Chapter 3: The Golden Cage

The master suite of the Sterling mansion was less of a bedroom and more of a sanctuary for a dark god. It was sprawling, minimalist, and decorated in shades of charcoal, slate, and obsidian. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the lights of the skyline looking like fallen stars, but Julian felt as though he were trapped in a velvet-lined coffin.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

Julian stood in the center of the plush silk rug, his hands clasped tightly in front of his lace-covered waist. The weight of the wedding gown felt like it was pulling him down into the floorboards. Without the noise of the party to distract him, every sound Julian made—the rustle of his petticoats, the frantic hitch of his breath—seemed deafening.

Victor didn't look at him immediately. He walked over to a crystal decanter on the sideboard, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp, cold sound.

"The dress," Victor said, his back still turned. "Take it off."

Julian’s heart skipped a beat. A cold sweat broke out under the heavy foundation on his forehead. "Sir... I... the maid said she would come to assist—"

"I dismissed the staff for the evening," Victor interrupted. He turned around, loosening his silk tie with one hand while holding his drink in the other. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I do not want anyone else touching what belongs to me tonight. Do it yourself."

"I can't," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "The laces... they're too tight. I can't reach them."

Victor set his glass down on the marble surface with a slow, deliberate thud. He walked toward Julian, his footsteps silent on the rug. As he approached, his shadow loomed over Julian, blotting out the light from the hallway. He smelled of smoke and cold rain.

"Turn around," Victor commanded.

Julian obeyed, his knees shaking so violently he feared he might collapse. He felt Victor’s large, warm hands settle on his shoulders. The touch was possessive, a claim of ownership that made Julian’s skin prickle.

Then, Victor moved to the back of the dress.

Julian held his breath as he felt the heavy silk of the veil being lifted away and tossed onto a nearby chair. Then came the laces. Victor didn't use his fingers at first; Julian felt the cold metallic slide of a small silver pocketknife against his spine.

"Sir?" Julian gasped, flinching.

"Stay still, little bird," Victor murmured, his breath hot against the nape of Julian’s neck. "You’ve been wrapped so tightly today. I can feel your heart beating through the fabric. It’s like a trapped bird trying to break its own ribs."

With a series of sharp, rhythmic snaps, Victor sliced through the expensive silk laces.

The relief was instantaneous and terrifying. The corset, which had been Julian’s armor and his prison all day, suddenly loosened. The air rushed back into Julian’s lungs, making his head swim. The heavy bodice began to slip down his shoulders, held up only by the friction of his skin.

"Step out of it," Victor said.

Julian’s fingers gripped the front of the dress, holding it to his chest. "Could you... could you turn around? Please?"

A low, dark chuckle vibrated in Victor’s chest. He stepped around Julian, but he didn't turn away. Instead, he sat in a high-backed leather armchair, crossing one long leg over the other. He picked up his drink and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Julian’s face.

"There are no 'pleases' in this room, Juliet," Victor said, his voice dropping into that gravelly, authoritative tone that made Julian’s stomach flip. "And there is no privacy from your husband. You are here to be seen. You are here to be used. Now, take it off."

Julian felt the sting of tears behind his eyelids. The "stiffness" he had felt all day was being stripped away, leaving him raw. He moved with agonizing slowness. He let the dress fall.

The fifty-thousand-dollar gown collapsed in a heap of white lace at his feet. Julian stood there in his silk stockings, the lace garter belt, and the restrictive, feminine undergarments he had used to hide his identity. The cool air of the room hit his bare shoulders, making him shiver.

Victor’s gaze traveled down Julian’s body, slow and predatory. He didn't look like a man looking at his bride; he looked like a judge looking at a prisoner.

"Come here," Victor said, gesturing to the space between his knees.

Julian stepped out of the circle of silk and walked forward, his head bowed. He stopped a foot away from Victor.

"Closer."

Julian moved until his knees were inches from Victor’s expensive trousers. He could feel the heat radiating from the man’s body.

Victor reached out, his hand closing around Julian’s throat. It wasn't a choke; it was a grip—firm, steady, and grounding. He forced Julian to look up, to meet those piercing gray eyes.

"You have been lying to me all day," Victor said softly.

Julian’s breath hitched. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"Your scent is wrong," Victor observed, his thumb tracing the line of Julian’s jaw. "Juliet wore a perfume that smelled of vanilla and desperation. You... you smell of sandalwood and soap. And fear. A very specific kind of fear."

Victor’s hand moved from Julian’s throat to the back of his head, his fingers tangling in the chestnut wig. With a sudden, violent yank, he pulled the wig off.

Julian’s natural hair—shorter, darker—fell into his eyes. He gasped, his secret literally stripped from his head.

"And your skin," Victor continued, his hand moving down to the lace bodice Julian was wearing to flatten his chest. He pressed his palm flat against Julian’s heart. "There is no softness here. Only muscle. Only a lie."

Julian shut his eyes, waiting for the blow. Waiting for Victor to scream, to call the police, to throw him out into the street where Chase would see him.

But the blow never came.

Instead, Victor’s grip on his neck tightened just enough to force Julian to his knees. Julian landed on the silk rug with a soft thud, looking up at the man who now held his life in his hands.

"Did you think I was a fool, Julian?" Victor asked. This time, there was no mistaking the name.

Julian’s voice was a broken whisper. "You knew? Since when?"

"Since the moment you walked down the aisle," Victor said, his expression completely calm. "Juliet doesn't have the courage to look me in the eye. She doesn't have the fire in her blood that you do. Your father thought he was cheating me. He thought he was sending a lamb to the slaughter."

Victor leaned forward, his face inches from Julian’s.

"But I didn't want a lamb," Victor whispered. "I wanted someone I could break. Someone with enough spirit to make the training worthwhile."

Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. The "BDSM" and "Discipline" his Editor had mentioned were no longer abstract concepts—they were the reality of his marriage.

"What... what are you going to do to me?" Julian asked.

Victor reached for a small leather crop that had been resting on the side table—something Julian hadn't noticed until now. He tapped the end of it against Julian’s chin.

"Tonight? Nothing," Victor said, a dark glint in his eyes. "Tonight, you will learn the first rule of this house. You do not lie to me. Every lie you told today—every 'Yes, Sir' and every fake smile—has a price. And we are going to spend the next few weeks paying that debt."

Victor stood up, looking down at the man kneeling at his feet.

"Get in the bed, Julian. Not as my wife. But as my ward. From this moment on, you do not speak unless spoken to. You do not eat unless permitted. And you will never, ever wear that dress again. You will be exactly what you are: a man who belongs to me."

Victor walked toward the bathroom, pausing at the door.

"And Julian?"

Julian looked up, his eyes wide.

"Wash that paint off your face. I want to see the man I’m going to ruin."