In the Arms of the Enemy’s Brother

Serena’s POV

The alarm never rings in this apartment.

Liam hates sudden noises, so the lights just start to brighten slowly, like the sun is rising inside the walls. At 6:15 exactly, the bedroom turns from black to soft gray. I feel the change on my eyelids before I open them.

I keep perfectly still.

He is already awake. I know it the way animals know a storm is coming. The air is different when Liam is watching me. It feels heavier, like someone poured water into it. I lie on my left side, knees pulled up a little, arms tucked under the pillow, pretending I’m still asleep. My heart is already beating too fast.

I count in my head. One… two… three…

I reach thirty before the mattress moves. The sheet slides down my shoulder, cool air touching my skin. His fingers (warm, dry, careful) brush the hair away from my neck. He does it the same way every morning, like he is uncovering something he owns.

“Serena,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper. “Open your eyes, baby.”

I open them.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but black boxer briefs. His body is beautiful the way statues are beautiful: hard, perfect, cold. Broad shoulders, flat stomach, the kind of muscles that come from private trainers who cost five hundred dollars an hour. His dark hair is still messy from sleep, but even the mess looks planned. Those light blue eyes look straight into me, like he can see every thought I try to hide.

“Morning,” I say. My voice sounds tiny, like it belongs to someone younger.

He smiles, but the smile stays on his mouth only. The eyes stay serious. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” It is a lie. I never sleep well anymore. I dream about locked doors and hands that squeeze too tight.

He leans over and kisses my forehead first, then the tip of my nose, then my mouth. The kiss is soft at the beginning, then harder. His tongue slides between my lips like he is checking that nothing has changed since last night. When he pulls away, he keeps one hand on my cheek, thumb stroking slow.

“You look beautiful when you first wake up,” he says. “Hair everywhere, lips swollen. Mine.”

The word mine makes my stomach twist.

I try to smile. “I love you,” I say, because that is the password that makes everything safe for a little while.

His eyes warm then, really warm. He kisses me again, deeper this time, climbing half on top of me, pressing me into the mattress. The weight of him is familiar and terrifying at the same time. After a minute he stops, breathes against my neck.

“I wish I could stay in bed with you all day,” he says. “But I have the Tokyo call at seven.”

He gets up. The bathroom light clicks on. I hear water running, the electric toothbrush, the soft sounds of his perfect routine. I stay under the sheet, counting ceiling tiles I already know by heart.

When he comes back, he is wearing a white towel low on his hips. Water drips from his hair onto his chest. He walks to the walk-in closet (bigger than most people’s apartments) and starts choosing clothes. I watch from the bed. He picks a navy suit, pale blue shirt, silver tie. Everything matches the mood board his stylist sends every season.

He dresses without hurry, buttoning the shirt, knotting the tie, sliding the jacket on. Every movement is smooth, like he is on camera. When the cufflinks go in (white gold, tiny diamonds) he finally looks at me again.

“Up,” he says, gentle but not a question.

I push the covers away and stand. The air conditioning is always cold in the morning. My skin gets goosebumps. I’m wearing one of his old T-shirts and nothing else. He looks at my legs, then back to my face.

“Today,” he says, walking to my side of the closet, “you’ll wear the cream silk blouse with the pearl buttons, the camel pencil skirt, and the nude Louboutins with the thin strap. Hair down, soft waves. Light makeup. You have the dress fitting and lunch afterwards with your father and Caroline”

He pulls each piece out and lays them on the velvet bench exactly the way he wants them arranged. Blouse on top, skirt under, shoes side by side, even the delicate gold earrings in a small dish.

I nod.

He steps close again, lifts my chin with two fingers. “I put a new credit card in your purse. Use it for anything you want today, but send me photos of the dress on you. I want to see every angle.”

“Yes, Liam.”

He kisses me once more, quick and hard. “Be good.”

Then he is gone. The bedroom door closes without a sound. I stand there in the middle of the huge room until I hear the elevator doors open and close far down the hallway. Only then do I breathe all the way out.

I walk to the bathroom. It is all white marble and gold fixtures, bigger than my childhood bedroom. The mirror is already clear; the housekeeper came at five a.m. while we slept. I look at myself.

My long dark hair is tangled. There are faint red marks on my neck from his mouth last night. My green eyes look too big, scared. On my upper left arm is a bruise the color of old wine (four fingerprints and a thumb). I touch it gently. It still hurts. Long sleeves today.

I turn the shower to the hottest setting. Eight showerheads blast water from every direction. Steam fills the room. I step in and let it burn. I scrub my skin with the expensive soap that smells like roses and money until my body is pink. I wash my hair twice. I stand there long after I’m clean, watching water swirl down the drain, trying to imagine my fear going with it.

It never does.

When I step out, the outfit is still waiting on the bench like a uniform. I dry my hair with the Dyson he bought me for Christmas, I put on the white lace bra and panties he likes, then the cream silk blouse. The fabric is so fine it feels like wearing air. The skirt hugs my hips and stops just below the knee. I slide my feet into the Louboutins. The red soles flash when I walk. In the mirror I look like a rich man’s doll.

Perfect.

I went downstairs. The apartment takes up the entire sixty-third and sixty-fourth floors of the building on Central Park South. Everything is glass and steel and pale wood. The kitchen is bigger than most restaurants. The chef, Anton, is already there in his white jacket. He smiles when he sees me.

“Good morning, Miss Serena. Poached eggs on sourdough, half an avocado, black coffee, no sugar?”

Exactly what Liam ordered for me this week.

“Yes, please.”

I sit at the long marble island. Anton slides the plate in front of me. The eggs are perfect circles, the avocado fanned like a flower. It looks beautiful and tastes like nothing. I eat because if I don’t, Liam will notice the calories on the smart fridge report.

While I eat, I look out the windows. Central Park is far below, trees turning gold and red with autumn. People look like ants. A woman is running with a stroller. A man throws a frisbee for a golden retriever. They look happy. They look free.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Liam: Eat everything on your plate. I’m watching the kitchen camera.

I look up. There is a small black dome in the corner of the ceiling. I never noticed it before. Or maybe I did and forgot. I pick up the fork again and finish the eggs even though my stomach is already full of rocks.

At 9:40 the intercom beeps. The doorman says Marco is waiting downstairs.

I take the private elevator. It opens straight into the underground garage. Marco stands beside the black Mercedes Maybach, door already open. He is six-foot-four, built like a linebacker, always in a black suit.

“Morning, Miss Serena.”

“Morning, Marco.”

I slide across the cool leather seat. The door closes with a heavy thud. The car smells like Liam’s cologne. We pull out into traffic. The city is loud outside the thick glass (horns, sirens, people shouting), but inside it is church-quiet.

My phone buzzes again.

Liam: Send me a photo when you’re dressed . I want to see you in the heels.

I turn the camera to selfie mode, force a smile, snap the picture, send it.

Three little dots. Then:

Liam: Beautiful. Everyone will be jealous you’re mine.

I set the phone face-down on the seat.

We stop at a light on Fifth Avenue. A bride in a puffy white dress is taking photos on the steps of the Plaza Hotel. Her groom lifts her, laughing. She throws her head back, mouth open, joy all over her face. I stare until the light turns green and we glide past.

Marco meets my eyes in the mirror. “You okay back there, Miss?”

I swallow. “Yes. Thank you.”

He nods and looks away.

The car keeps moving, carrying me through streets full of people who don’t belong to anyone, toward a day planned down to the minute by a man who loves me so much it hurts.

My wedding is in six weeks There will be champagne and flowers and girls telling me how lucky I am.

I rest my head against the cool window and watch the city I used to love slide by, feeling the invisible chain around my neck tighten just a little more with every block.