Tangled in his vows.

Chapter 4 {TRAPPED}

The mansion buzzed for days, the hum of preparations moving through its corridors like an unending current. Stylists arrived in sleek cars, rolling garment racks draped with gowns sealed in plastic. Jewelers brought velvet cases with glittering contents that could have paid off a lifetime of debts. Makeup artists hovered, their kits spread across polished marble counters like surgical tools, ready to craft perfection. Every detail was orchestrated, every choice predetermined, every moment designed for show.

Mira hated it.

She sat before a vanity as hands worked through her hair, twisting and pinning until her reflection became a stranger. The stylist’s fingers wove, sprayed, and adjusted with precision, crafting sleek waves that framed her face in obedient beauty. She stared into the mirror, eyes unblinking, watching the woman she had become take shape. A doll. A trophy. An object dressed for display.

From the doorway, Damian watched. His presence filled the room more than the perfume, more than the low chatter of the stylists. His gaze was steady, cold, his expression unreadable. He leaned casually against the doorframe, but Mira felt every ounce of his scrutiny.

“You’re staring,” she said flatly, catching his reflection behind her.

“Just making sure you look expensive enough,” he replied. The faintest curve of his lips betrayed the satisfaction he tried not to show.

Her chest tightened. Anger and frustration warred with something darker, something she refused to name. She forced her jaw steady. “I’d rather look like myself.”

“You will,” Damian said smoothly. “Yourself, improved.”

The words bit at her. She wanted to snap back, to tear down the calm arrogance in his tone, but the stylist fussed with one last pin, securing her hair into its perfect shape. Mira sat still, her knuckles white in her lap, her reflection betraying nothing of the fury that rolled beneath her skin.

The interview was staged in Damian’s private study. It was a room built for intimidation: mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound books, a crystal decanter gleaming on the sideboard, the heavy scent of cigars lingering faintly in the air. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting a glow across polished wood.

Cameras were set, microphones clipped, and the journalist—bright-eyed and smiling—leaned forward with a warmth rehearsed too many times to be genuine.

“So, Mrs. Cross,” she began, her voice lilting. “Tell us—how did you fall in love?”

Mira froze. The question slammed into her chest like a blow.

Damian’s hand slipped over hers beneath the table, strong and possessive. She nearly jerked away but stopped, the cameras flashing in her periphery. To the world, they were a love story. To her, they were war.

Her pulse thundered. She forced her lips to curve, her voice strained but steady. “It… it wasn’t simple,” she said. “He’s difficult. Stubborn. Impossible, really.”

The journalist laughed, charmed. Damian’s thumb brushed over Mira’s knuckles, deceptively tender, daring her to contradict the illusion.

“And yet,” Damian added smoothly, his voice carrying for the cameras, “she couldn’t resist me.”

The words were delivered with perfection, but his eyes locked onto hers, dark and unyielding. It was not romance. It was challenge.

Mira’s smile sharpened. “I guess I love a challenge.”

The journalist melted. “That’s beautiful,” she gushed. “The chemistry between you is undeniable.”

Mira’s insides twisted. She smiled for the cameras, but inside, she was shaking. Every word had been a lie, every touch a performance, and yet the air between them hummed with something raw, dangerous, uncontainable.

When the cameras finally stopped rolling, Mira ripped her hand free, her voice low and seething. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”

Damian’s eyes glittered, his voice dropping into a murmur meant only for her. “And you’re learning to be one too. Congratulations.”

Before she could retort, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening. “Business,” he muttered, rising from the table.

The door shut behind him, leaving the room heavy with silence.

Mira’s eyes darted to the desk, to the papers he had left behind in his haste. She rose, her heart thudding, and crossed to the scattered documents. Her fingers brushed over contracts, invoices, reports—until her eyes landed on a set of legal papers marked with her name.

Her stomach dropped. Inheritance documents.

Her name—Mira Cross—was written in bold across the top.

The truth hit hard. Damian hadn’t married her only for revenge, or for power, or to punish her for exposing his scandals. He needed her. He needed her name, her presence, her signature, for something tied to his empire.

Her pulse quickened, not just with anger but with resolve. She wasn’t a wife. She wasn’t a pawn. She was leverage.

And if he thought she would stand still while he used her, he was gravely mistaken.

Dinner that evening was suffocating. The table stretched between them like a battlefield, the candlelight flickering against silver dishes no one touched. Damian sat at the head, his expression composed, his posture perfect. Mira sat across, her back straight, her hands steady, though her insides were boiling.

He watched her in silence, his eyes sharp, as if daring her to speak first.

Finally, she did. “What’s it like,” she asked softly, “to know you can’t win without me?”

His fork stilled. For the first time all day, his mask cracked, his eyes flashing with something dangerous.

“You should be careful,” he said quietly.

She leaned forward, her voice steady. “Careful of what? That you’ll admit the truth? That I’m more than the pawn you wanted me to be?”

The air between them thickened, their words colliding like sparks. The servants moved silently, heads bowed, desperate to escape the storm rising across the table.

Damian leaned back, his smirk returning, sharp and deliberate. “You’re not wrong, Mira. You are more. That’s why I chose you.”

Her stomach knotted. She wanted to scream, but she forced her face into calm. “You didn’t choose me. You trapped me.”

His eyes locked onto hers, unwavering. “And yet you’re still here.”

---

Later that night, Mira slipped into the library. The fire burned low, shadows curling across the shelves. She trailed her fingers over leather-bound spines, her chest tight with unspoken fury.

“Looking for something?”

His voice curled from the darkness. Damian stepped forward, jacket undone, tie loosened, the sharp lines of control softened into something more dangerous.

Mira’s pulse quickened. She stiffened, her words sharp. “I wanted silence. Clearly I won’t find it here.”

“You walked into my space,” he said. “Silence doesn’t exist where I do.”

Their argument sparked fast, sharp, every word edged like a blade. She accused him of ownership, he countered with control. She spat defiance, he returned fire with calm arrogance.

“You think you own me,” she hissed, backing toward the shelves.

He followed, his body closing in until her back hit the wood. His arms caged her in, his voice low against her ear. “You’re right. I don’t own you.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “But I control you. Every move. Every choice. Fight it if you want—you’ll still end up playing into my hands.”

Her breath hitched, her fury warring with the heat rushing beneath her skin. His nearness unsettled her, his voice sinking under her defenses.

“You’re delusional,” she whispered.

His gaze dipped, lingering on her mouth before snapping back to her eyes. “Am I?”

For a second—dangerous, fleeting—she nearly leaned in. The air was charged, heavy, almost magnetic.

Then she shoved him back. Hard. “You’ll never break me.”

He only smirked, adjusting his jacket as though the moment hadn’t rattled him too. “We’ll see.”

He left her trembling, furious at him, furious at herself.

Later, in her room, Mira opened her laptop. The screen glowed against the darkness, her fingers moving quickly. She searched, dug, hunted for anything she could use. Scandals, rumors, half-buried stories of deals that vanished, rivals that disappeared, secrets whispered in shadows.

She would find something. She had to.

Because if Damian Cross thought she’d remain his pawn forever, he was wrong.

He had caged her.

But queens weren’t made to stay behind bars.