Chapter 3:Make him bleed first
1200 Words
The cathedral doors slammed behind us.
Kelvin didn’t unlock the handcuff. He just tugged the chain once. Like a leash.
“Move, wife,” he said.
Outside, London was gray. Rain on the steps. A black Bentley waited at the curb. His driver didn’t look at us.
People stared. A bride in white, chained to a man in a suit.
My cheeks burned.
“This is illegal,” I whispered.
Kelvin stopped. He turned, and for a second the billionaire mask cracked.
“Illegal?” He lifted our joined hands. The metal glinted. “Your brother sold you, Jenna. I bought you. Everything we’re doing is on paper. Signed. Notarized.”
He leaned in. His cologne was cold. Expensive.
“So save your breath. You’ll need it for screaming later.”
The door opened. He pushed me in first.
The handcuff forced me to sit too close. His thigh pressed against mine.
The Bentley pulled away from the cathedral. Michael was gone. No one came after us.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Home.”
“That’s not my home.”
Kelvin pulled out his phone. No glance at me. “It is now. For one year.”
I yanked the chain. It hurt my wrist. “You can’t keep me like an animal.”
He finally looked at me. Gray eyes. No warmth.
“I can. And I will.” He grabbed my chin, forced me to face him. “Listen carefully, Jenna. You have two choices. You behave, you eat, you sleep in my house. You don’t try to run, you don’t try to call your brother. In return, I don’t hurt you.”
His thumb brushed my lip. I flinched.
“Or,” he whispered, “you fight me. And I remind you why men like me don’t get told no.”
The car went silent except for rain on the roof.
I didn’t answer. Because if I spoke, I’d cry. And I swore I wouldn’t give him that.
The Bentley stopped at a building of glass.
Kelvin’s penthouse. Floor to ceiling windows. Cold. Empty.
He unlocked the handcuff the second we were inside. The skin on my wrist was red.
“Freedom?” I asked, rubbing it.
“No.” He tossed the chain on a marble table. “The doors are alarmed. The elevators need my fingerprint. You can walk around. You cannot leave.”
I turned in a slow circle. White floors. White walls. No photos. No life.
“Where’s my room?”
“Yours?” He walked to the bar and poured whiskey. “There’s only one bed, Jenna. Mine.”
My stomach dropped. “No. You said you wouldn’t—”
“I said I wouldn’t touch you without permission,” he cut in. He drank. “I didn’t say you’d have your own room.”
He set the glass down hard.
“Eat. There’s food in the kitchen. Then you’ll sit with me while I work. You’re my wife now. Act like it.”
He walked away, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up.
And I stood there, in a billionaire’s prison, with no one coming to save me.
I didn’t eat.
I sat on the edge of his bed at midnight, in one of his oversized shirts because he refused to buy me clothes yet.
The shirt smelled like him. Cedar. Power.
Kelvin came out of the bathroom bare-chested. Water on his skin.
I looked away.
“Bed,” he said. Like an order.
“I’m not—”
“Jenna.” He stopped in front of me. “I won’t touch you tonight. You have my word.”
I laughed. Bitter. “Your word means nothing.”
His jaw ticked. “Then take it or leave it. But if you sleep on the floor, you’ll be cold. And I won’t carry you to bed.”
He got in. Left space for me.
I stared at that space for a long time.
Finally, I slid in. As far from him as the king-size would allow.
The room was quiet. Only his breathing. Only the city outside.
“One year,” I whispered to the ceiling.
“One year,” he repeated from the dark.
And I closed my eyes, handcuff-free but more trapped than ever.
I didn’t sleep.
Not with him breathing next to me. Not with the city lights cutting across his face.
At 3AM, I slipped out of bed. Bare feet on cold marble.
The penthouse was silent. Too big. Too empty.
I found the balcony doors. Locked. Of course.
My reflection in the glass looked like a stranger. Wedding dress gone. In his shirt. No ring. No choice.
Behind me, the bed shifted.
“Can’t sleep?” Kelvin’s voice. Low. Rough from sleep.
I didn’t turn. “I’m counting the days.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. I heard him sit up. “I’m counting too.”
One year.
365 nights in his house.
And tonight was only night one.
The contract was signed. My life was not my own anymore.
I turned then. Slow.
Kelvin was sitting up now, the sheets around his waist. Bare chest. In the moonlight, he looked less like a monster and more like a man.
But only for a second.
“Why did you buy me?” I asked. The question I’d been choking on all night.
His gray eyes didn’t blink. “Because your brother owed me two million dollars. And you were the only asset he had left.”
My breath caught. “I’m not an asset.”
“You are now.” He stood. Six feet of suitless power. “But assets don’t break, Jenna. So I suggest you don’t either.”
He walked past me to the balcony doors. Unlocked them.
Cold air hit my face.
“Come here,” he said, without looking.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve run.
But I walked. Because the contract was signed.
And because for one stupid second, I wanted to know what he was counting too.
The balcony was high. London looked small from up here.
Kelvin stood at the railing. Hands in his pockets. Not touching me.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “My mother died in a house like this. Big. Empty. Owned by a man she didn’t choose.”
I stared at him. “Are you telling me you feel sorry for me?”
He turned his head. Just enough for me to see his profile. “No. I’m telling you I don’t.”
The wind pulled at my hair. At his shirt.
“One year, Jenna,” he said. “Then you’re free. With money. With a way out. If you survive me.”
My fingers gripped the railing. “And if I don’t?”
He looked at me fully now. Gray. Cold. Honest.
“Then you were never meant to.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to survive him.
Or if I wanted to make him bleed first. The city was silent below us.
And so was I.
Night one was over. And I hated it.
- Writer
