Elena understood it the moment the gates closed behind her.
The sound was low and final—iron meeting iron, a deep mechanical lock sliding into place. It echoed through her chest more than her ears. She turned instinctively, watching the black gates seal the world she knew on the other side.
No escape.
The Moretti estate rose before her like a fortress carved from stone and silence. High walls. Guard towers disguised as architecture. Men posted everywhere, their presence subtle but unmistakable. Nothing about this place was accidental. It was designed to keep enemies out—and prisoners in.
A driver opened the door, motioning for her to step out.
She did.
Pride was the only thing she still owned.
Inside, the house was vast and coldly elegant. Marble floors, dark wood, low lighting. Every detail whispered wealth and control. Elena's footsteps sounded too loud, too small, as she followed the housekeeper down a long corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly forward.
"This will be your room," the woman said quietly, opening a heavy door.
Elena stepped inside—and stopped.
The bedroom was beautiful in a way that felt cruel. Soft lighting. Silk sheets. A balcony overlooking the city. Luxury meant to soften the truth.
A cage lined with velvet.
"Is it locked?" Elena asked.
The housekeeper hesitated. That was answer enough.
"Yes."
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Elena stood motionless for several seconds. Then she walked to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
Her breath hitched—not panic, not yet, but something colder. Reality settling in. This wasn't temporary. This wasn't a negotiation.
She crossed the room and pulled open the balcony doors.
Fresh air rushed in, Hope flared and died.
The balcony overlooked the inner courtyard, high above stone and armed patrols. Jumping wasn't an option. Screaming wouldn't matter. No one here would answer to her.
She wasn't a guest.
She was an asset.
Anger surged, hot and desperate. She swept a vase off the table, watching it shatter against the floor. The sound was sharp—but the house absorbed it like it meant nothing.
"Cowards," she whispered. "All of you."
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time blurred.
Then the door opened.
Luca Moretti entered without asking.
He didn't look surprised by the broken glass. He didn't look angry. He looked…inevitable.
"You tested the limits," he said calmly.
"I wanted to see if they existed," Elena snapped.
"They do," Luca replied. "You just won't like where they end."
She laughed bitterly. "You lock me in a room and expect gratitude?"
"I lock you in a room because there are men outside these walls who would kill you to hurt me," he said. "This is protection."
"This is prison."
He studied her carefully. The fury. The fear she tried to hide. The fire. "There's a difference."
"Not to me."
Luca stepped closer, his presence filling the space. "You agreed to this," he said quietly.
"I agreed to save my father," she shot back. "Not to disappear."
"You didn't disappear," he said. "You were moved."
Her hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists. "You said I would have a life."
"You will," Luca replied. "But not the one you had."
Silence pressed down between them, thick and suffocating.
"There's no way out, is there?" she asked finally, voice low.
Luca didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was honest.
"No."
The word cut deeper than any threat.
She looked at him then—not as the Black King, not as a monster—but as the man who now held her fate.
"Then don't expect me to be obedient," she said. "I will fight you every step of the way."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Good," Luca said softly. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
He turned to leave, stopping at the door. "Rest," he added. "Tomorrow, your world changes completely."
When the door closed again, Elena sank onto the edge of the bed, breath shaking. Fear wrapped around her, but beneath it was something else—resolve.
They could lock her in, they could watch her every move, they could own her future.
But they would never own her will.
And Luca Moretti was about to learn that cages had a way of creating queens—or wars.
There was no escape.
Only survival.