Chapter 2:  Cage

The iron gates of the Vane penthouse swung open; The SUV growled up the winding driveway, the headlights cutting through the mist.

"Out," Houston commanded the second the car hissed to a halt.

Brittany’s legs were shaking so violently she nearly tripped on the hem of that cursed red silk. She looked up at the gothic monolith of stone and glass. It was beautiful, cold, and utterly terrifying.

"Houston, please," she whispered, grabbing his sleeve as he started toward the massive oak doors. 

"My medicine. I left it on the kitchen counter. If I don't get it tonight—"

"You’ll what? Die?" Houston spun around, his eyes flashing with a dark, twisted amusement. He stepped into her space, his height casting her in total shadow. "Good. It would save me the trouble of watching you rot.

 But unfortunately for you, my doctors will be here in the morning to ensure you stay alive long enough to pay off every cent of that five million."

"It’s not for me! It’s—" She bit her lip until she tasted copper. It’s for the triplets’ nebulizer. Noah had the cough again. If she didn't get home, if Talia didn't know where the backup inhaler was...

"It’s for your pride? Your vanity?" He sneered, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear. "You don't get 'medicine' here, Brittany. You get whatever I decide to give you. 

The doors swung open. Standing in the foyer, draped in pearls and a look of pure venom, was Pamela Vane.

"So, she returns," Pamela said, her voice like a velvet noose. "I see you’ve brought your father’s filth into my home, Houston."

Please, do make our guest very comfortable.

"She’s not a guest, Mother," Houston said, walking past her without a glance. "She’s an investment. Put her in the attic suite. Lock the balcony."

"The attic?" Brittany gasped. "Houston, I can't be locked away. I have a life! I have—"

"You have me," a new voice drawled from the top of the grand staircase.

A man descended, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was younger than Houston, with a chaotic energy and a jagged scar running through his eyebrow. Craig Vane. Houston’s cousin and the family’s resident disaster.

Craig’s eyes traveled down Brittany’s body with the subtlety of a car wreck.

"So this is the legendary Brittany. Five million? Damn, Houston. I knew you were sentimental, but I didn't know you were a moron. I could’ve gotten you three of these in Vegas for the price of a used Audi."

Houston’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Watch your mouth, Craig."

"Why? You said she’s an investment." Craig reached the bottom step and circled Brittany like a shark. He leaned in, sniffing the air near her neck. 

"She smells like... cheap soap and desperation. Not exactly the 'High Society Fiancée' look, is it?"

"Get out, Craig," Houston warned, his voice dropping an octave.

"Just saying," Craig smirked, reaching out to flick the strap of Brittany’s dress. "If you get bored with your new toy, or if she’s too 'broken' for you, I’d be happy to take her off your hands. I’ve always liked your leftovers."

CRACK.

Before Brittany could blink, Houston had Craig pinned against the marble wall by his throat. The glass of bourbon shattered on the floor.

"If you touch her," Houston hissed, his face inches from his cousin’s, "if you even breathe the same air as her without my permission, I will strip your trust fund so fast your head will spin. She is mine to break. Not yours."

Houston flung him aside like trash. Craig coughed, rubbing his neck, but the smirk didn't leave his face. "Touchy. Guess the 'no feelings' rule is already failing, huh?"

Houston ignored him, grabbing Brittany’s arm and dragging her toward the back of the house. He didn't take her to the attic. He threw her into his private study and slammed the door, locking it with a click that sounded like a gunshot.

"Give me your phone," he demanded.

"I told you, it was in my purse! Your guards took it!" Brittany yelled, her panic finally boiling over. "Houston, stop this! I need to go home. Just for an hour. I swear I’ll come back. I’ll sign anything. I’ll be your slave, just let me go back to that apartment for one hour!"

Houston walked toward her, his expression unreadable. He backed her up against his mahogany desk, his hands landing on either side of her hips, pinning her.

"Why?" he whispered. "Is he there? The man you left me for? Is he waiting in that 'cramped apartment' for his payday?"

"There is no man!"

"Liar!" He slammed his hand onto the desk, making her jump. "I saw the photos, Brittany. Five years ago. You at the clinic. You with that guy from the city. I know why you ran. You thought he was a better bet than a guy whose father had just died. You thought I was weak."

"Houston, that’s not what happened—"

"I don't care what happened!" He grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat radiating off him was a stark contrast to the ice in his words. 

"You’re going to stay in this house. You’re going to play the happy bride-to-be. And every time I look at you, I want you to remember that I own the breath in your lungs."

Suddenly, his desk phone began to ring. An internal line.

Houston growled, reaching back to answer it without breaking eye contact with her. 

"What?"

"Sir," a security guard’s voice crackled through the speaker. 

"There’s a woman at the gate. A Talia Rossi. She’s hysterical. She says she has 'three reasons' why Brittany needs to come home right now or she’s calling the police."

Brittany’s heart stopped. The triplets.

Houston’s eyes narrowed, his grip on her waist tightening. "Three reasons?" He looked at Brittany, whose face had gone deathly pale. 

"What is she talking about, Brittany? What 'three reasons' could possibly be worth a police report?"

Brittany’s mind raced. If she told him, it was over. He’d take them. But if she didn't, Talia might actually call the cops, and Houston would bury them all.

"It’s... it’s the debt," Brittany stammered, the lie tasting like ash. 

"My father owes three different cartels. She... she’s probably scared they’re coming for her since I’m not there."

Houston stared at her for a long beat. He didn't believe her. He picked up the receiver. "Tell Ms. Rossi that Brittany is under my protection now. If she calls the police, I’ll have her evicted from that tenement by morning. Send her away."

"No!" Brittany lunged for the phone, but Houston caught her mid-air, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"Enough!" he roared. He carried her out of the study and up the stairs, ignoring her screams and the pounding of her fists against his back.

He reached the end of the hall, kicked open a door, and tossed her onto a massive, cold bed.

"You want to go home?" He stood over her, unbuttoning his blazer and tossing it to the floor. "Then give me a reason to let you. Give me something worth five million dollars, Brittany. Because right now? All I see is a traitor."

He reached for his belt, his eyes dark with a hunger that wasn't just about revenge.

But as he leaned in, a small, crinkled piece of paper fell out of the hidden pocket in Brittany’s red dress.

Houston picked it up before she could grab it.

It was a crayon drawing. Three stick figures with messy black hair, holding hands under a yellow sun. At the bottom, in shaky four-year-old handwriting, it said, WE LOVE MOMMY.

The silence in the room became deafening.

Houston looked from the drawing to Brittany’s terrified face. "Who," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, lethal rage, "are these?"