Chapter Two

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime—a sound far too polite for the jagged tension crackling in the air.

I stepped out last, my scuffed heels clicking against the black marble floor like a warning. I felt like an intruder, a smudge of dirt on a pristine canvas. The penthouse was breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of the city, but the luxury did nothing to warm the air. It was freezing. This wasn't a home; it was a stage set for four men who looked at me like I was a parasite draining their lifeblood.

Lucien didn’t even give me a second to catch my breath.

He tossed his suit jacket over a leather sofa and turned, his silver-gray eyes locking onto mine with the kind of clinical detachment that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"Rules," he said, about to repeat what he exactly said hours ago at the boardroom. His voice was clipped, mean, and carried the weight of a man who didn't just expect obedience, he commanded the very oxygen in the room. "The east wing is yours. The west wing is ours, stay out. You eat when we eat. You attend every social event we require. You speak only when spoken to."

He took a step toward me, his presence heavy and suffocating. "No visitors. No personal calls that aren’t cleared by my security team first. Break any rule, and the year resets from day one. My father thought throwing us all into one house would fix what’s broken between us. He was wrong. But until you quit and walk away, this is your reality."

Behind him, Damon leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his broad, tattooed chest. His green eyes dragged over me slowly, arrogant and unapologetic. He looked like the kind of man who didn't just watch things break—he enjoyed the sound they made when they shattered.

"In case the Ice King wasn’t clear enough, sweetheart, don’t get too comfortable," Damon drawled. "This isn’t your happily-ever-after. It’s a countdown."

Kai didn’t say a word. He just grabbed his motorcycle helmet and disappeared down the west hallway without a single glance back. His shoulders were tight, vibrating with a silence that felt like the precursor to a storm.

Theo was the only one who offered a smile, though it was nothing more than a predatory flash of teeth. "Night, roomie. If the big bad wolves keep you up, you know where to find me." He winked and sauntered off, already buried in his phone.

Lucien gave me one final, freezing look. "Last door on the left in the east wing. Don’t test me tonight, Miss Voss."

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the center of a living room that felt too large and too quiet. I stood there until the sound of the west wing doors clicking shut echoed in my ears. The silence pressed against my chest like a physical weight.

I dragged my small, worn suitcase down the east hallway, the wheels rattling loudly against the expensive floors. When I pushed open the last door, I gasped. The room was absurdly beautiful—a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a walk-in closet larger than my entire old studio apartment, and a tub that could fit four people.

I slammed the door and leaned my back against the heavy wood, finally letting out the shaky breath I’d been holding. This is my life now.

I sank onto the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone. The screen was a graveyard of notifications. The tabloids had already moved with terrifying speed.

“Mystery Woman Moves Into Hart Penthouse, Rumors Had It She Captured Their Hearts While Wiggling Ass AT Their Club” The comments were a whirlwind of venom and envy. Girls posting heart emojis, claiming I was "living the dream," while others called me a gold-digger. Someone had tagged their friend: “Imagine waking up to those four every morning. I’d die.”

I scrolled until my thumb hurt and my heart felt like lead. They didn't know. They didn't realize that "living the dream" felt like being a prisoner in a gold-plated cage.

I thought about my mother—the sterile smell of the hospital, the rhythmic beeping of the machines before the world went silent. I could still feel the way she had squeezed my hand with the last of her strength.

"Promise me, baby. That you will agree to Richard Hart's request. You deserve more than dancing for monsters."

I had promised her through hot tears, smelling of cheap perfume and the cigarette smoke of the Eclipse. Back then, survival meant smiling while hands grabbed your ass too hard and tips barely covered the chemo.

The phone buzzed in my hand, snapping me back to the present.

Jace.

My stomach turned. I watched it ring until it stopped, only for it to start again immediately. On the fourth call, my anger finally drowned out my fear. I swiped and pressed it to my ear.

"What do you want?" I bit out.

His oily, familiar laugh slithered through the line. "Baby... I saw the news. You really hit the jackpot, didn't you? Four rich, powerful brothers and a penthouse? Come on, Scarlett. That life isn’t you. Come back to me. I’ll treat you right this time—no more fighting."

The old ache twisted in my chest, followed by a surge of fury. "We were never good, Jace. You hit me. You took my money. You filmed me without asking and kept those videos like weapons. We’re done. Don't call me again."

"You stupid little slut," he hissed, the "charming" mask slipping instantly. "You think you’re better than me now? You’re fucking all four of them, aren’t you? I still have every video from the Eclipse, Scarlett. Every single one. Keep playing house up there and I’ll make sure the whole world sees exactly who you are."

The call ended with a sharp click.

I dropped the phone as if it had burned me. My hands shook uncontrollably as shame crawled up my throat. I could still feel the ghost of Jace’s grip on my wrist, the sting of his words, the nights I’d cried in the bathroom so my mother wouldn't hear me.

I needed to drown out the noise. I walked over to the mini-fridge and grabbed the first bottle of red wine I saw. I didn't bother with a glass—I just twisted the cap and took a long, defiant swallow. It was tart and expensive, a sharp contrast to the bitter taste of my past.

In my hazy mind, I saw the headlines and comments of those envious girls online again. For a blurry moment, I almost laughed. Here I was, in one of the most powerful houses in the city, with money I’d never dreamed of, surrounded by four devastatingly handsome men who hated my guts.

"Fuck them," I whispered to the empty room. "Fuck all of it."

By the time the bottle was half empty, the room started to tilt. The adrenaline of the move had faded, replaced by a numb, floating sensation. I stood up, intending to find the bathroom to wash the tear tracks off my face, but the door looked... different. Or maybe I was just too drunk to care.

I pushed it open and stepped out, not into a bathroom, but into a dark, sprawling hallway. I wandered, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet, until I reached a door that stood slightly ajar.

A scent drifted out—expensive cologne, leather, and something sharper, like whiskey and smoke.

It wasn't my room.

I pushed the door further, my vision swimming. The room inside was vast, dominated by a huge bed with rumpled black sheets.

Damon’s.

The realization hit me a second too late. I turned to leave, my heart suddenly racing, but a shadow moved in the corner of the room.