Chapter 3

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, save for the hum of machinery that felt like it was vibrating in Aara’s very bones. When the doors slid open, she didn't step into a hallway; she stepped directly into Damian Thorne’s world.

The space was vast, lit by recessed LEDs that cast a soft, clinical glow over everything. The air was perfectly tempered, smelling faintly of expensive air purifiers and the ghost of Damian’s sandalwood cologne.

"Your room is through the gallery," Damian said, walking past her without looking back. He draped his coat over the back of a chair that probably cost more than her father’s car. "The housekeeper has already been informed. You will find everything you need inside."

Aara followed him, her wet shoes leaving small, pathetic puddles on the pristine marble floor. She felt like an ink blot on a clean sheet of paper messy, unwanted, and glaringly obvious.

She found the third door on the left and pushed it open. Her breath hitched.

The room was larger than her entire apartment. A king-sized bed sat in the center, draped in charcoal silk sheets. A wall of glass looked out over the glittering lights of Manhattan, making her feel like she was floating in the sky. But what caught her eye was the open walk-in closet.

She walked toward it, her heart thumping. Her old, battered suitcase wasn't there. Instead, rows of designer dresses, cashmere sweaters, and silk lingerie hung in perfect color-coordinated lines. On the floor, dozens of pairs of shoes heels, boots, flats waited like silent soldiers.

She reached out, touching the hem of a cream-colored silk robe. It was soft, like a cloud. She looked down at her own soaked, cheap dress.

"I didn't ask for these," she whispered to the empty room.

"I don't allow my wife to dress like a beggar," a voice drawled from the doorway.

Aara spun around. Damian was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, tracking her every movement.

"You threw away my things?" she asked, her voice rising with a spark of the fire he hadn't managed to extinguish yet. "Those were my clothes. My life."

"Those were rags," he countered, stepping into the room. The space suddenly felt much smaller. "You are a Thorne now, Aara. Even if it’s only for a year, you will look the part. You represent me. Everything you wear, everywhere you go, is a reflection of my power. Do not embarrass me."

"I don't care about your power," she snapped, stepping toward him. "I'm here because you forced me. You can buy me a new wardrobe, but you can't buy me."

Damian set his glass down on a side table and took two long strides, closing the distance between them. He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, a gesture that should have been tender but felt like a claim.

"I already bought you, Aara," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Check your phone. The hospital just received the first installment of your father’s medical trust. Three million dollars. That’s the price I paid for you. I’d say that gives me the right to decide what you wear."

Aara felt the sting of tears but she blinked them back. He was right. She was a line item in his ledger now.

"Go wash the street off you," he commanded, releasing her chin. "The water in the bath is already heated. When you’re done, put on the black silk gown on the bed. We’re having dinner. We need to discuss the rules of this house."

"I thought the rules were in the contract," she said, her voice trembling.

Damian walked toward the door, stopping at the threshold. He turned back, his gaze raking over her one last time, lingering on the curve of her neck.

"The contract is for the lawyers," he said darkly. "The rules are for me. And remember what I said about the lock, Aara. If I find that door bolted, I’ll have it taken off the hinges by morning."

He left, the door clicking shut behind him, but not locking.

Aara stood in the silence of the massive room, the weight of the diamond ring on her finger feeling like a lead weight. She walked into the bathroom, where a sunken tub was indeed steaming, filled with scented oils that smelled of jasmine.

She stripped off her wet, ruined dress and stepped into the water. It was the most luxurious thing she had ever felt, but as she leaned back and closed her eyes, all she could see was Damian’s face. He was her savior and her captor.

When she stepped out, she found the black silk gown he had mentioned. It was simple, held up by thin spaghetti straps, and it slid over her skin like water. It was beautiful. It made her look like a queen.

She walked out into the main living area, her bare feet silent on the rugs. Damian was sitting at a long mahogany table, a spread of food before him that could have fed a dozen people. He didn't look up as she sat down across from him.

"Rule number one," he said, cutting into a piece of steak with surgical precision. "You do not leave this penthouse without an escort. My security team needs to know your location at all times."

"I have a life, Damian. I have friends. I have.."

"You have me," he interrupted, finally meeting her eyes. "Friends are a liability. Your old life is on pause. You are a ghost to the world until I decide otherwise."

"You can't do that!"

"I can do whatever I want," he said calmly. "Rule number two. You will attend every social function I deem necessary. You will smile. You will hold my arm. You will convince the world and specifically my grandmother that I have finally found a woman worth keeping."

Aara gripped the edge of the table. "And what happens when the year is up? When the grandmother gets what she wants?"

Damian leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Then you get your freedom, your father gets his life, and we never have to see each other again."

"Is that all this is to you? A business transaction?"

Damian looked at her, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the cold billionaire slipped. Aara saw something dark and hungry in his eyes, a loneliness that was so deep it was terrifying.

"Everything is a transaction, Aara," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But some transactions... are more pleasurable than others."

He stood up, walking around the table until he stood behind her. He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "Eat. You’re too thin. I like my things well-maintained."

He walked away toward his own suite, leaving Aara alone with a feast she couldn't taste and a golden cage she couldn't escape.