You’re the one person whose layers don’t overlap.”

Layla sighed and sat. “What do you need?”

“I need access to his acquisition files. The ones on the Petro merger. And a direct channel to the financial regulator’s office, off record.”

She blinked. “You’re not just trying to survive this marriage.”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to make myself invaluable. Not just to Damon, but to his rivals.”

Layla tilted her head. “You’re going to be his wife and his enemy.”

“Not yet. For now, I’m just going to become something he can’t afford to lose.”

She smiled. “That, Mrs. Thorne, is how wars are won.”

We outlined my next move. I’d leak just enough suggestions to Damon, revise his investment strategy using insights I gleaned from Jace’s old playbooks. Ideas Damon would think I stumbled on by accident. Meanwhile, I’d pass scraps to Layla, who’d feed them into opposing camps, making me an asset on both ends.

I wasn’t just going to survive Damon.

I was going to outmaneuver him.

When I returned home, Marcus was already in the living room, pretending to review event schedules.

“You’re back early,” he said.

“Traffic was light.”

“Stylist again?”

I nodded. “Layla added some new pre-appearance protocols.”

He didn’t press further. But I saw the shift in his expression. He knew something wasn’t adding up. Still, he said nothing.

Which meant he was watching someone else, too.

That night, Damon called me to his office. He didn’t ask how my day was. He didn’t mention the footage. He just sat behind the desk and gestured to the chair across from him.

“I’ve been looking into your suggestions for the Petrov transition. Impressive thinking.”

I met his gaze. “Glad you approve.”

He leaned back. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“How to be useful.”

His smile was sharp. “You’ve always been useful. That’s why you’re here.”

“But not irreplaceable.”

That made him pause. Just for a breath.

“I want to be involved,” I said. “Officially. Not just press-ready. Real stakes.”

Damon stood and walked to the window. “If I give you access, and you misuse it…”

“I won’t.”

He looked over his shoulder. “No mistakes. No leaks. If anything, I give you slips to the wrong hands, it won’t be just you who pays.”

I nodded. “Understood.”

I left his office without flinching. But inside, I was already calculating.

I had access now.

And access was everything.

Later that night, Layla’s text came in under a disguised finance app:

“Russians took the bait. They think you’re playing double. Petrov’s assistant wants a meeting.”

Another text came thirty seconds later, from an encrypted channel Jace gave me weeks ago.

“I see the game you’re playing. Careful. He’s still ten steps ahead.”

I didn’t reply to either.

I just stared out the window at the estate grounds lit in soft white security lights. I snorted. ''The game was getting Interesting, one husband, two watchers, and three games.''

And one woman who’d stopped waiting to be saved. She was building her escape. One move at a time.

The next morning, Damon was already dressed when I came down to breakfast. Crisp navy suit. Silver tie pin. Power masked as elegance.

“Sleep well?” he asked, not looking up from his tablet.

“Well enough.”

He nodded, satisfied. “You’re meeting with Bernard this afternoon. He needs to understand you’re not just a figurehead.”

So, this was my test.

Bernard was Damon’s oldest investment partner. A man known for loyalty, misogyny, and brutal boardroom etiquette.

“Should I smile or speak?” I asked.

“Do both,” Damon replied. “But know when to stop speaking.”

I forced a smile. “Of course.”

Bernard’s office was all wood paneling and outdated power. He barely looked at me when I walked in. Just motioned to the chair across from his massive desk.

“You’re Damon’s wife,” he said, as if verifying I was real.

“I am.”

He grunted. “Pretty. Hopefully smart enough not to meddle.”

I leaned forward. “Meddling is messy. I prefer influence.”

That made him pause.

I continued, handing him a portfolio Damon hadn’t seen yet. “You’re overleveraged on Baltic logistics. Shift to Eastern Med. Pull out before Q3, or your board will see the loss before your PR team does.”

He opened the file. Read. Frowned. Then looked at me again, really looked.

“You sure he married you for your face?”

“I’m sure he didn’t,’’ I said smoothly.

He smiled. Not kindly. But with recognition. “Interesting.”

The message was clear: I’d passed one layer of the game.

But I wasn’t playing to pass.

That night, after dinner, Damon poured two glasses of wine.

“Bernard called,” he said, offering me one. “He was impressed.”

I took the glass. “Did that surprise you?”

“No,” he said. “But it made something very clear.”

I waited.

“You’re not like the others,” he said.

I tilted my head. “Others?”

“The ones who came before you. The ones I almost married. They wanted the crown. You’re studying the castle.”

He downed his wine and smiled over the rim. “Just remember who owns it.”

When I slipped into bed, the burner phone was already blinking.

Two messages.

''Layla!''

“He’s accelerating the Petrov deal. You scared him. Good.”

Unknown sender ''secure line.''

''He knows you’re playing smarter. But not with whom. Keep it that way.” I didn’t reply. Every message now was a breadcrumb. Every glance is a play. I was no longer just surviving in Damon’s world.

I was rewriting the rules beneath his throne. And he didn’t even know that the floor had begun to crack.