Chapter 3
Three days. Three days trapped in this golden cage.
Every exit was guarded. Every window reinforced. My phone had been taken, replaced with one that could only call internal lines.
Damien had given me everything — designer clothes, gourmet meals, a bathroom bigger than my old apartment. But no freedom.
I'd barely seen him since that first night. He left early, returned late, and when we did cross paths, he looked through me like I was furniture.
On the third night, I found my chance.
A guard shift change at 2 AM. I'd timed it. Seventeen seconds where the hallway to the service elevator was unmonitored.
I moved fast — bare feet silent on marble, heart slamming against my ribs. I reached the elevator, pressed the button, counted the seconds.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
The doors opened.
I dove inside and jabbed the lobby button. My breath came in short bursts. The doors began to close—
A hand shot between them.
The doors reopened, revealing Damien in nothing but black sweatpants, his chest bare, tattoos snaking across his torso. His hair was disheveled. He'd been sleeping.
"Going somewhere?" His voice was eerily calm.
"Let me go," I begged. "Please. I'm not property. I'm a person."
Something shifted in his gaze — brief, almost imperceptible. Then it was gone.
He stepped inside the elevator and pressed the top floor button. The doors closed, sealing us in together.
"You think I enjoy this?" he said quietly.
"You took me from my wedding!"
"I saved you from it."
"Saved?" I let out a bitter laugh. "You're delusional."
Damien turned to me fully, and for the first time, I saw something beneath the ice. Something burning.
"Your father didn't just owe me money, Vivian. He owed me a life." He paused, his jaw working. "Your mother's life."
The elevator stopped. But I couldn't move.
"What did you just say about my mother?"
Damien's expression sealed shut. He stepped out, then turned back.
"Dinner tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Don't be late, and I'll tell you how your mother really died."
The doors closed between us, and I stood there, frozen.
My mother died of a heart attack when I was nine. That's what Dad told me. That's what everyone told me.
What could Damien Blackwell possibly know about it?
Every exit was guarded. Every window reinforced. My phone had been taken, replaced with one that could only call internal lines.
Damien had given me everything — designer clothes, gourmet meals, a bathroom bigger than my old apartment. But no freedom.
I'd barely seen him since that first night. He left early, returned late, and when we did cross paths, he looked through me like I was furniture.
On the third night, I found my chance.
A guard shift change at 2 AM. I'd timed it. Seventeen seconds where the hallway to the service elevator was unmonitored.
I moved fast — bare feet silent on marble, heart slamming against my ribs. I reached the elevator, pressed the button, counted the seconds.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
The doors opened.
I dove inside and jabbed the lobby button. My breath came in short bursts. The doors began to close—
A hand shot between them.
The doors reopened, revealing Damien in nothing but black sweatpants, his chest bare, tattoos snaking across his torso. His hair was disheveled. He'd been sleeping.
"Going somewhere?" His voice was eerily calm.
"Let me go," I begged. "Please. I'm not property. I'm a person."
Something shifted in his gaze — brief, almost imperceptible. Then it was gone.
He stepped inside the elevator and pressed the top floor button. The doors closed, sealing us in together.
"You think I enjoy this?" he said quietly.
"You took me from my wedding!"
"I saved you from it."
"Saved?" I let out a bitter laugh. "You're delusional."
Damien turned to me fully, and for the first time, I saw something beneath the ice. Something burning.
"Your father didn't just owe me money, Vivian. He owed me a life." He paused, his jaw working. "Your mother's life."
The elevator stopped. But I couldn't move.
"What did you just say about my mother?"
Damien's expression sealed shut. He stepped out, then turned back.
"Dinner tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Don't be late, and I'll tell you how your mother really died."
The doors closed between us, and I stood there, frozen.
My mother died of a heart attack when I was nine. That's what Dad told me. That's what everyone told me.
What could Damien Blackwell possibly know about it?