"If he knows how to break her, he knows how to keep her."
"This way, Mrs. D'Angelo."
The woman's voice sliced clean through my fog. She was older, silver hair pulled into a severe bun, uniform starched to the point that it practically emitted judgment.
This was my jailer —no, my head housekeeper.
"My name is Mrs. Gable," she said crisply as she led me down a hallway lined with art worth more than my entire life. "Your suite is ready."
My suite.
A pretty word for a cage.
She opened a set of ornate double doors to reveal a bedroom larger than my old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a glittering, rain-washed city. The bed was massive, drowning in velvet and silk.
"If you'll come with me," Mrs. Gable continued, "a bath has been drawn."
I followed, numb, into a bathroom that looked like a private spa—marble floors, a freestanding tub, gold fixtures, and rows of crystal bottles filled with expensive scents. Two cream silk robes hung on heated hooks.
"Your belongings, such as they are, will be disposed of," she said, lifting my soaked dress between two fingers, her face contorting with refined disgust.
"A selection of evening wear has been arranged for dinner. The Master expects you in forty-five minutes."
Disposed of.
My cheap dress, my worn shoes—every scrap of the life I fought to build—discarded because it didn't match their curated world.
The luxury felt suffocating, not comforting. Like drowning in honey.
"Yes, Mrs. Gable," I murmured, staring at my reflection: a drenched, wild-eyed intruder trapped in gold.
"Good. I trust you can manage from here."
She vanished like she'd never existed.
I sank into the hot bath, trying to scrub away the humiliation staining my skin.
Forty-five minutes later, I stood in a dark emerald silk gown so expertly cut it felt like a second skin—one made for a woman who wasn't me. No jewelry yet, but the weight of my new status already clung to my bones.
Following Mrs. Gable's directions, I entered the dining room. The polished mahogany table stretched beneath a massive chandelier, light scattering like diamonds.
Kieran sat at the head of the table, perfectly composed in a tailored suit. He didn't look up immediately—he didn't need to. His presence filled the room.
Three others sat near him:
An older woman with razor-sharp posture and colder eyes,
a younger man with a smirk that suggested he collected gossip like currency,
and a silent woman cataloguing me with detached interest.
"Aurielle, these are my cousins, Marco and Ginevra," Kieran said, finally lifting his gaze to me. Approval—or possession—flickered across his face before vanishing beneath iron control. "And my aunt, the Contessa Isabella."
Contessa.
A title heavy enough to crush someone like me.
"Mrs. D'Angelo," the Contessa said, her voice smooth as polished steel. A tiny smile—calculated, insincere—touched her lips.
"Please, call me Auri," I said, keeping my voice steady as I pulled out a chair.
"Aurielle."
Kieran's correction was soft, almost gentle, but it held the weight of law.
A warning delivered at a whisper.
I froze, then obeyed, silk whispering as I sat.
"So, Aurielle," the Contessa said, leaning forward. "Tell us—who are your parents?"
I had rehearsed nothing for this moment, and the Contessa was was expecting a name dripping with wealth or influence. Instead…..
"I'm an orphan."
The Contessa's lips pressed into a thin line. An orphan? Her perfectly arched brows lifted slightly in disdain. And Kieran… he degraded us enough to bring someone like this into our world?
"And before you so quickly snatched up our Kieran, what did you do?" the Contessa pressed, her voice laced with open disbelief that I was sitting at her table.
"I was his personal assistant."The Contessa's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "A secretary? Truly, Kieran? A D'Angelo marries his help?" She shook her head, an expression of profound disgust tightening her features.
Heat crawled up my neck.
She whispered sharply to him in Italian, assuming I wouldn't understand.
"Kieran, darling, we must be realistic.
Bloodlines matter.
Reputation matters.
The girl is… inappropriate."
Kieran placed his napkin down with precise deliberation.
"We are not discussing employment tonight," he said, every word glacial and lethal. "Aurielle is my wife. That is all you need to know."
He slid a velvet box toward me.
Inside lay a massive diamond engagement ring and matching band—golden handcuffs dressed as jewelry. I slipped them on with stiff fingers. They fit perfectly. Of course they did.
Dinner continued in brittle silence. The lobster bisque tasted like nothing.
"I hear you have a son," the Contessa said, tone deceptively light. The air shifted—tightened.
"Yes." My voice barely existed.
"A single mother?" She leaned back, recoiling as if the air had curdled. "How utterly… common."
Marco looked away. Ginevra kept her expression neutral.
Kieran watched me, unreadable.
The shame pressed on my chest like a boot.
When dessert plates were cleared, Kieran rose.
"If you'll excuse us, my wife and I have matters to address."
His tone wasn't loud, but it carried absolute command. I followed him out, ignoring the Contessa's cold, victorious gaze.
He led me back to the suite. The door shut with a heavy, final thud.
"You handled yourself adequately," he murmured, loosening his cuffs. "Stubborn, but adequate."
"They hate me," I whispered, staring at the rings on my hand.
"Their opinions are irrelevant," he replied, stepping closer. "Yours is the only one I control."
Ice slid through me.
"You're not allowed to go anywhere without my permission," he said softly—too softly. "Consider that your second lesson."
"I signed a contract, Kieran. Not a loyalty oath."
His smile was faint, dangerous.
"It's both, sweetheart. I don't need volume to break you."
He moved toward the door.
"Your son is stable," he said, tone flat, delivering information like orders. "He's in surgery. The first payment was transferred ten minutes ago."
He opened the door.
"Sleep well. And don't test the locks."
He stepped out.
A sharp click followed.
I lunged for the handle.
Locked.
I tried again, frantic. Useless.
A click.
"Wife."
I froze.
He hadn't left.
He'd been listening.
"I warned you not to test the locks."
His tone wasn't angry.
Anger would've been safer.
This was something quieter.
Like he was amused by how easily I rattled inside the bars he built.
A soft exhale—almost a sigh—crackled through the speaker.
"Your fear is loud, sweetheart."
My stomach dropped.
The lights dimmed without warning, shadows crawling up the walls.
"I'm giving you one night to understand something important," Kieran murmured, voice dipping into a velvet threat.
"You are not trapped with me."
A beat.
"You're trapped for me. And you know what that means?" He asked. "You're my possession, my investment, my wife, my leverage, my responsibility."
The lights cut out completely.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And his final whisper—soft, deliberate, intimate enough to bruise—slid through the air:
"Lesson three starts now."