The shattered crystal and scattered roses remained on the floor for hours—no staff appeared to clean them, and Elara suspected that was deliberate. A reminder of exactly what happened when someone dared to acknowledge her existence outside of Kael's control.
He's making a point. The wreckage stays until I understand the lesson.
She tried to focus on anything else—reading, television, staring at the city from windows that felt increasingly like barriers rather than views. But her mind kept circling back to the same terrifying thought: Kael was going to kill Lucien over flowers.
Not just kill him. Make an example of him. Public execution to prove a point.
Her phone buzzed periodically with updates she didn't want:
Kael: Security sweep complete. Building is secure.
Kael: Additional surveillance installed in common areas. For your protection.
Kael: Don't leave the penthouse. Not negotiable.
More cameras. More locks. More control disguised as protection.
She didn't respond to any of them, torn between anger at his presumption and the terrible understanding that in his world, this was love. Possessive, controlling, violent love—but love nonetheless.
Is this what I want? To be protected so thoroughly that I can't breathe? To watch him destroy anyone who looks at me?
Evening brought his return, announced by the private elevator's arrival. Elara had positioned herself in the library—neutral territory, away from the scene of this morning's destruction—trying to appear absorbed in a book she hadn't processed a single word of.
Prepare yourself. Whatever version of him is coming back, it won't be the vulnerable man from last night.
She was right.
Kael entered the library looking like he'd spent the day doing exactly what he'd promised—planning murder with the same efficiency most people brought to planning vacations. He'd changed into fresh clothes, but there was a tension in his shoulders that spoke of meetings that had been more strategy session than business discussion.
"We need to talk," he said without preamble.
Of course we do. Because apparently flowers require a formal discussion about rules and consequences.
"About?" She kept her voice neutral, not wanting to trigger whatever this was before understanding the scope.
"Lucien. And the very clear boundaries that need to be established." He moved to the chair across from her, settling into it with controlled grace. "What happened this morning cannot happen again."
What happened. You mean someone acknowledged my existence and you lost your mind?
"He sent flowers," she said carefully. "I didn't ask for them, didn't encourage them, didn't—"
"I know." He cut her off with a gesture. "This isn't about blame, Elara. This is about reality. As long as you're with me, you're a target. Every enemy I have will see you as a weapon they can use against me."
A weapon. Not a person. A weapon.
"So what are you proposing?"
"I'm not proposing anything." His voice carried that edge of steel. "I'm establishing parameters that are non-negotiable. First: you never speak to Lucien Mercier again. Not at social events, not accidentally, not under any circumstances."
Non-negotiable. Like I don't get a say.
"And if he approaches me?"
"You walk away. Immediately. Security will handle the rest."
Security will handle it. Meaning violence. Meaning consequences for him daring to speak to me.
"Second," he continued, "any communication from him—flowers, letters, messages through intermediaries—gets reported to me immediately. You don't acknowledge it, you don't respond to it, you bring it directly to my attention."
So I'm supposed to be your informant about who's trying to contact me.
"Third: you don't go anywhere without security. Not just Viktor, but a full detail. Everywhere you go, everything you do, someone is watching and reporting back."
More surveillance. More control. More ways to ensure I exist only in the cage he's built.
"Is that all?" She couldn't keep the edge from her voice.
"No." He leaned forward, dark eyes intense. "Final rule: you never—and I mean never—accept anything from another man. Flowers, gifts, business cards, nothing. Every interaction, every exchange, goes through me first."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "You're asking me to have no contact with half the human population."
"I'm not asking." His voice remained calm, clinical. "I'm telling you how this works. In my world, every gesture is a power play. Every gift is a message. Every conversation is potential leverage."
His world. Not our world. His.
"What if I refuse?" The question came out before she could stop it.
His expression didn't change, but something cold moved behind his eyes. "Then you make this significantly more difficult for both of us."
Difficult. What a nice way of saying he'll escalate control until I comply.
"You're being unreasonable," she said, setting down her book with more force than necessary. "Flowers aren't a death threat. A polite note isn't a declaration of war. You're overreacting because your pride is hurt."
"My pride." He repeated the words like they were foreign. "You think this is about pride?"
"What else would it be? You're planning to murder someone because he sent me flowers. Because he dared to acknowledge that I exist outside of your control."
Outside of your control. That's what this is really about.
"I'm planning to eliminate a threat," he corrected, his voice taking on that dangerous softness. "Someone who has already tried to kill us, who's now testing boundaries to see if I've become weak enough that he can make a move."
"By sending flowers," she said flatly.
"By reminding me—and everyone watching—that you're vulnerable." He stood, moving to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "Do you know what message those flowers sent to the underworld?"
That I'm a person? That someone found me attractive? That the world doesn't revolve around your territorial claims?
"What message?"
"That the Ghost has a weakness. That for the first time in five years, I've allowed someone close enough to matter. That anyone who wants to hurt me now has a clear target." He turned back to face her. "Those flowers weren't about you, Elara. They were about declaring open season on the one thing I can't afford to lose."
The one thing. That's all I am. A thing he can't afford to lose.
"So your solution is to lock me away more thoroughly? To eliminate anyone who notices I exist? To control every aspect of my life until I might as well not exist at all?"
"My solution," he said carefully, "is to make the cost of touching you so catastrophically high that no one dares try. Lucien's death will be that message—painful, public, and permanent."
Painful. He's going to make Lucien suffer to prove a point.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"This is survival." He moved toward her with that predatory grace. "In my world, mercy is interpreted as weakness. Hesitation gets you killed. The only way to keep you safe is to be so ruthlessly violent in your defense that everyone understands the consequences."
Keep me safe by terrorizing everyone around us. What a lovely way to live.
"I never asked for this level of protection."
"You didn't have to. It came with the ring, the contract, the choice to stay after you discovered what I really am." His hands came up to frame her face. "You're mine now, Elara. That means I protect you with everything I have, including violence that would horrify you if you saw it firsthand."
Violence I don't want. Violence in my name. Violence that makes me complicit.
She pulled away from his touch, standing to create distance. "What if I don't want to be protected this way? What if I'd rather have autonomy than security?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone cold. "Autonomy."
Oh no. That was the wrong word.
"Yes, autonomy." She lifted her chin, refusing to back down. "The ability to make my own choices, have my own relationships, exist as a person instead of your possession."
"You want autonomy," he repeated, and something in his tone made her skin crawl. "The freedom to do what? Accept flowers from men who tried to kill us? Have conversations with my enemies? Make choices that could get you kidnapped, tortured, or killed?"
He's twisting it. Making reasonable requests sound like suicide.
"I want the freedom to be a human being," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "To have conversations without reporting them. To receive mail without it being screened for threats. To exist without constant surveillance."
His laugh was cold, sharp as breaking glass. "Your autonomy?"
He moved closer, and she instinctively backed up until her spine hit the bookshelf. "You lost that when you signed the contract, angel. When you put on my ring. When you kissed me back knowing exactly what I am."
No. No, that's not—
"That's not how contracts work," she said desperately. "I agreed to play a role, not to surrender my entire existence."
"Read the fine print." His voice dropped to that deadly whisper. "You agreed to be my fiancée, to be seen publicly with me, to convince my business associates and family that we're in love. You think that arrangement allows for autonomy?"
There was fine print? I don't remember fine print about surrendering my humanity.
"I don't—"
"Every woman associated with me becomes a target," he interrupted, his hands gripping the bookshelf on either side of her head, caging her in. "Every relationship I have is ammunition for my enemies. The moment you signed that contract, you gave up the luxury of autonomy in exchange for survival."
Survival. That's what he's reduced my life to.
"This isn't survival. This is imprisonment."
"Call it whatever helps you sleep at night." His face was inches from hers now, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. "But understand this: in my world, there is no middle ground. You're either completely under my protection, or you're vulnerable to every person who wants to hurt me."
No middle ground. No compromise. Just total control or total chaos.
"What about what I want?" The question came out smaller than intended.
"What you want," he said softly, "is to be normal. To have the kind of relationship where flowers from admirers are flattering instead of death threats. Where you can make friends without them being vetted for security risks. Where loving someone doesn't make you a target."
His thumb traced her cheekbone with devastating gentleness that contrasted sharply with the hardness in his voice.
"But you fell for the Ghost, Elara. And the Ghost doesn't get normal. He gets surveillance and violence and the constant calculation of threats. He gets to choose between letting you be vulnerable or keeping you safe through control."
Fell for. He's saying I fell for him. And he's not wrong.
"I hate this," she whispered.
"I know." His voice softened slightly. "I hate it too. I hate that caring about you means destroying anyone who looks at you wrong. I hate that keeping you safe requires turning you into a prisoner. I hate that the only way to love you is to control you."
Love. He's calling this love.
"This isn't love," she said. "This is obsession. This is possession. This is you using protection as an excuse to own me completely."
"Yes." His agreement was immediate and unapologetic. "All of those things. But it's also the only way I know how to keep you alive."
The only way he knows. Because Isabella died and he learned that gentle love gets people killed.
"The rules stand," he continued, releasing the bookshelf and stepping back. "No contact with Lucien. Everything reported immediately. Security at all times. Your autonomy ends where my ability to protect you begins."
Where his ability to protect me begins. Which is everywhere. Which is everything.
"And if I refuse?"
The look he gave her was part pity, part steel. "Then I make the choice for you. Because I'd rather have you angry and alive than autonomous and dead."
He means it. He'll actually just override my choices if I don't comply.
"You can't do that," she said weakly. "You can't just—"
"I can do whatever is necessary to keep you safe." His voice carried absolute certainty. "That's what you agreed to when you stayed after discovering what I am. That's what loving the Ghost means."
He moved toward the door, then paused to look back at her.
"Your autonomy?" He laughed, and the sound was cold and bitter and absolutely final. "You lost that when you signed the contract, angel. What you have now is the illusion of choice within the boundaries I've established. And those boundaries are non-negotiable."
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like a prison cell locking.
And Elara stood in the library, surrounded by expensive books and art that belonged to a man who'd just explicitly told her she had no control over her own life anymore.
No autonomy. No choices. Just his protection and control disguised as love.
The worst part was that she understood his reasoning. Understood that in his violent world, vulnerability meant death. Understood that he was offering her the only kind of protection he knew how to give.
But understanding didn't make it easier to breathe in a cage that was getting smaller every time someone dared to notice she existed.