Marcus led Elena from the oppressive silence of the study down a softly lit corridor. The penthouse seemed to unfold endlessly, a labyrinth of muted luxury. He stopped before a door and opened it, gesturing for her to enter.
"Your quarters, Ms. Hart. Dinner will be at eight. Mr. Valerian will expect you in the main dining room."
He gave a slight nod and withdrew, leaving her alone on the threshold.
The room was not a bedroom; it was a suite larger than her stepmother's entire house. The walls were painted a soothing pale grey, the floor covered in a plush, silent carpet. A sitting area with a low sofa and armchairs faced a wall of windows offering a dizzying, panoramic view of Nocturne City's glittering nightscape. To one side, an archway led to a bedroom dominated by a vast, canopied bed made up with linens that looked impossibly crisp and white. Beyond that, she glimpsed a marble bathroom.
It was breathtaking. And it felt utterly sterile.
Her belongings—what few she had—had indeed been transferred. A small, familiar suitcase sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Next to it, her father's stethoscope lay coiled on a velvet tray, a strangely personal artifact in this impersonal space. Her mother's piano, of course, was not here. Its absence was a physical ache.
But it was the wall opposite the bed that made her breath catch. Where a closet should have been, a series of illuminated panels was recessed into the wall. Behind glass doors, a curated wardrobe was displayed. She saw sleek trousers, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, and several dresses in a spectrum of dark, rich colors. All unmistakably designer. All she knew without checking was that it was in her exact size.
He had not only invaded her home; he had measured her life and replaced it with his own version.
In the center of the bed, atop the duvet, lay a single sheet of heavy, cream stationery. She walked over, her feet sinking into the carpet, and picked it up. The handwriting was the same elegant, precise script from the contract.
*'Wear the black dress tonight. Dinner at 8.'*
No please. No request. An instruction.
A hot surge of rebellion tightened her chest. This was the first test—the first rule. *Wear what I choose. Come when I call.* She looked at the luxurious prison around her, at the city lights that seemed miles below, separating her from her old, difficult, but *hers* life. She could refuse. She could put on her own worn jeans and sweater from her suitcase.
And then what? The contract was signed. The penalty clauses loomed. He owned her time and expertise for a year. Did she want to start that year with defiance over a dress? Was this the hill she wanted to die on?
Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. She was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of calculating, tired of being powerless. The fight drained out of her, leaving a hollow, cold resignation. She walked to the illuminated closet. The doors slid open silently at her approach. The black dress was easy to find—it was the only one in that color, a column of liquid shadow among the other hues. She took it out.
It was deceptively simple. A sleeveless sheath of heavy silk jersey, cut to drape and cling. It felt like cool water in her hands. There were no tags. She carried it into the bathroom, a space of marble and chrome with a shower large enough for four people.
She avoided her reflection in the vast mirrors as she undressed and showered, using the provided toiletries that smelled of jasmine and sandalwood—a disturbingly close approximation of her own cheap soap and something that reminded her of him. The hot water did nothing to warm the chill in her core.
Stepping out, she toweled dry and slipped into the dress. It fit perfectly, gliding over her skin like a second shadow, falling to just below her knees. It was the most beautiful, most expensive thing she had ever worn. It felt like a uniform.
Finally, she looked in the mirror.
A stranger stared back. The dress transformed her. It highlighted the slender lines of her body, the pale curve of her shoulders and neck. The dark fabric made her eyes seem larger, greyer, the shadows beneath them more pronounced. She looked elegant, fragile, and utterly controlled. The woman from the garage, from the hospital corridors, was gone, erased by silk and a signature.
A soft chime echoed in the suite, followed by Marcus's discreet voice from an unseen intercom. "Mr. Valerian is ready for you in the dining room, Ms. Hart. I can guide you if you wish."
"I'll find it," she said, her voice flat. She needed a moment, however small, to navigate this cage on her own terms.
She left the suite, the dress whispering against her legs. The penthouse was a maze of open spaces and sharp angles. She followed the scent of food—not the sterile hospital smell, but something rich and herbal—and the faint glow of candlelight reflecting off polished surfaces.
She found the dining room. It was a long, dramatic space with a table of dark wood that could seat twenty. Only two places were set at one end, close to another wall of windows. Candles flickered in silver holders, their light dancing over crystal and porcelain.
Lionel stood by the window, his back to her, a silhouette against the city. He had changed into a black suit. He turned as she entered.
His gaze swept over her, from her face to the dress and back again. It was a clinical assessment, devoid of warmth or admiration, yet it felt more intimate than a touch. He gave a single, slight nod. Approval. Or simply acknowledgment that his instruction had been followed.
"You found your way," he said.
"It's a clear path from the cage to the feeding area," she replied, the words slipping out before she could stop them, sharpened by her simmering resentment.
A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. "Indeed. Please, sit."
He pulled out a chair for her. The gesture was Old World courtesy, but when his fingers briefly brushed the bare skin of her shoulder as she sat, they were cold as marble. She suppressed a shiver.
She was seated, and the first night of her contract had begun. The gilded cage, for all its breathtaking views and silken traps, was now well and truly locked. And she was inside, wearing its colors.