Terms of Surrender

The Gilded Cage: Tess

I followed Darian from the meeting room to the elevator. My heels clicked on the marble floor and it sounded far too loud. My body seemed to hum, as if it’s on high alert, and my eyes constantly swept our surroundings, searching for an exit strategy, or even an ally.

It wasn’t until we passed the reception desk though that I see another person. The woman sitting behind the desk appeared to actively bow her head to Darian as we passed. I swallowed, watching her from the corner of my eye as we waited. She never looked directly at us. In fact, she seemed unnaturally deferential to him.

The doors slid open with a ding and a metallic whoosh, the lighted arrow above the elevator illuminating. I had no choice but to follow him inside.

He pressed the button for the top floor. The penthouse. And even still, the elevator seemed to rise impossibly fast, my stomach dropped as we ascended. The ride was silent except for the mechanical whirring of the gears pulling us up.

Darian stood too close. That spiced pomegranate smell overloaded my senses and I could feel the sheer size of him looming over me like a shadow.

“Stop looking for the alarm, Tess. Nothing will hurt you here, unless I command it,” he whispered and I swallowed again. Did he think that was supposed to be comforting?

I fought to keep my composure as the elevator stopped. Another ding and another metallic whoosh signaled our arrival to the penthouse as the doors slid open. He ushered me out of the elevator, and for a second, I wasoverwhelmed by the absolute luxury of the penthouse. It was lavish, but there was something cold about it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room overlooked the city, and for the first time in my life, I think I might be afraid of heights. My eyes scanned the penthouse, taking in my immediate surroundings. The space was sterile, impeccably clean, not lived in.

Everything was gold and marble and plush black velvet. The kind of space I had only ever seen in movies. Tall vases with plants I’ve never seen before stood guard in the corners, the marble-topped tables were gilded in gold. The furniture was tufted, black velvet. Artwork was framed on the walls.

The penthouse was expensively decorated, and yet, somehow, empty. Devoid of life.

The elevator doors slid shut behind us and I could feel Darian relaxing next to me. He loosened his tie before taking off his blazer, and hung it in a nearby closet. I could see the lines of his muscles straining beneath his shirt, and forced myself to look somewhere else. The act felt far too domestic.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I imagine you missed lunch. You need to eat.”

I remained standing in front of the elevator, briefcase clutched in my hand as he started towards what I assumed was the kitchen. “I don’t need food, Mr. Whitmore,” I declined while my stomach betrayed me. My knuckles were turning white on the briefcase’s metal handle. “I need an explanation and the address to the nearest airport.”

“The discussion is over, Tess. You are here because you are mine. That is the only explanation that matters. You will not leave the city, and you will not see the airport.”

My brow arched, eyes wide as the realization that he’s serious sunk in. “Kidnapping?” I started, my voice sounding incredulous. “You’re jeopardizing your entire empire for a financial consultant?”

He stopped just in the doorway of the next room, turning back to look at me. “My empire is irrelevant. You are vital. And as for the law…you have no idea what laws govern me. You are under my protection now, whether you understand it or not.”

My briefcase hit the floor with a soft thud. I blinked, slow, my heart was still pounding as it moved into my throat, between my ears. I barely registered him walking back towards me, taking my hands to lead me into the kitchen.

The kitchen was sleek and modern. Marble countertops, sparkling, fancy appliances. More gold and black. There’s a large island counter in the center of the room that houses the sink, and barstools on the opposite side. He pulled one out, and all but forced me to sit. His touch on my back as he guided me into it was possessive and forceful, but not painful.

“Sit,” he commanded, as if I had any other choice in this moment. I watch as he moved around to a cabinet and pulled out a glass. He poured water into it from a filtered pitcher and placed it in front of me. “Hydration is vital. We will not talk about the audit, or your departure, until you have restored your energy.”

I pushed the glass away. My posture was rigid as I forced myself to meet his eyes again. “I won’t pretend this is still just a business trip, Mr. Whitmore. If I’m staying, I need to contact my firm. My family.”

“No. You will not be contacting anyone. I will handle your firm. They will believe you are on an extended, confidential assignment. Your family is safe, and they will not hear from you until I deem it appropriate.”

My hope for a logical rescue was vanished. He wasn’t just buying my time, he was going to erase my existence outside of the penthouse. The air felt heavy, suffocating. I was a ghost in a marble mausoleum.

I remained still, staring at the glass of water. My lips pressed into a thin line, but otherwise refusing to show him any emotion. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Darian’s expression softening. His posture started to relax.

Darian reached towards me, his knuckles barely grazing my cheek before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind my ear.

When he spoke, his voice was different. It was no longer full of the CEO polish, nor was it that primal growl from the meeting room. It was rough with genuine confusion, “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like I hurt you. Tess, I swear, I didn’t choose this…I couldn’t.”

“Didn’t choose what?” I asked, my voice was almost a plea. “Why me? Why are you doing this? It doesn’t make any sense.”

His jaw clenched, as if he was in physical pain. “Sense is irrelevant now. When you walked into that room…this became absolute. A demand. It’s a fundamental, biological imperative, centuries old. You are necessary for my survival. For the survival of…what I am.”

I didn’t understand what he’s saying, but there’s a softness in his words.

“And because you are necessary,” he continued, recapturing his earlier possessiveness, “you are under my protection. Any threat to you is a threat to my very existence. So yes, you are mine. But if you think I’m enjoying your terror, you’re wrong.”

I finally lowered my gaze, unable to handle the intensity of his any longer. I only knew two things for certain. One, Darian Whitmore was a monster. Two, he was a conflicted monster whose madness was rooted in some absurd “biological imperative” he believed in.