Chapter 5 - Elena

Elena

I don’t realize how tense my body is until he tells me to walk again.

“Come,” Cillian says, his voice calm, controlled, like everything in his world already bends to him, and I hate how my body reacts to it before my brain does. I hesitate for half a second, just enough to remind myself I don’t have to listen, just enough to feel that flicker of defiance rise again, but then he steps closer, and that space between us disappears, and suddenly the choice doesn’t feel like one anymore.

I move. Not because I want to. Because I understand what happens if I don’t.

The penthouse stretches out endlessly as he leads me down a long hallway, my bare feet silent against the polished floor. I keep a small distance between us at first, trying to hold onto something that feels like control, but he slows just enough that I end up closer again, too aware of his presence, of the way he moves like he owns every inch of this place, like he owns me.

I clench my jaw at that thought. No. Not happening. We stop in front of a door.

He doesn’t open it immediately. Instead, he glances at me, his eyes dragging over my face like he’s measuring something, calculating. It makes my skin prickle.

“This is your room,” he says.

Your room. The words feel wrong. Too possessive. Too final, and he pushes the door open. The space inside is… beautiful. Too beautiful.

Soft lighting, a large bed with dark sheets, clean lines, elegant furniture, and a floor-to-ceiling window mirroring the one in the main room. Everything is perfectly placed, perfectly designed, like it belongs in a magazine, not in a life I didn’t choose.

I step inside slowly, my eyes scanning everything, taking it in even though I don’t want to. It’s comfortable. More than comfortable. It’s the kind of place someone would want to stay in. And that’s exactly the point.

“You’ll have everything you need,” he says behind me, his voice closer now. Too close.

I turn slightly, not fully facing him, just enough to keep him in my peripheral vision. “I don’t want anything from you.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Doesn’t matter what you want.”

My chest tightens.

I walk further into the room, needing space, needing distance, my fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the dresser as I move. I’m aware of him following me without looking, aware of the shift in the air every time he steps closer, like the room itself reacts to him.

I hate that I feel it.

“There are rules,” he says.

I let out a small, humorless laugh as I turn to face him properly now. “Of course there are. Why wouldn’t there be?”

His expression doesn’t change. Not even slightly.

“You don’t leave this room unless I tell you to,” he says, voice even, like he’s listing something simple. “You don’t leave the penthouse. You don’t speak to anyone unless I allow it.”

My stomach drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, my voice sharper now, disbelief cutting through everything else. “You think I’m just going to sit here and play along with this?”

“I don’t think,” he says calmly. “I know.”

I take a step toward him, anger pushing me forward despite everything else. “You don’t know anything about me.”

His gaze sharpens slightly. “I know enough.”

“Then you know I’m not doing this,” I fire back. “I’m not your wife. I’m not your… your solution, or whatever the hell you think I am.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy, charged. Then he moves. Fast. One second, there’s space between us. The next, there isn’t.

My hips hit the edge of the dresser this time, not the wall, but it still traps me just the same. My breath catches as he steps in close, too close, his presence overwhelming in a way I can’t ignore, no matter how much I want to.

“You will do exactly what I tell you,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher, not louder but somehow more dangerous. “Because you don’t have another option.”

“I do,” I snap, even as my pulse spikes. “I can fight you. I can scream. I can…”

“Try.” The word cuts through everything.

My mouth closes. Not because I don’t have something to say. Because of the way he says it. Like he already knows the outcome. Like he’s seen it play out a hundred times before.

“You think anyone’s going to hear you?” he continues, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to brush against my skin. “You think anyone’s coming through that door to help you?”

My throat tightens. I hate that he’s right.

“I won’t marry you,” I say anyway, forcing the words out through the knot forming in my chest. “I won’t give you anything.”

His gaze drops briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes, slow and deliberate, like he’s not in a rush, like time means nothing to him.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, almost like I’m testing his patience.

His hand lifts. And for a second, I think he’s going to grab me. Restrain me. Force me. Instead, his fingers brush lightly against my jaw. Barely a touch. But it burns.

My breath stutters. He tilts my head slightly, not forcing, not hurting, just guiding, like he’s already used to moving me where he wants me.

“You don’t get to refuse me,” he says quietly.

My stomach twists. “I just did,” I whisper back, even though my voice isn’t as steady as I want it to be. A flicker of something crosses his expression. Not anger. Not exactly. Something darker.

His thumb brushes once, slow, along my jaw before he drops his hand.

“You’ll learn,” he says.

“I won’t.”

His lips almost curve. Almost. “We’ll see.”

Silence settles again, thick and suffocating. Then he steps back. And just like that, the space between us returns, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like something is waiting.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he says, tone back to calm, controlled, like none of that just happened. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

“I’m not going to be here in the morning,” I shoot back immediately.

His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary.

“Yes,” he says simply. “You will.”

Then he turns. Walks to the door. And for a split second, I think about running. About pushing past him. About trying anyway. But my body doesn’t move. Because I already know. The door opens. He steps out. And then, It closes.

I stand there for a second. Two. Three. Then I move. Fast.

I cross the room in seconds, my hand wrapping around the handle, yanking it open, but it doesn’t budge. My stomach drops.

No. I pull again. Harder. Nothing. Locked. Of course it is.

A shaky breath leaves my lungs as I press my forehead lightly against the door, my fingers still gripping the handle like I can force it open if I just try hard enough.

“You said I could have my own room,” I whisper, my voice breaking just slightly despite everything I’m trying to hold together. My grip tightens. Then I pull the handle again. Locked.