Chapter 3: A Gilded Cage on Display

A few days passed in a blur of silent tension. Lynn kept to his room or the designated studio space—a room filled with the finest art supplies money could buy, another mocking reminder of his situation. Caius was often absent, leaving Lynn alone with the ever-watchful eyes of the cameras and the quiet efficiency of James, who ensured his every physical need was met. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional, stiff exchange during the rare meals they shared in the vast, cold dining room. Lynn spoke only when spoken to, his answers short and polite. He was playing his part: the quiet, compliant companion.

Then, one evening, James laid out a suit for him. It was impeccably tailored, a deep charcoal grey that felt foreign and restrictive against his skin. "Mr. Evans requests your presence this evening," James informed him, his tone neutral. "A charity gala. You are to accompany him as his guest."

A gala. The thought made Lynn's stomach twist. He was to be put on display. The "pet" being shown off. Dread coiled tight within him, but he simply nodded. Resistance was pointless.

When he was ready, he walked out into the living area. Caius was waiting, already dressed in a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, amplifying his aura of power and cold elegance. His eyes swept over Lynn, and for a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in their gray depths—approval? Possession?—before it was gone, replaced by their usual impassivity.

"Let's go," was all Caius said.

The gala was held in a grand ballroom, a sea of glittering chandeliers, expensive perfumes, and the low hum of powerful people networking. The moment they entered, Lynn felt the weight of countless eyes. Whispers started, subtle at first, then growing bolder as they moved through the crowd. He heard snippets, words that cut like glass.

"...the new one?"

"...looks just like..."

"...Evans certainly has a type, doesn't he?"

"...pretty thing. Wonder how long this one will last."

He kept his head held high, a mask of calm indifference plastered on his face, but inside, he was shrinking. He was not Lynn, the artist. He was "Caius Evans's latest acquisition." A piece of arm candy. A living monument to someone else.

Caius, for his part, seemed oblivious to the whispers, or perhaps he was simply used to them. He moved through the crowd with an air of detached authority, occasionally nodding to someone, never stopping for long conversation. He didn't introduce Lynn, which somehow felt like an even greater insult. He was merely an accessory.

At one point, a older, overly perfumed man with a leering smile stepped a bit too close to Lynn. "And who is this delightful creature, Caius? You've been keeping him hidden." The man's gaze was intrusive, demeaning.

Before Lynn could react, or even fully process the fresh wave of humiliation, Caius's arm snaked around his waist. It was a firm, possessive gesture, pulling Lynn flush against his side. The contact was electric and utterly unwelcome. Lynn's entire body went rigid. He could feel the solid strength of Caius's arm, the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. It was a claim, stark and undeniable.

"He's with me," Caius said, his voice low and cold, carrying a clear warning that brooked no argument. The leering man's smile faltered, and he quickly backed away with a nervous laugh.

In that moment, a confusing storm of emotions warred within Lynn. The initial shock and revulsion at the touch were overwhelming. This was just another form of control, another way to show everyone that he was owned. The grip on his waist was tight, a physical manifestation of his captivity. He wanted to shove the arm away, to scream, to reclaim some shred of his dignity.

But... another part of his brain, a treacherous, survivalist part, registered something else. In that cold, possessive gesture, there had also been a shield. Caius had, in his own domineering way, intervened. He had drawn a line, using his presence to ward off a more direct, and perhaps more vulgar, form of harassment. The leering man had retreated because of Caius's power. For a split second, the tight grip felt less like a chain and more like a barrier.

The thought was immediately followed by a surge of self-disgust. No. Don't do that. Don't look for kindness in this. This is still a cage. He's just marking his territory. He couldn't allow himself to misinterpret the actions of his jailer. It was a dangerous path.

He forced himself to relax minutely against Caius's side, a gesture of false acquiescence. He even managed to curve his lips into a faint, polite smile for the benefit of anyone watching. It was the most difficult performance of his life. Inside, his mind was a riot of hatred and confusion. His hands, hanging at his sides, were clenched into tight fists, his nails digging crescents into his palms. The sharp, physical pain was a grounding anchor, a reminder of the reality he could not afford to forget.

He was a prisoner on a leash, being paraded before the world. The arm around him was not protection; it was the strongest link of that chain. And the smile on his face was a lie, carefully constructed to hide the seething resentment beneath. He would play this part, for now. He would be the quiet, beautiful companion. But every whisper, every condescending glance, every possessive touch, was another log on the fire of his hatred. One day, he vowed silently, his gaze sweeping over the glittering, hollow crowd, the roles would be reversed. He would make Caius Evans feel just as powerless as he felt right now.

The gala continued, a seemingly endless parade of false smiles and whispered judgments. Lynn endured it, his body held stiffly beside Caius, his mind a fortress of cold, hard plans. The game was far from over; it had just entered a new, more public arena.