CHAPTER TWO:THE RULES OF HIS HOUSE
1305 Words
The first rule of Sebastian Blackwood’s house is simple.
I am not allowed to leave.
The second becomes clear an hour later.
I am not allowed to pretend I am his wife.
I stand in the center of a bedroom larger than my entire apartment, still in my wedding dress, still wearing the mask, still trying to breathe normally.
The door Sebastian locked is not the bedroom door. It is the main penthouse entrance. A subtle distinction that does nothing to soothe the reality: the elevator will not respond. The wall panel glows red when I touch it. The windows don’t open.
The penthouse is beautiful.
It is also sealed.
I move slowly, testing limits. Each hallway leads to another vast, silent room. Living areas arranged like art galleries. A glass-walled office overlooking the city. A dining space that could host a political summit.
And everywhere discreet black lenses.
Cameras.
The third rule, then, is unspoken.
I am being watched.
My heels come off in the bedroom. I sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as they trace the lace of the mask.
Marcus.
I pull my phone from my clutch.
No signal.
Of course.
The door opens without warning.
I’m on my feet instantly.
Sebastian steps inside.
He has removed his suit jacket. The white shirt beneath clings faintly to muscle, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks less like a groom now.
More like what he truly is.
A man at work.
“You’ll have a new phone,” he says, as if continuing a conversation. “It will only call numbers I approve.”
My jaw tightens. “So I’m a prisoner.”
He considers that. “No.”
He gestures around. “Prisoners don’t live like this.”
“They’re still not free.”
His gaze lifts to my mask. “Neither are you.”
He tosses a slim black device onto the bed. A phone. “Your brother will be transferred tomorrow.”
My breath stutters. “Transferred where?”
“A private medical facility.”
Hope flickers painfully. “You said he would be released.”
“I said he would be safe.” Sebastian’s voice remains level. “This is safer.”
“You’re moving him farther away from me.”
“I’m moving him out of reach,” he corrects. “Yours included.”
Anger finally breaks through fear. “You don’t get to use him to control me.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“You’re mistaken, Elara Voss,” he says. “I already did.”
My blood turns cold.
“What did you call me?”
He steps closer.
“I told you,” he says quietly. “I don’t sign contracts blind.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “Then why the mask? Why pretend you didn’t know?”
“Because knowing your name is not the same as knowing who you are.” He stops a few feet away. “You appeared in my investigation three months ago. No records before age seventeen. No living parents. A sealed juvenile file. A brother arrested for a crime that points in too many directions.”
He studies me. “You are either the unluckiest woman in New York.”
A beat.
“Or the most carefully placed.”
I swallow. “I’m just someone trying to save her family.”
“So was the woman who lured me into a near-fatal car accident.”
The words hit like a slap.
“What?”
Three years ago, he said nothing. The name Blackwood had been everywhere after that crash. The billionaire who shouldn’t have survived. The scandal. The sudden internal purge of his companies.
“You were in the area,” he continues. “Different name. Different hair. Same height. Same voice.”
My chest tightens. “You think I tried to kill you.”
“I think,” he says, “that you were there when someone tried.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I didn’t,” I whisper. “I’ve never—”
“You fainted when a tray hit the floor at the reception,” he cuts in. “You reacted before the sound finished. Trauma does that.”
I can’t stop the small shake of my hands.
Sebastian notices.
His eyes darken.
“Take off the mask,” he says.
“No.”
He steps closer. Close enough that the air between us feels thin.
“You are my wife. You are in my house. And I will see who I married.”
“You will see me when the contract allows it.”
“Contracts,” he says softly, “are only powerful when both sides are equal.”
I lift my chin. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have married someone you had to trap.”
Something sharp flashes across his face.
For a moment, I think he might tear the mask away.
Instead, he does something worse.
He lifts his hand and touches the edge of it.
Not pulling.
Not removing.
Just touching.
Two fingers, barely there, at my cheek.
The contact burns.
My breath catches traitorously.
“You’re afraid,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His thumb traces the line where lace meets skin.
“You should be.”
His hand drops.
He turns away.
“There are rules,” he says, walking toward the door. “You’ll follow them.”
The door opens automatically.
“One: You don’t leave the penthouse without me.”
“Two: You don’t access my offices, files, or security network.”
“Three: You don’t lie to me.”
He stops at the doorway.
“And four,” he adds, without turning, “you don’t take off that mask unless I’m the one asking.”
The door closes.
Not locked this time.
Which somehow feels worse.
I don’t sleep.
The bed is too soft. The silence too loud.
Near dawn, I finally change out of the wedding dress. The closet is already stocked. My size. My style. Soft fabrics. Neutral colors.
He planned this.
I sit on the edge of the bed, mask still on, phone in my hand.
There is one number saved.
Unknown.
I press it.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then a voice I haven’t heard in months says:
“Elara?”
Tears blur my vision. “Marcus.”
“They moved me,” he whispers. “There are guards everywhere. They say you’re safe. Is that true?”
I hesitate.
Before I can answer, a click sounds on the line.
Another presence joins the call.
Sebastian’s voice.
“Good morning,” he says calmly.
My blood runs cold.
“You put this call through,” I accuse.
“Yes.”
“Then you were listening.”
“Of course.”
Marcus’s breathing grows fast. “Elara, who is that?”
Sebastian steps into the bedroom.
He is already dressed.
Already composed.
He looks at me as he answers my brother.
“I am your sister’s husband.”
Marcus goes silent.
Sebastian’s gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“And the reason you are both still alive.”
He reaches out and gently takes the phone from my hand.
“I think that’s enough for now.”
The call ends.
He slips the phone into his pocket.
Then he says the words that drain the color from my world:
“You have twenty-four hours.”
“To do what?” I whisper.
“To tell me why your name appeared in the same file as the woman who betrayed me,” he says.
“And what you were really doing the night my car went off that bridge.”
He looks at my mask.
“Because if you lie to me again…”
He steps closer.
“…I won’t stop at locking the doors.”
- Writer
