It wasn't lovemaking.It was a transaction.A brutal, clinical claiming.
Elara Larsen stood in the master bedroom of Damien Vance's penthouse,the silk negligee clinging to her trembling frame like a shroud.
The clock on the nightstand glowed 9:00 PM.A merciless countdown to surrender.
The room was dim.City lights poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows,casting long shadows across the massive bed.
The diamond-studded choker around her neck felt heavier than ever—its locked clasp pressing against her skin,a cold reminder that she belonged to him.
Her heart pounded,each beat a drum of panic in the silence,as she waited for him—her husband.Her captor.Her owner.
The day had been a blur of humiliation.
The press conference.The cameras.The fake smiles.
She'd stood beside him, the perfect bride,while he sold the world their fairy tale.
Then came the dinner—a glittering gala filled with laughter and lies.His hand had never left her back,his whispered orders wrapped in charm.
Every smile, every word, every touch—choreographed.Controlled.
And now,here in the privacy of his penthouse,the masks were gone.Only the truth remained.And the truth was a blade.
The door opened.
Damien entered,and the air itself seemed to bend around him.
He was still in his tuxedo—jacket gone, shirt undone at the collar,a sliver of tanned skin catching the low light.
His gray eyes found her instantly.Cold. Sharp. Possessive.Stripping her bare before he even spoke.
This was no charming billionaire.This was the predator beneath the polish.
Her breath hitched.Her hands clutched the thin lace at her sides,its black fabric obscene against her pale skin.
She wanted to speak—to beg—but her voice was gone.
He crossed the room in three strides.Each step felt like a countdown to her undoing.
He stopped inches away,his height forcing her to tilt her chin up,the choker biting into her throat.
"No words," he said softly.The command sliced through the air."You know why we're here."
Her stomach knotted.The words from the schedule echoed in her head:9:00 PM – Conception Attempt.
Every humiliating step of this plan had led here.The doctor.The nutritionist.The fertility charts.
"Damien," she whispered,"please—"
"Quiet."
His hand rose to her jaw,thumb pressing against her lips, silencing her.
"You signed the contract, Elara.You agreed to this.Your body is mine.And tonight,we fulfill the terms."
Tears burned behind her eyes,but she swallowed them.She wouldn't break.
She was Elara Larsen—the woman who had kept his empire running.The woman who'd been strong.Capable.Free.
Until now.
His hand slid to her shoulder,firm and possessive.He guided her toward the bed.
Her body obeyed before her mind could rebel.
The negligee didn't need removing.It was designed for this—delicate, revealing, humiliating.
He pushed her down.The mattress dipped beneath her.The sheets were cold against her burning skin.
He leaned over her,hands braced beside her head.His gaze swept over her like a survey—clinical, hungry, detached.
"This is about duty," he said."Your duty to me.To the contract.To the heir I require."
Her chest tightened.Her hands fisted the sheets.
She wanted to fight.To scream.To shove him away.
But the weight of her family's survival crushed her.Her father's trembling voice.The bank's threats.Larsen Industries hanging by a thread.
Those were her chains.
She closed her eyes as his hands moved to her hips.His grip was bruising,his control absolute.
The act was swift.Mechanical.A transaction without tenderness.
Every movement was calculated—efficient, practiced, cold.
His breath stayed even.Hers came in gasps.
The choker cut into her throat,the diamonds pressing like teeth against her skin.
Humiliation burned hotter than any touch.Her body trembled beneath him,her mind retreating to survive.
There was no pleasure.Only the suffocating truth of submission.
When it ended,he didn't stay.
He rose,buttoning his shirt with calm precision.The city lights framed him in gold and shadow.
Elara lay still.Her body ached.Her heart felt hollow.
She wasn't a wife.She was a vessel.A means to an end.
"The doctor recommends you stay on your back for twenty minutes,"he said quietly."It increases the probability."
His tone was clinical.Detached.The same voice he'd use to discuss profit margins.
"Stay there."
Then he was gone.The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Only the faint hum of the city filled the void.
Elara stared at the ceiling,her breath uneven,her mind spiraling.
The choker pressed against her throat.The negligee clung to her skin.
She wanted to tear it all off.To scream.To run.
But she couldn't.
The contract.The debt.His control.
Every part of her life was caged.
Hot tears slid down her temples,soaking into the sheets.
Twenty minutes.That was her instruction.Even her grief had a timer.
Her thoughts drifted—to her father's desperate voice,her mother's quiet strength,the woman she used to be.
Who was she now?A prisoner in silk.A tool dressed up as a bride.
When the time passed,she sat up slowly,the negligee slipping off one shoulder.
She pulled the sheets around herself,but they did nothing to warm her.
The penthouse felt too vast,too cold.The city beyond the windows glittered,mocking her with its freedom.
Her fingers brushed the choker.The locked clasp didn't budge.
His mark.A promise.A prison.
But deep inside her chest,something flickered—small, fragile, defiant.
She was his—for now.But she was still Elara Larsen.And she wouldn't break.
The door stayed closed.The night stretched on.
And in that silence,Elara made a vow.
She would survive this.She would fight.She would find a way out.
But as the city lights shimmered against the glass,one truth cut through the darkness—
Surviving Damien Vance would be the hardest battle she'd ever fight.