Chapter 3: The Penthouse Wife
1005 Words
Alina stood before the penthouse double doors, her fingers clutching the cold brass handle. The ride up had been silent, the kind of silence that echoed. Damon hadn’t spoken a word during the drive. He hadn’t even looked at her. Just sat, legs crossed, eyes on his phone like she wasn’t there.
Now, he was behind her, unlocking the door with a smooth swipe of the key fob. The door gave a soft hiss as it opened, revealing a world that didn’t belong to her.
It was stunning.
Polished black marble floors. Silver-gold accents. A floating staircase that spiraled like something out of a dream. Floor-to-ceiling windows swallowed the city skyline, and everything inside gleamed like it had never been touched by human hands.
"This is home now," Damon said, brushing past her.
Alina stepped in hesitantly, her cheap flats tapping against the stone floor like an echo of poverty in a museum. It smelled expensive crisp, faintly floral, and completely sterile.
Her eyes caught details as they wandered: art that looked like it belonged in a gallery, crystal vases without a single flower, a grand piano no one had touched in weeks. It was all beautiful. But soulless.
He turned sharply. "You’ll have your own room upstairs. You'll be assigned a closet stylist, etiquette coach, and media liaison. Don’t speak to press unless I give permission. You’re not just a wife, you’re a brand accessory now."
Alina blinked. "A what?"
"You heard me."
Before she could respond, a tall, older woman entered from a hallway. Early fifties, sharp suit, clipboard in hand.
"Mrs. Thorne," the woman said with a crisp nod. "I'm Marla, house operations."
"Just Alina is fine."
Marla didn’t smile. "Noted. Follow me."
Damon was already walking away. No goodbyes. No further explanation.
Alina followed Marla up the spiral staircase to a long hallway lined with doors. The walls here were darker, the lighting cooler.
"You’ll stay in the east suite. It has been updated since the last... occupant."
Alina paused. "Last occupant?"
Marla's eyes flickered. "You don’t need to concern yourself with that."
Alina said nothing, but her mind whirled. Last occupant? Was there another wife? A live-in girlfriend?
The suite was a miniature apartment: sitting room, bathroom, vanity, king bed, and a view of the skyline that could kill.
"Dinner is at 5:30. You will be dressed and ready for the gala by 6:30. A team will come to prepare you."
Marla turned to leave but hesitated.
"If you hear things... from the staff. Ignore them."
Alina frowned. "Hear what?"
But Marla was already gone.
She explored the suite, her fingers brushing the velvet curtains, the sleek wooden dresser, the untouched linens. Then she noticed the door across the hall. Locked.
Not just closed. Locked.
She tried the handle, felt the steel resistance.
Was it another suite? A storage room?
Or something else?
Her unease grew.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at the endless city. Somewhere down there, people were living real lives. Falling in love. Breaking up. Getting coffee. Fighting over bills. Everything felt more real than this.
A soft knock pulled her back to the present.
Three women entered with cases of makeup, hair tools, and designer gowns. No words, no small talk. Just efficient transformation.
Within an hour, Alina barely recognized herself. Black silk gown, low back, red lips, sharp eyes. Expensive. Polished. His.
The dress clung to her like a promise she hadn’t made. Her hair was swept into a classic chignon. Pearls at her ears, silver heels she could barely walk in. She looked like a stranger. One they could display.
As she stood in front of the mirror, one of the stylists a petite blonde with sharp cheekbones paused, as if to say something. Her eyes lingered on Alina's reflection. Then she turned and left without a word.
Odd.
The car ride to the gala was another quiet ordeal. Damon looked flawless in a black tux, cufflinks catching the light. He hadn’t spoken since they left the apartment, but his silence wasn’t the cold kind. It was watchful. Intentional.
When they stepped out onto the red carpet, flashbulbs exploded.
He took her hand. Not gently. Like a performance.
Smile, she told herself. Breathe.
Journalists screamed.
"Damon, who's your wife?"
"Is this serious or another Thorne stunt?"
"When's the baby coming?"
Alina flinched, but Damon pulled her closer and leaned down. His lips brushed her ear.
"You belong to me now. Smile like you mean it."
Then he kissed her. In front of everyone. Deep, slow, and possessive.
When he pulled back, she was dizzy.
He smiled for the cameras. She tried to do the same.
Inside, the ballroom glittered. Gold chandeliers. Waiters with champagne. A crowd of monsters dressed like royalty. Women dripping in diamonds. Men with shark eyes. She could feel their gaze on her assessing, measuring, dissecting.
Alina moved carefully, glued to Damon’s side.
He introduced her a few times. "My wife, Alina." Never more than that. No fondness. Just a label.
She played the part. Smiled. Nodded. Laughed on cue.
Then a hand touched her arm.
A woman mid-thirties, emerald dress, too poised to be casual.
"Mrs. Thorne," she said softly. "A word of advice."
Alina blinked. "Yes?"
The woman leaned in close, her breath sweet like wine.
"You don’t know who you just married."
Then she walked away.
Alina turned to look at Damon, but he was deep in conversation with a politician. Laughing. Perfect. Powerful.
Her chest tightened.
What did that woman mean? And why had her voice sounded almost... like a warning?
She suddenly felt trapped in a dress too tight, in a life too surreal.
Later, when the gala ended, Damon walked beside her in silence. Back at the penthouse, he disappeared without a word. Alina returned to her suite. Still wearing the gown, she sat on the edge of the bed staring at the locked door across the hall.
And for the first time since signing that contract, she felt afraid.
- Writer
