Elena had never felt time move this fast.
Two weeks — fourteen days — felt like a blink when the rest of your life was being stolen in the process.
The D'Angelo name had seeped into every corner of her existence since that night. Their people were everywhere — shadowed figures who didn't speak unless necessary, all wearing the same blank expressions as if emotions had been surgically removed from them.
She wasn't allowed to leave the townhouse without an escort now. Her father claimed it was "for her safety," but she knew better. It wasn't protection. It was containment.
This morning, she found out just how far the control reached.
---
"Elena, they're here," her father called from the foyer. His tone had that fake cheer he used when pretending everything was fine.
She was still in her robe, hair unbrushed, when she came down the stairs — only to find two women standing in the middle of their living room. They were dressed in sleek black, the kind of elegance that said I'm expensive, and I know it. One carried a leather-bound portfolio. The other held a garment bag so large it looked like it could swallow her whole.
"Miss Moretti," the one with the portfolio said with a polite nod. "We've been instructed by Mr. D'Angelo to begin preparations for your wedding."
Elena blinked. "Preparations?"
"Yes," the woman continued, her voice smooth. "Dress fittings, venue arrangements, guest lists—"
"No." The word came out sharp, surprising even her. "I'm not wearing a dress he picks. I'm not—"
The woman's faint smile didn't change. "Mr. D'Angelo asked me to assure you… you will wear exactly what he chooses."
The air thinned around her. "Of course he did," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Her father cleared his throat nervously. "Elena, maybe—"
"Don't." She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the women, on the garment bag one of them was now unzipping with practiced precision.
When the fabric slid into view, Elena's breath caught despite herself.
It was exquisite — silk the color of fresh cream, with delicate lace tracing the bodice and sleeves like it had been spun by hand. The skirt flowed in soft waves, the kind of craftsmanship only money like Adrian's could buy.
And she hated it.
She hated that it was beautiful. She hated that he would see her in it and think she was some perfect piece in his collection.
The fitting was mechanical. Measurements taken, pins adjusting the hem, the two women moving around her like she was a mannequin. When it was over, they packed the dress with the same care they'd unpacked it and left without another word.
---
That night, she found him waiting.
Adrian stood in her father's study, one hand in his pocket, the other swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. He looked out of place here, as though the walls themselves knew he didn't belong.
"Did you like the dress?" His voice was quiet, but it wasn't really a question.
She leaned against the doorway. "If I did, I wouldn't tell you."
His eyes met hers, slow and deliberate. "You'll wear it."
"I could burn it."
The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgment of the threat. "You could try. But I'd have another delivered by morning. And another. Until you understood that some things aren't worth fighting."
Her chest tightened. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? Watching me squirm."
Adrian took a step toward her, then another, until she could feel the faint heat radiating off him. "No, Elena. I'm watching you learn. There's a difference."
She wanted to spit something back, but the weight of his gaze made the words stick in her throat. He didn't just look at her — he studied her, like he was reading a book he intended to memorize.
"What exactly do you think I'm going to learn?" she asked finally.
His voice dropped, just enough to make it feel like a secret. "That survival isn't about winning every fight. It's about knowing which ones to lose."
The silence between them stretched, thick and charged.
Then, as if the moment had never happened, he set his glass down, straightened his jacket, and walked past her toward the door.
"We'll see each other in four days," he said without looking back. "The engagement dinner. Wear something… distracting."
The sound of the front door closing left the house too quiet, too empty.
Elena stood in the doorway of the study long after he was gone, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She told herself it was anger that made her chest feel tight.
But deep down, she knew it wasn't only that.
---
The next morning, Sofia called.
"Elena," her best friend's voice was hushed, urgent. "I heard about the engagement. Tell me it's not true."
"It's true."
Silence on the other end. Then, "Are you safe?"
The question landed heavier than it should have. Safe. She hadn't felt safe since that knock on the door. "I'm… surviving," she said finally.
Sofia exhaled. "Listen to me — men like Adrian D'Angelo don't just marry women. They own them. If you're not careful, he'll make you forget who you are."
Elena closed her eyes, leaning her head against the wall. "Then I'll have to remind him every single day."
---
When she hung up, she found herself at her bedroom window, staring out at the street below. A sleek black car was parked at the curb — the same one that had brought Adrian here the first night.
It didn't move all day.
Neither did the man inside.
And for the first time, Elena understood that she wasn't just preparing for a wedding.
She was already living in the cage.