By the time Elara finally stepped out of her room at noon, the penthouse no longer looked like a place someone lived in. It resembled a luxury boutique. Garment racks crowded the living room, each one sagging under the weight of gowns that seemed spun out of moonlight and impossible dreams. Shoes gleamed in neat rows. Jewelry sparkled on velvet trays. Accessories, probably worth more than entire cars, lay scattered across tables like a careless rain of wealth.
This is insane. All of this for one night?
Three women moved through the space with the discipline of a military unit, brisk and precise, but carrying themselves with the calm of professionals who dressed people accustomed to power. The eldest—her silver hair twisted into a chignon so sharp it looked engineered—caught sight of Elara first.
"Ms. Chen," she said, her faint French accent polishing the words like glass. "I am Margot Beaumont. Mr. Thorne has asked me to make certain you look absolutely stunning tonight."
Absolutely stunning. No pressure at all.
"This is really unnecessary," Elara muttered, waving toward the couture invasion. "The dress he picked out this morning was fine."
Margot's smile carried both politeness and finality. "Mr. Thorne has reconsidered. He wants options. Many options."
Of course he does. Because controlling what I wear is just another way to control me.
"Where is he?" Elara asked, glancing around the penthouse for her captor.
"Conference call with Switzerland," Margot answered without slowing. She was already sweeping toward the first rack of gowns. "But he left very specific instructions on what he expects to see."
Specific instructions. Naturally.
The next two hours blurred. Silk. Satin. Zippers that whispered. Seams adjusted. Fabrics clinging like liquid wealth. Margot and her assistants pinned and tugged and judged, discarding each look with ruthless precision. Their eyes missed nothing, and perfection seemed to be their baseline.
These aren't normal circumstances. Nothing about my life is normal anymore.
One dress after another was dismissed. A silver gown that turned her into something sculpted. "Too cold." An emerald piece that clung to every curve. "Too obvious." A soft blush confection that screamed debutante. "Too innocent."
Too innocent. Right. Can't have anyone thinking I'm some sweet girl who accidentally stumbled into his world.
When Kael finally emerged from his office, she was in her sixth gown—a navy construction that felt more like architecture than clothing. Margot had been fussing with it for ten minutes, frown deepening, her small adjustments doing nothing to save it.
"Gentlemen," Kael's voice sliced through the chatter, sharp as a blade cutting silk. Instantly, all three women turned toward him with the alertness one reserved for royalty—or disasters.
Or billionaires who pay obscene amounts of money for instant obedience.
His eyes locked on Elara, scanning her the way he might study a deal sheet. The navy gown was expensive, perfectly fitted, undeniably beautiful—and yet his face remained unreadable.
"No."
Margot faltered. "The color is wrong?"
"Everything is wrong." He moved closer, each step radiating that predatory ease. His gaze didn't leave Elara's face. "She looks like she's trying too hard. I don't want her to fit in."
Of course you don't. You want me to stand out so everyone knows I belong to you.
"What are you hoping for, Mr. Thorne?" Margot asked, her composure holding by sheer professionalism.
"I want her to look dangerous," he said. His tone changed something in the air. Elara's breath caught before she could stop it. "Yes, beautiful. Sophisticated, absolutely. But dangerous—so that everyone in that room wonders what secrets she carries."
Secrets like the fact that I'm here against my will? That this entire arrangement is one elaborate lie?
"I think I know the solution," Margot said, heading toward a garment bag set aside from the others. "It just arrived from Milan. A provocative piece."
She unzipped it slowly, almost reverently, revealing a gown that froze Elara's breath.
Oh. Oh no.
Black. Not cocktail-party safe black, but a deeper black, the kind that swallowed light. The silk rippled like shadows poured into fabric, its lines cut with devastating precision. Enough was revealed to unsettle, but mystery still clung to it. The back was bare save for fragile straps that looked ready to snap with a breath.
I can't wear that. It's too… everything.
"Perfect," Kael said, satisfaction threading his voice.
"It's too revealing," Elara protested, though even she heard the weakness in her tone.
"It's exactly right." His smile was winter sharp. "Try it on."
This is a test. With him, everything is a test.
Twenty minutes later she stood before the mirror in her bedroom, staring at a stranger. The gown remade her into someone sharper, bolder. Dangerous. The bare back showed the elegant curve of her spine. The plunge of the front skirted the line between allure and propriety.
I look like someone who belongs here. Someone who chose this.
"Ms. Chen?" Margot's voice came through the door. "Are you ready?"
No. I will never be ready for this.
Still, she opened the door. Kael was waiting, patient, as though the outcome had been inevitable.
Silence fell.
His eyes traced her, detail by detail, until she felt flayed open. He saw the way silk shifted with each breath, the line of her body, the illusion that she belonged to his world of dangerous beauty.
Say something. Please. Before I die standing here.
"Turn around," he said quietly.
Of course. Because I'm an object to be examined from all sides.
She turned, his gaze following her movement like a touch. When she faced him again, something unreadable flickered in his eyes—hunger, possession, maybe both.
"The zip," Margot said briskly, moving toward Elara. "It needs final adjustment."
But Kael lifted a hand. Margot froze.
"I'll do it," he said, steel under every syllable.
No. Please not him.
The assistants understood at once. They gathered their things and left quickly, the elevator doors sealing shut with the finality of a trap snapping closed.
Now it's only us. Just me in this dress and him with that certainty I can't escape.
"Turn around," he told her again, softer now, but no less absolute.
She obeyed. The mirror showed their reflection—her, draped in shadows, him immaculate in a charcoal suit. Together they looked like a cover story in a glossy magazine. Too perfect, too calculated.
We look like we were made for each other.
His hands came down on her shoulders. Warm, solid. She almost gasped. The air between them felt charged. His cologne mingled with the clean scent of him until she wanted to step away and lean closer at the same time.
Don't react. Don't give him that satisfaction.
He found the zipper and drew it down, slow enough for her heart to pound with every sound of metal teeth parting. Each brush of his fingers against her spine felt like fire, whether by accident or not.
This is insane. He's undressing me, and I'm letting him.
She couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe. Electricity crackled through her nerves at every graze of his touch.
Stop. Please just stop before I lose myself completely.
The zipper reached her lower back. He paused. The silence hummed.
Then, just as deliberately, he drew it up again. This time, his fingers lingered. Purposeful. Memorizing her with each slow inch.
Oh God. This can't be real.
Her body betrayed her, leaning infinitesimally into his hand. Wanting more, when her mind screamed against it.
He's not doing this because he cares. He's doing it because he can. Because I'm his to arrange as he chooses.
The zipper closed, his palms steady on her shoulders as her knees threatened to buckle.
"Perfect," he murmured, almost too low to catch.
Perfect. Like I'm a thing he's tailored into place.
In the mirror, she saw him looking not just at her but at their reflection—the picture of a powerful couple, all illusion and symmetry. Not a prisoner and her captor. Not a lie carefully spun.
We look like a couple in love.
"You're shaking," he said, tightening his grip just slightly.
Because your touch is undoing me in ways I can't admit.
"I'm nervous about tonight," she lied.
"You should be." His reflection curved into a predator's smile. "Five hundred people will see you on my arm, with my ring, looking like you were born to stand beside me."
Looking like I chose this. Like I wanted this.
"And when the night ends," he continued, voice dropping into velvet, "everyone who matters will know exactly what you are to me."
What I am. Not who.
His hands glided down her arms, fingertips skimming silk, stopping at her wrists. The engagement ring caught light, scattering it in prisms, a reminder of the cage she wore on her finger.
"You're mine, Elara," he said. The possessiveness wrapped around her spine like a shiver. "Tonight, everyone will see. And after that, there will be no pretending this is temporary."
No going back. Once the performance is public, it hardens into reality. Contracts and coercion become something permanent.
In the glass, she saw the smile curve his lips. It promised things she didn't want to define.
"Perfect," he said again. And this time, she understood he wasn't just talking about the gown.