The first full day after the wedding felt like waking up in someone else's nightmare.
Caleb woke in the enormous bed, feeling smaller than ever before. The sheets were crisp. The scent of lavender lingered faintly. Everything was beautiful. Luxurious.
Foreign.
He had slept in his dress shirt, still rumpled, still holding the scent of too many hands and too many stares. He hadn't cried. He'd been too exhausted even for tears.
Sunlight slipped through the tall windows. He stared blankly at the ceiling, waiting for warmth. For comfort. Anything.
Nothing came.
He finally got up, every movement slow, mechanical as a doll's. The closet was filled with tailored clothes in muted tones—gray, navy, ivory. All perfect fits. All impersonal.
Like gifts from someone who didn't care if he lived or died.
He chose the simplest shirt and buttoned it quietly, remembering the Alpha's words from last night.
"Do not touch anything that belongs to me."
As if Caleb had ever wanted to.
When he opened the door, the household staff was already lined up. Not in greeting—just standing, statuesque, ready to serve a master who didn't see them.
"Good morning, sir," they bowed.
He nodded delicately. "Good morning."
He was led to breakfast in the glass-walled dining room. A long table, empty except for him. One plate at the head. One glass of water. No sign of Lucian.
Was it embarrassing, to sit here alone, at a table meant for power and presence? Or was it just another message?
Either way, Caleb ate silently, forcing each bite down as if swallowing part of himself with it.
He wondered if Lucian had always eaten alone.
Then he wondered why he was even wondering.
The morning passed in quiet isolation.
Every hallway was pristine. Every person was efficient. Every silence heavy. He wasn't forbidden from moving through the estate, but he felt like he shouldn't. Like his footsteps were too loud.
He finally slipped outside, needing air.
A garden stretched beyond the west wing—a wild, manicured paradox with dark roses and stone paths. Caleb found himself walking slowly, trailing fingers over the cool leaves. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.
Here, at least, he could pretend the world wasn't watching.
A voice broke the silence.
"You must be the new spouse."
A strange man—handsome, tall, with tailored clothes and eyes that missed nothing—stood under an arch of climbing vines. Caleb tensed, instinctively taking a step back.
"Oh—yes," he said, trying to remain polite. "I'm Caleb Arden."
"I'm Elias," the man said casually, extending a hand. "One of the investors in this estate."
Investor. Another powerful face in a world of masks.
Elias's eyes swept over him, measuring, reading, judging—but not unkindly. He smiled, slow and curious.
"You look like you're not used to this kind of world."
"I'm not," Caleb said honestly. "Not this one."
Elias observed him with something like understanding.
"You should be careful in this house," he said quietly. "Appearances are the currency here. Even a breath can be seen as a negotiation."
Before Caleb could respond, Elias walked away, fading into the garden like mist.
His words lingered long after.
By afternoon, Caleb had returned to his room. He sat on the bed, staring at the phone on the nightstand. Darius had texted again.
Are you eating?
Caleb typed back:
Yes. Thank you.
Then hesitated.
He added a new message.
Everyone here is quiet. Almost… cautious.
The reply came faster than expected.
They're afraid of him.
Caleb blinked.
…Of Lucian?
Isn't everyone?
Caleb stared at the words longer than he should have. Then he asked the question he wasn't sure he wanted answered.
Should I be afraid too?
A delay. Then:
Only if you plan to love him.
His breath caught. It wasn't the answer he expected. And yet… it made something inside him shift—ache.
He set the phone down slowly, letting the meaning settle like dust in sunlight.
Night settled early. The mansions in their district always went quiet once the security patrols began.
Caleb wandered the halls.
He found the piano room. The library. The gallery filled with weaponry older than some dynasties. Every piece immaculate. Every breath he took felt borrowed.
There were staff. Rooms. Walls.
But no life.
The air never changed. The rooms never shifted. He realized the home was frozen—held in place by a man who did not allow disorder, or warmth.
Lucian's home was a museum of power, not a place meant to be lived in.
He ended up outside the Alpha's study. He stopped, hesitating, unsure why.
The door was ajar.
Inside, Lucian stood at the edge of his desk, face lit by the glow of multiple monitors. His sleeves were rolled up. His jaw clenched. His presence was suffocating even in silence.
He noticed Caleb without looking up.
"Do you need something?" he asked coolly.
Caleb froze. "No. I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize," Lucian cut in. His voice was flat. Controlled. Emotionless. "Just speak."
Caleb swallowed. "I just… wanted to know if you needed anything."
Lucian slowly lifted his gaze.
His eyes were sharp enough to cut.
"From you?" he asked. "No."
The words shouldn't have hurt. But they did.
Caleb nodded once. "I understand."
He turned to leave.
"The staff will continue to assist you," Lucian said. "You don't need to leave your room unless announced."
Caleb's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm not a prisoner."
Lucian's eyes flickered. He smirked faintly, like the notion was amusing.
"No," he said, "but you are mine."
Then he returned to his work.
Caleb walked slowly down the corridor—heart heavy, steps silent, breath shallow.
He reached his room and shut the door softly, feeling the weight of the house behind him.
Alone again.
Always alone.
He sat on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled close, unable to lie down in the space that had never been meant for comfort.
His phone buzzed.
A new message.
From his brother.
Brother… you stole my life.
Caleb stared at the text, numb.
Hands shaking, he started typing.
You gave me no choice.
Then deleted it.
He tried again.
I'm sorry.
Deleted.
Finally:
I hope you find peace.
He hit send.
Then sat there in the quiet of a house that felt too sharp, too hollow, too cold.
He exhaled, barely a whisper of breath.
Maybe I should have died instead.