The penthouse swallowed the entire top floor of a skyscraper that scraped at heaven. Its windows framed a city glittering like diamonds scattered over black velvet.
Elara stood in the foyer—if you could call a space larger than her childhood bedroom a foyer—and tried to process the sheer weight of it all.
This is my life now. This shrine to excess and power.
"Welcome home," Kael said. His voice carried that edge of satisfaction she was beginning to recognize. He moved with fluid confidence, as though he owned everything his eyes touched. Including her.
Home. The word didn't fit here. Not in a place built for magazines, not real lives. The marble floors likely cost more per square foot than her yearly salary. The ceiling soared twenty feet high, held by columns that looked stolen from a Roman temple. Paintings hung on the walls—art worth more than entire countries, gleaming beneath floor-to-ceiling glass that swallowed the skyline.
"It's…" She searched for a word that wouldn't sound too awed or too sharp. "It's very impressive."
"It's home," he corrected, slipping out of his jacket with casual grace. "Your home. For the next six months. You should get comfortable."
Comfortable. In a palace bigger than my entire neighborhood.
Viktor emerged from somewhere deeper in the apartment, moving with that quiet efficiency she was coming to expect. "Your belongings are in the master suite, sir. Security protocols updated and active."
"Excellent. Any calls?"
"Mrs. Thorne called about Sunday dinner. She's eager to meet your fiancée."
Mrs. Thorne. His mother. Right. This performance even extends to family.
"Tell her we'll be there," Kael said, glancing at Elara with a flicker of amusement. "I hope you're good with mothers. Mine is… particular about the women I bring home."
"How many women have you brought home?" The question escaped before she could stop it.
His smile was sharp, cold. "You'll be the first."
The first. No pressure.
"Viktor, show Ms. Chen to her room. I have calls to make." Kael was already walking toward what looked like a home office, his focus shifting with mechanical precision.
Her room. Not their room. Thank God.
"This way, ma'am." Viktor gestured down a hallway that stretched endlessly.
She followed past art more suited to museums than private walls, doorways revealing glimpses of rooms with distinct purposes. A library lined floor to ceiling. A gym fit for celebrities. A wine cellar larger than her mother's apartment.
"How many rooms are here?"
"Fourteen, not including service areas," Viktor replied. "Master suite, guest suite, office, library, formal dining, casual dining, kitchen, wine cellar, gym, media room, and four reserved for Mr. Thorne's… private business."
Private business. Don't ask.
The master suite dwarfed Sarah's apartment. A bed large enough for an army dominated the space. Windows opened wide over Central Park, the trees below scattered like green confetti.
"Your things," Viktor said, pointing to two suitcases on a bench. "I selected items you might need immediately. The rest will arrive tomorrow."
The rest. I owned practically nothing.
"Thank you," she said, though gratitude felt foreign for someone rearranging her life without consent.
"Dinner is served at eight unless Mr. Thorne changes it. Breakfast six to ten. Lunch by request. Kitchen is stocked, but specific needs can be arranged."
Of course. Housekeeping.
"Other staff?"
"Security, primarily. A housekeeper daily. A chef when Mr. Thorne entertains." His expression stayed neutral. "The apartment has full surveillance. Interior and exterior. For your protection."
My protection. Sure. Nothing to do with keeping me from running.
When he left, she sat on the bed—the most comfortable she'd ever touched. Her suitcases looked pitiful in contrast, worn fabric and broken zippers sitting like artifacts from a life already gone.
Six months. Temporary. I can survive six months.
But the ring on her finger caught the sunlight, scattering rainbows across silk sheets that probably cost more than her rent for a year.
Can I really? Can I live here, pretend to love him, share a home with a man who kills like it's business?
She rose and pressed her palms to the glass, probably bulletproof. Below, millions of lives pulsed with the restless freedom of a city.
I used to be one of them. Anonymous. Struggling. Free.
Now she was a bird in a gilded cage. Beautiful. Luxurious. Trapped.
A knock broke the silence.
"Come in."
Kael entered without waiting—of course. He'd changed into jeans and a cashmere sweater that likely cost more than her old car. The clothes should have made him look human. Instead, they made him look devastating.
Don't notice that. Don't.
"How do you like your new accommodations?" he asked, joining her at the window.
"It's very nice," she said carefully.
"Nice." He tasted the word, unimpressed. "Angel, this apartment is in Architectural Digest. The view alone is worth twenty million. And you call it 'nice.'"
"What should I call it?"
"Home," he said simply. "Because for six months, that's what it is."
Home. He keeps using that word.
"It doesn't feel like home."
"No," he admitted. "But feelings change. You'd be surprised how quickly luxury becomes routine. How fast extraordinary becomes ordinary."
Is that what happened to you?
"Tell me about your mother," she asked instead.
His smile turned sharp, tinged with something sad. "What do you want to know?"
"What should I expect? What will she think of me?"
"She'll think you're too good for me," he said. For once, his voice carried real affection. "And she'll be right."
Too good. If only she knew.
"Will she believe we're in love?"
"She'll want to. She's been waiting years for me to settle down." He faced her fully. "She thinks I'm lonely."
"Are you?"
The question lingered like a challenge. For a flicker of a moment, something raw bled through his dark eyes. Then the mask slid back.
"I'm selective," he said. "Attachments don't come easily."
Attachments. Like acquisitions.
"What about your father?"
"Dead." His tone was flat, as though stating the weather. "Car accident when I was sixteen. Very tragic. Very final."
Accident. Convenient.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a bastard who got what he deserved." There was no grief. Only cold satisfaction. "But my mother prefers to remember the man she loved, not the monster he became."
Monster. A warning in itself.
"Is that what you are?" she whispered. "A monster?"
He studied her with that laser gaze she'd learned to fear, as though solving a riddle.
"What do you think?"
I think you're the most dangerous man I've ever met. Beautiful, ruthless, merciless.
"I think you're complicated," she said.
His laugh held no humor. "Diplomatic. A survival skill in your new life."
New life. Pretending to love a killer.
"I should unpack," she muttered, desperate to shift the subject.
"Of course. But first…" He drew a sleek device from his pocket. "Your security detail."
A tracker. That's what this is.
"GPS disguised as jewelry," he explained, lifting an expensive watch. "It tracks location, vitals. Panic button included."
"Emergency like what?"
"Like someone trying to take what's mine." His voice dropped, dark and dangerous. "Dmitri was only the beginning. Others might see you as leverage."
Leverage. Asset. Never just me.
"I have to wear it?"
"Always." He clasped it around her wrist with warm, steady hands. "Waterproof. Shockproof. Tamper-resistant. Try to remove it, I'll know."
Of course you will.
"What about privacy?"
"Privacy ended with your contract." His tone softened slightly. "Don't fight it, Elara. The cage is golden, but it's still a cage. Accept it, and this will be easier for us both."
At the door, he paused.
"Dinner in an hour. Wear something nice—we're having guests."
Guests. Already? The show begins.
When he left, silence returned. She told herself again: six months. Just six months.
But then it came.
Click.
The electronic lock engaged from the outside.
Her hand froze on the suitcase. She didn't need to test the door. She knew.
That click was the sound of freedom ending.
Golden bars. Still a prison.
And in the quiet, she could almost hear Kael's voice: The sooner you accept it, the easier this will be.
Outside, eight million people lived free.
Inside, Elara Chen realized she was no longer one of them.