Married to my enemy

Chapter two: The penthouse prison

Chapter 2: The Penthouse Prison

The luxurious car came and stopped in front of a glass-and-steel tower that stabbed the sky like a dagger. That was Damon’s penthouse—the last place on earth she would ever want to be.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered, stepping out first from the car.

She followed him slowly, her gown catching the cool evening air. Paparazzi still loitered behind velvet ropes, their flashes now a distant memory. It was just her and her husband now. Very funny, but scary. No audience. No smiling faces. No crying faces. Just the cold reality of a life she did not choose.

The doorman bowed slightly and opened the gold-framed glass doors. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe,” he said with a heavy smile.

Mrs. Wolfe.

The name sounded weird. She just felt like the name did not belong to her. But she knew she did not like the name. The name even made her sick.

She did not even respond.

Inside, the lobby was sleek, modern, and soulless. Marble floors stretched endlessly, reflecting the white light from chandeliers shaped like icicles. No warmth. No joy. No love. Not even life. Just money and emptiness.

There was a private elevator, which she was guarded to by a stone-faced man in a dark suit. Bodyguard? Butler? Warden? She did not ask.

The doors opened with a soft chime. She stepped in first, and Damon joined her, pressing his hand against the fingerprint scanner. The system beeped once, then they began their silent ascent to the top of the world. Nobody said anything to anyone. They just stood in the elevator like logs of wood.

“How strange is it that married couples are not even happy or can't even communicate as friends?” Alina wondered.

The higher they went, the heavier her chest felt.

“You will like the view,” Damon said quietly. “It makes you forget how dirty the world looks from the ground.”

She did not answer—and never wanted to answer him.

The elevator stopped with a soft hiss. The doors parted into a world of glass, steel, and perfection.

The penthouse was so big and beautiful—an open-plan expanse that could house a dozen lives and still feel empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave an uninterrupted view of the city skyline, lights blinking in the distance like a thousand secrets. The walls were decorated with beautiful artworks, abstract pieces that said nothing about the man who lived here.

It was beautiful.

But not a home.

“This way,” he gestured toward a hallway lined with pale gray walls. She followed, the sound of her heels echoing like defiance.

He stopped outside a large door and pushed it open. It was her bedroom, apparently. It was… too perfect. Crisp white sheets, a massive king-sized bed, silver decor, untouched mirrors, thick and large blankets. Not even a stray wrinkle in the duvet.

“I had it redone to your taste,” he said casually, as if he had given her the whole world.

“Mtcheeeeew," she hissed.

“You don’t know my taste.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “I own you and your taste.”

She turned to him sharply.

“Hey, let me better call you to order. You don’t own me.”

Damon stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Legally, morally, financially—yes, I do.”

“I am not a thing,” she hissed again. “Look at me. I am not for sale.”

He stared at her for a long time, then came closer, his eyes searching hers.

“Then don’t act like one. No one forced you to say ‘I do.’”

“Oh really? I don't blame you.”

She flinched—because part of her hated how true that was. She could have said no. She could have run. But she didn’t. And now she was trapped in a golden cage that smelled like expensive cologne and lies.

“I will sleep in the guest room tonight,” he said finally. “You’ll find a closet full of everything you need—clothes, toiletries, jewelry, and every other thing.”

“I won’t wear anything you bought me.”

“Then stay naked if you want to. It’s your choice, dear. That works too, right?”

He left before she could throw something at him. He was just very lucky—she would have stoned his mouth to bleed.

She sat on the bed for a long time after he left, staring at the skyline. The city was looking so peaceful from up here, like nothing bad ever happened in the world.

But she knew better. She remembered how she had watched her father collapse in their living room after getting the call. She watched the media s*******r his reputation. She watched her mother sell their lives piece by piece until the only bargaining chip left was… her.

She stood and opened the closet. “Wooooo...” And yes, just as he said, it was full. Dresses, gowns, lingerie, shoes—all new, all expensive, all dripping with his control.

She honestly did like them. They were beautiful and adoring.

She picked the plainest black nightgown and went into the bathroom. Marble floors again. Gold fixtures. The bathtub was looking like a swimming pool. She showered quickly, washing off the scent of roses and fear.

But when she stepped out and saw her reflection in the mirror, she did not recognize the girl staring back.

“Is this really my life now? Oh wow... Everything will be alright.”

That was all she could say to herself with sad looks.

She barely slept. The silence in the penthouse was too loud. And every time she closed her eyes, she would see Damon’s smirk. His cold eyes. His perfect lies.

By morning, she was still awake when the sun poured through the windows.

A knock sounded at the door. She tensed.

“What?”

“Breakfast,” came a voice—a soft feminine voice.

She opened the door to find a woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in a neat black uniform with kind eyes and a polite smile.

“I’m Marta,” she said. “I run the house. Mr. Wolfe asked me to take care of you.”

Alina stepped aside silently. Marta carried in a tray stacked with croissants, fruit, eggs, and juice. But Alina had no appetite. She had lost her appetite.

Her world had changed.

“Does he always treat his prisoners this well?” she asked coldly.

She paused, then said gently, “My dear, don’t say that. He is not as heartless as he looks.”

Alina raised a brow. “You mean there’s worse underneath?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped the tray on the table near the window and nodded. “If you need anything, press the intercom. I’m on the second floor.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Alina wandered through the penthouse after breakfast. Or tried to. Most doors were locked—the library, an office, a second bedroom with a locked drawer. She tested each quietly, pretending as if she was not desperate to find something—anything—that gave her leverage.

Fortunately, that’s when she found the study door slightly open.

Inside, there was a desk littered with papers, a laptop left on but locked, and shelves lined with thick files.

She took a step inside quietly.

The floor creaked.

“Looking for something?” came a voice behind her.

She jumped and spun around like a thief, with guilt.

Damon stood at the door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“I was… exploring,” she said lamely.

He walked in slowly. “Exploring my private office?”

“You said I lived here now,” she said, lifting her chin.

“I did. But don’t confuse marriage with access.”

He reached past her and closed the drawer she had not even touched yet. Then he looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“What are you hoping to find, Alina? Secrets? Scandals?”

“Answers,” she said quietly.

“To what, Alina?”

“To why you destroyed my family.”

His eyes darkened.

“You think I owe you the truth?” he asked. “Your father was not even the saint you think he was.”

She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

But Damon just stepped back, turned, and left the office, saying only one thing as he passed:

“Be careful digging up the past. You might not like what you find.”

“Wait, Damon, what do you mean by what you said?”

She stood there alone, heart pounding, questions buzzing in her head like wasps.

“What did he mean? What didn’t I know?” Alina murmured.

This marriage was supposed to be a cage.

But now… it’s feeling like a maze.

And she wasn't sure which would kill her first—

The lies, the secrets, or the man she was now bound to forever.

Hmmm...