The penthouse shimmered in luxury, but to Aria, it was a cage gilded in gold. The silence was heavy, stretched across the walls like a warning. No warmth. No laughter. No room for error.
Each morning she woke in the guest bedroom, though it felt more like a holding cell. The curtains opened automatically at six, sunlight streaming onto the bed like a stage light. As if the performance never stopped.
There were no locks, no chains.
But the "freedom was an illusion."
On her third day in the penthouse, Aria wandered into the private library. Thousands of books lined the dark oak shelves- economics, strategy, psychology. Not a single photo. Not a single memory.
Only "Damien Roth" lived here.
But nowhere was he really present.
Aria ran her fingers along the shelves until her eyes landed on a book out of place. It was thicker and dustless. She tugged it free. A soft click echoed in the wall behind her.
A panel slid open.
"A hidden room."
She stepped inside, pulse racing. The room was dark, except for a glowing wall of monitors. Live surveillance feeds in offices, boardrooms, public spaces.
Then she froze.
One screen showed "her hospital room." Julian lying there, motionless, machines beeping rhythmically. Another feed showed her old apartment building. Her former neighbors. Her street.
And then... the penthouse. A view from above. Her bedroom. The hallway. Even this room.
He'd been watching her—"everywhere."
The air thinned in her lungs. She backed out of the room and let the panel seal silently behind her.
Was she a wife—or a "prisoner"?
That evening, Damien returned late from a board meeting. Aria was in the dining room, dressed in soft silk and waiting like a mannequin on display.
"You rearranged the bookcase," he said coldly.
She flinched. "Just browsing."
He sat opposite her, eyes burning through his wine glass.
"Do you believe in privacy, Aria?" he asked suddenly.
"I believe in trust," she said slowly.
"And yet you lie," he replied, voice sharp as broken glass.
Her breath caught.
"So do you," she said.
The moment crackled. Neither looked away.
He leaned forward. "You're not Lena Monroe. And yet here you are. In my home. In my life."
She stood abruptly. "Then why let me stay?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he said, "Pack your things. Tomorrow, we're going to Paris."
Her lips parted. "Paris?"
"I own a home there. You'll need to be seen with me at the Tech Gala. Our... 'marriage' has to remain convincing."
She narrowed her eyes. "Is that what this is about? Optics?"
His voice dropped. "It's about "power". And you're either part of it—or crushed by it."
She clenched her fists under the table. "You think I'm afraid of you?"
"No," he said. "You're afraid of what I know."
He stood, and for a second, Aria thought he might reach for her. But he didn't.
He walked away.
And her heart pounded in the silence he left behind.
That night, she couldn't sleep. The cameras. The control. The twisted games. She went to her laptop and encrypted a message to a contact she hadn't spoken to in months-"Kellan." A former hacker turned ghost, buried deep in the darknet.
"Need a digital exit. I'm trapped. Can you ghost a billionaire's system?
She hit send.
Seconds later:
"If it's Damien Roth… run."
That was it.
Nothing more.
Just one word.
"Run."