Chapter 2: The Vulture

The rain hadn’t stopped. It poured down on the city like the sky was trying to wash away my sins. But some stains don’t come out with water. Some stains are permanent.

I stood in front of the mirror in our tiny bathroom, staring at my reflection. My eyes were red. Puffy. I looked like I’d been crying for hours. Which I had. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would wake me up. Hoping this was all a nightmare. Hoping I would open my eyes and be back in my old bed, safe and free.

But when I opened my eyes, the same cracked tile stared back at me. The same peeling paint. The same poverty.

It wasn’t a dream. I was married to Damian Thorne.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I jumped, my heart skipping a beat. Was it him? Had he changed his mind? Did he want to call off the deal?

I picked it up. It was my mother.

*“Where are you? The hospital called. They said the bill is paid. Who paid it, Elara? Did you sell something? Tell me!”*

I stared at the screen. Her desperation was palpable, even through text. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. She only cared about the money.

I typed back quickly. *“It’s handled. Don’t worry. I’m coming home to pack.”*

I didn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. If I told her I had married Damian, she would scream. She would cry. She would call me a traitor. And then she would ask for more money.

I couldn’t deal with that right now. I just needed to get out.

I grabbed my duffel bag from the closet. It was small. Blue. Faded. It held everything I owned that mattered. Clothes. A few books. My laptop. The rest… the rest was just stuff. Things I could replace. Things that didn’t have memories attached.

I walked into the living room. It was quiet. Too quiet. My father was still at the hospital. My mother was probably at his bedside, counting the seconds until the next bill came due.

I looked around the apartment one last time. It wasn’t much. A worn-out couch. A table with three legs. A kitchen that smelled like old grease. But it was mine. Or it had been.

Now, it belonged to the bank. Or to Damian. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

I zipped up the bag. The sound was loud in the silence. *Zzzzip.* Final.

I took a deep breath. Steel myself. Then I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

***

The drive to Damian’s penthouse was silent.

Marcus, the driver, didn’t say a word. He just drove. His eyes were fixed on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and a face that gave nothing away. He looked like he could break someone in half with one hand.

I sat in the back seat, clutching my bag to my chest. I watched the city pass by. The streets were wet. The lights reflected off the puddles, creating a kaleidoscope of color. People rushed by with umbrellas, heads down, ignoring the world around them.

I wished I could be one of them. Invisible. Unimportant. Safe.

But I wasn’t. I was Elara Thorne now. And everyone would know it soon.

The car pulled up to a towering building in the center of Manhattan. It was sleek. Modern. Intimidating. The doors opened automatically as we approached, revealing a lobby made of marble and gold.

Marcus parked the car. He got out and opened my door.

“Mr. Thorne is waiting,” he said. His voice was deep. Gravelly.

I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight.

I stepped out of the car. The rain hit my face, cold and sharp. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and followed Marcus into the building.

The elevator ride was fast. Too fast. My stomach dropped as we ascended. *50… 60… 70…*

When the doors opened, I stepped into another world.

The penthouse was vast. Open. Empty. The floors were dark marble, polished to a shine. The walls were white. The furniture was modern. Minimalist. Cold.

It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a museum. A place where people visited, but never lived.

Damian was standing by the window, looking out at the city. He had changed out of his suit. He wore black slacks and a white shirt, the top buttons undone. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand.

He didn’t turn around when I entered.

“Put your bag in the guest room,” he said. His voice was calm. Detached.

I hesitated. “Which one is the guest room?”

“The one on the left,” he said. He took a sip of his drink. “Don’t touch anything else.”

I walked past him, keeping my distance. I could smell the whiskey on his breath. It mixed with the sandalwood scent, creating a heady, intoxicating aroma. I hated how much I liked it.

I found the guest room. It was large. Sparse. A bed. A dresser. A bathroom. No personal touches. No photos. No warmth.

I put my bag on the bed. It looked small. Insignificant. Against the white sheets.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking again. I clenched them into fists to stop it.

*You can do this,* I told myself. *One year. Just one year. Then you’re free.*

But it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like a prison sentence.

A knock on the door made me jump.

“Come in,” I said.

Damian walked in. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the room. As if inspecting it for flaws.

“This is your space,” he said. “You can decorate it if you want. Within reason. No bright colors. No clutter.”

I stared at him. “Decorate? I’m not here to decorate. I’m here to…”

“To play the part,” he finished. He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark. unreadable. “And part of that role is looking the part. You need clothes. Real clothes. Not those rags you’re wearing.”

He gestured to my jeans. My faded t-shirt. My worn-out sneakers.

“I’ll send a stylist tomorrow,” he said. “She’ll bring samples. You’ll pick what you like. Or what I like. Depending on my mood.”

Anger flared in my chest. Hot. Sharp.

“I’m not a doll, Damian,” I said. My voice was low. Dangerous. “I’m a person.”

He smiled. That cruel, wolf-like smile.

“Are you?” he asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re exactly what I bought. A prop. A accessory. Nothing more.”

He turned to leave. But before he reached the door, he stopped.

“Oh, and Elara?”

I looked up. “What?”

“Don’t try to leave the penthouse without permission. The building has security. They know your face. If you try to sneak out, they will stop you. And I will not be pleased.”

He walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

I was alone.

Again.

I lay back on the bed. The sheets were cool. Soft. Expensive. I closed my eyes.

I thought about running. I could climb out the window. I could hide in the vents. I could…

No. I couldn’t. My father was still in the hospital. If I ran, Damian would pull the plug. He would kill my dad.

I was trapped.

I rolled over. I pulled the pillow over my head. I screamed. Silent. Muffled. Angry.

Then I stopped. I took a deep breath.

I had to survive. I had to be smart. I had to play the game.

Because if I lost, I lost everything.

And I had already lost too much.