LOGIN"He bought her name. She refused to surrender her soul." Elara Hawthorne’s father owed a fortune. Silas Vancewick came to collect. The heir to the Vancewick dynasty is a man carved from granite and control. His slate-grey eyes promise cold, absolute possession. Silas doesn't want a wife; he requires a pawn to secure his flawless legacy. But Elara, with her untamed copper defiance, is a queen forced into chains. Their forced marriage is a contract sealed in cold blood and burning resentment. Trapped in his opulent manor, they are engaged in a silent, suffocating war. Silas is obsessed with breaking the spirit he claims to despise. Elara fights for survival against the devastating realization that the only man who owns her name is the one who threatens to consume her heart. He demanded obedience. She promised war. The quiet hours of the night are their most terrifying battleground.
View MoreElaraThe drive back to the estate was a blur of speed and silence. Silas drove the Maybach himself, having dismissed the driver at the tower.He drove with a terrifying, controlled aggression, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel, the speedometer climbing well past the legal limit.I sat in the passenger seat, the metal tracker on my wrist humming against the bone. Proximity Confirmed. I was tethered to him, trapped in a metal box hurtling toward a destination I couldn't escape.He didn't speak. He didn't look at me. But the air in the car was thick with his intent. He had told me he was going to take me apart until he found the fire. He had told me he was done waiting.When we pulled up to the front steps of the estate, he didn't wait for the valet. He killed the engine and got out. He came around to my side and wrenched the door open."Get out," he commanded.I stepp
ElaraThe Vancewick Tower was designed to intimidate. It was a monolith of black steel and glass that pierced the clouds, a physical manifestation of Silas’s ego.But today, the most intimidating thing in the building wasn't the architecture; it was the invisible, ten foot radius that leashed me to the man sitting behind the desk.I sat in the black leather chair by the window, the one Silas had designated as my "station." My hands were folded in my lap. My spine was straight.I looked out at the city, at the thousands of people moving freely on the streets below, and I felt the heavy, cold weight of the tracker humming against my wrist.Proximity Alert: Level One.It was a digital chain. If I moved more than ten feet away from Silas’s bio-key which was currently in his pocket the band would scream.It would announce my disobedience to the entire floor.Silas was working. Or pretending to.He sat at his massive desk, staring at a holographic projection of market data. His jacket was o
ElaraThe mirror in the dressing room had been replaced before breakfast.I woke up, walked into the room to dress, and found a pristine, flawless sheet of glass covering the wall where Silas had shattered his reflection the night before.The blood had been scrubbed from the carpet. The shards had been swept away. The air smelled of lemon polish and chemical cleaner, erasing the metallic scent of his rage.It was as if the violence had never happened.But I saw the evidence. It was wrapped around Silas’s right hand a stark white bandage that stood out against the dark wool of his suit.He was waiting for me in the foyer. He stood by the door, checking his phone with his good hand, his posture rigid.When I descended the stairs, wearing a high-necked dress of olive green wool, he didn't look up immediately. He waited until I was on the bottom step.Then, he lifted his eyes. They were bloodshot, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who was fighting a war inside his own skull."We are goi
ElaraThe master suite smelled of violence.It wasn't the metallic scent of blood, though I half-expected to see it staining the carpet. It was the scent of shredded wool, of ozone from the tracker on my wrist, and the heavy, suffocating pheromones of a man who had been pushed past the edge of reason.I stood in the center of the dressing room. I had removed the second grey dress the one I had put on after he ripped the black one. I was now standing in my slip, the gunmetal tracker stark and ugly against my pale arm.I was packing.Not to leave. I couldn't leave. The tracker, the guards, the contract… I was sealed in. I was packing away the last of Elara.I took the small, scuffed leather bag that held my paints. I placed it on the highest shelf, out of reach. I took the sketchbook I hadn't opened in weeks and slid it under a stack of heavy winter sweaters. I was burying the evidence of my soul.The door to the dressing room didn't open; it was already open. Silas was leaning against
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