Billionaire's breeding vessel
It sparkled mockingly under the lights—beautiful, expensive, and utterly meaningless.
“You are now Mrs. Elara Blackthorne,” the judge announced flatly.
The weight of the ring felt like chains locking around my soul.
Less than an hour later, we arrived at his penthouse. The elevator opened directly into it, revealing a sprawling space of pure luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering New York skyline, rain streaking down the glass like tears. Modern art worth fortunes hung on the walls, and the furniture looked like it belonged in a magazine—sleek, expensive, and completely devoid of warmth. It was stunning. And it felt like a beautiful cage built specifically to trap me.