Chapter 4 - Elena

Elena

I stay where I am for a second longer than I should, my back still pressed against the wall, my lungs working too hard as I try to steady my breathing. My heart hasn’t slowed since the auction. Since the car. Since him. Every word he said is still sitting in my head, sharp and suffocating: marriage, heir, mine, and I hate how real it sounded when he said it, like this isn’t some insane mistake that will be corrected any second now, but something already decided.

I push myself off the wall, forcing my legs to move even though they feel unsteady beneath me. Standing still isn’t helping. Thinking isn’t helping. I need to do something, even if it’s just walking.

The penthouse stretches out in front of me, wide and open, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city lights across polished surfaces that look too perfect to touch. Everything here is cold, controlled, expensive in a way that doesn’t just show wealth, it shows power. Nothing is out of place. Nothing is accidental. It feels less like a home and more like a statement, like every corner of this place is meant to remind anyone who walks into it exactly who owns it.

I walk toward the windows without really thinking about it, my reflection catching in the glass before I even look outside. I barely recognize myself. My hair is slightly messy, my makeup smudged just enough to make me look like I’ve been dragged through something I can’t explain, and that necklace, no, that collar, is still wrapped around my neck, glittering under the lights like it belongs there.

My fingers lift instinctively, brushing against it, feeling the cold weight of the diamonds against my skin, and my stomach twists hard.

“Still standing, are you?”

The voice comes from behind me, casual, almost amused, and I turn too quickly, my body already on edge. Ronan, I think his name is Ronan, is leaning against the kitchen counter like he’s been there the whole time, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one foot hooked behind the other like he’s got nowhere else to be.

There’s something about the way he carries himself that doesn’t match the situation at all, too relaxed, too easy, but his eyes don’t match that posture. They’re sharp. Alert. Watching everything.

“Where is he?” I ask, my voice sharper than I expect, like I need to get ahead of this, like knowing where he is somehow gives me a fraction of control.

Ronan’s brow lifts slightly, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Straight to it, yeah? I like that.”

“I didn’t ask what you like.” The words come out fast, defensive, because if I let him steer this, I already lose something.

He lets out a low chuckle, pushing himself off the counter and taking a step closer. Not too close. Not like him. But enough that I feel it anyway. “Cillian’s busy,” he says, tone easy, like we’re having a normal conversation in a normal place. “You’ve got a bit of breathing room. Enjoy it while you can.”

“I’m not staying here.” I don’t hesitate. I can’t. If I hesitate, it becomes real.

Ronan studies me for a second, and the humor in his expression fades just enough to show something else underneath. Something harder. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “you are.”

“No, I’m not,” I shoot back, stepping toward him now, because standing still feels like surrender. “You don’t get to decide that. None of you do. This is illegal. I can call the police. I will call the police.”

His lips twitch again, like he’s trying not to laugh outright. “Go on then.”

I frown. “What?”

“Call them,” he says, gesturing vaguely around the apartment. “I’m sure there’s a phone somewhere. Try your luck.”

Something in his tone makes my chest tighten, because he doesn’t sound worried. He doesn’t sound like someone who thinks I can actually do that. “They’ll find me,” I insist, even though the words don’t feel as strong as they should. “People will notice I’m gone.”

“They won’t find you here.” The certainty in his voice hits harder than anything else he’s said so far, and I hate how it sinks in.

I turn away before he can see that, moving deeper into the penthouse, letting my eyes scan everything while my brain starts working again. Doors. Hallways. Angles. Distance. The front door is behind me, but I already know that’s useless. The big guy with the gun is out there. I don’t need to see him to know that. The windows are useless too, too high, too exposed, no way down that doesn’t end with me dead on the pavement. There has to be something. There’s always something.

“Looking for something?” Ronan’s voice comes again, closer this time.

“No,” I say immediately, even though it’s an obvious lie.

“Liar.”

I turn sharply. “I’m not…”

“Relax,” he cuts in, lifting his hands slightly like he’s humoring me. “If you were trying to escape, you’d have picked a better option than pacing around like that. Liam’s outside. You wouldn’t make it three steps.” He pauses, then adds casually, “Windows are worse. That’s just a quick way to end the night.”

“Stop talking,” I snap, the frustration finally breaking through. “Just stop.”

He watches me for a moment longer than necessary, something calculating flickering behind his eyes before he speaks again. “You’re not like the others.”

My brows pull together. “What does that mean?”

“They usually break faster,” he says simply. “Cry. Beg. Try to bargain.”

“I’m not bargaining.” I spit.

“I can see that.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before, stretched thin with everything neither of us is saying. I swallow, forcing myself to focus on something I can still control. “I want my own room.”

Ronan huffs out a laugh. “Christ, listen to you. Already making demands.”

“I’m not sharing a room with him,” I say, my voice firm now, steadier. “I’m not sleeping anywhere near him. I don’t care what he thinks he bought…”

“You’re not sharing a room with me.” The voice cuts through the space clean and controlled, and I turn immediately.

Cillian is standing there like he’s been there longer than I realized, like he’s been watching this entire exchange without interrupting. My body reacts instantly, tension snapping through me as he steps forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes already on me like nothing else in the room matters.

“You’ll have your own room,” he continues, tone calm, like this is a concession he’s already decided to give. “You’ll be comfortable.”

A small part of me relaxes at that, just slightly, but I crush it down immediately. That’s not a win. None of this is a win.

“I’m not staying here,” I repeat, because I need to keep saying it, need to keep holding onto that.

His lips curve faintly, not quite a smile, something sharper. “You are.”

“I’m not your…” I stop myself, but it’s too late. He already knows what I was about to say.

His eyes darken just enough to make my stomach tighten. “Careful.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, even though my body is already betraying me.

He moves closer. One step. Then another, and I step back without thinking, until my back hits the wall again and I have nowhere else to go. His hand comes up, resting against the wall beside my head, trapping me there without actually touching me, and the closeness is suffocating.

“You should be,” he says quietly.

My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might give me away, but I lift my chin anyway. “I’m not giving you anything. No marriage. No child. Nothing.”

For a second, he just looks at me, and then he mutters, “Christ,” under his breath like I’ve just confirmed something for him. His gaze drags over my face, slower now, more deliberate, like he’s studying me instead of just looking.

“You don’t understand your position yet,” he says.

“Then explain it better,” I fire back.

His eyes darken slightly, and this time I know I’ve pushed something, but instead of pulling away, he leans in closer, his voice dropping low enough that I feel it more than I hear it.

“You belong to me now.” My stomach twists hard. “You either learn how to live with that,” he continues, his tone colder now, sharper, “or you don’t live at all.”

My breath stutters, the words sinking in deeper than I want them to, and for the first time since this started, something shifts inside me. Not just fear. Not just anger. Reality. Because no matter how much I fight this, no matter how much I argue or push or refuse… I’m here. And he’s not bluffing. And there’s no one coming to save me.