HIS RULES,HER CAGE
975 Words
The mansion was everything she expected it to be — and nothing like she’d imagined.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Walls of glass overlooking acres of private forest. Every inch screamed untouchable wealth. Cold. Controlled. Beautiful, but lifeless.
Just like the man who owned it.
Damien didn’t speak during the ride to his estate. He stared out the tinted window, jaw clenched, one hand resting casually on his thigh. Power radiated from him like a quiet storm, and Aria couldn’t help but feel the shift in gravity — like she was being pulled into orbit around something dangerous.
When they arrived, the staff stood in two lines at the entrance, heads bowed as they greeted them. It was like walking into a palace. Or a prison.
“This is your home now,” Damien said curtly as he led her through the towering front doors.
Home. The word felt foreign on her tongue.
They entered a massive foyer, its centerpiece a black spiral staircase that wound toward a second level. Art she couldn’t name hung on the walls. Every corner gleamed like it had never known dust.
“Your room is down the east wing,” Damien said, walking ahead. “Follow me.”
Aria followed in silence, heels clicking against the marble floor. Every step echoed.
When they reached a door, he opened it with a silver key and stepped aside.
“This is where you’ll sleep.”
Aria stepped in and blinked. The room was large — larger than her old apartment — with a canopy bed draped in white, a walk-in closet already full of clothes, and windows overlooking the garden.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.
Damien’s tone hardened. “It’s not a gift. It’s part of the contract.”
He stepped inside and held out a folder. Another one.
“This outlines the house rules, expectations, and your monthly itinerary. Read it. Memorize it.”
She took it with reluctant fingers. “You seriously made a rulebook?”
“I don’t do chaos, Miss Blake,” he said, eyes cold. “Not in my home. Not in my life.”
She opened the folder.
Curfews.
Appearance requirements.
Mealtimes.
Dress codes for public events.
Mandatory presence at weekly dinners, board functions, and photo ops.
Then, at the bottom, a simple note: “You will share my bed when I say. No excuses.”
Her cheeks flushed. “So I’m what… your property?”
“You’re my wife,” he said coolly. “At least, that’s what the world needs to believe.”
“You mean your paid puppet.”
He stepped closer — too close — and she felt her back brush the edge of the vanity behind her.
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re my investment. And I always protect what’s mine.”
The way he said it made her skin heat and crawl all at once.
Then he stepped back. “Dinner is at seven. Don’t be late. You’ll meet my mother.”
His mother? Aria blinked. “She lives here?”
“She’s visiting for the week. She wanted to meet my bride.” He said.
“And what exactly do you want me to say to her?”
He smirked faintly. “Smile. Pretend you love me. And don’t embarrass me.”
Before she could reply, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Aria sat on the edge of the bed, the silence pressing in.
What have I done?
This wasn’t a marriage. It was a cage with gold bars.
She opened the closet. Designer gowns. Silk lingerie. Heels in every shade. All her size.
He had planned this.
Every piece of clothing. Every move. Every moment.
She pulled out a white satin slip and held it up.
You will share my bed when I say.
Her stomach flipped.
She wasn’t ready for that part. Not yet. Not with him.
But she wasn’t in control anymore.
At 6:58 PM, she stood in front of the mirror wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress that clung to her curves and fell just past her knees. Her hair was pulled into a low, elegant bun, makeup soft and flawless — courtesy of the personal stylist Damien sent to her room without asking.
She looked like a stranger.
Beautiful. Composed. A perfect doll.
She arrived in the dining room at exactly seven.
Damien was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. Across from him sat a silver-haired woman with ice-blue eyes and a perfectly tailored Chanel suit.
“Aria,” Damien said, rising smoothly. “This is my mother, Eleanor Blackwood.”
Aria forced a polite smile. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Blackwood.”
The older woman arched a thin brow. “Is it?”
Her voice was sharp. Regal.
Damien gave his mother a look — and Eleanor backed off, just barely.
Dinner was served by silent staff. Aria kept her head down, answered questions with practiced grace, and let Damien steer the conversation.
But Eleanor wasn’t fooled.
“Tell me, Aria,” she said after dessert. “Do you love my son?”
The room went still.
Damien’s eyes flicked to her — warning, daring.
Aria smiled sweetly. “Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
Eleanor’s lips twitched. “Indeed.”
Later, as she returned to her room, Damien caught her by the wrist in the hallway.
“You handled her well,” he said quietly.
“I’ve been lying my whole life,” she whispered. “Why stop now?”
Their eyes locked.
Tension hummed.
Then he leaned in, brushing his lips beside her ear.
“Don’t get too comfortable, wife,” he murmured. “The real tests haven’t even started.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the dark.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
- Writer
