Caged by the crowned billionaire

The chandeliers of the Delacroix Grand Hotel glittered like frozen tears above Elara Quinn’s head, each crystal catching the light as if mocking her. She stood at the back of the ballroom, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain, watching her childhood vanish one possession at a time. Her father's legacy was being auctioned off. The gleaming mahogany piano where she once played Chopin until her fingers bled; gone. Sold in under a minute to a sneering hedge fund manager. Her mother’s antique brooches, the dining room chandelier, even her baby pictures were still tucked in silver frames; they were all tagged with numbers and slapped into catalogs for strangers to bid on. This wasn’t just an auction. It was a funeral with cocktails. "Item 46," the auctioneer droned from the stage. "Original oil painting. Late 19th century. Private collection. Bidding begins at seventy-five thousand..." The crowd hummed, a low rumble of wealth and disinterest. Most were only here for bragging rights. Others, like the press, came to document the final collapse of the once-great Quinn family. Elara's family. Her jaw clenched as the numbers climbed. That painting hung in their hallway for years. Her father would tap on the frame every time he walked past and say, “It’s not real until it’s remembered.” Now it was being sold to someone who wouldn't even remember her father’s name by tomorrow. "Sold," the auctioneer barked, "to Mr. Beaumont. 1.2 million." Muted applause rippled across the crowd. Elara took a shaky breath and stepped back, pressing her spine towards the cold wall. Her hands curled into fists inside her borrowed coat. She hadn't eaten a full meal in two days. Her cheeks burned with shame and anger; but mostly, powerlessness. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be walking across a graduation stage this week, receiving her law degree. But her father had been arrested, her tuition payments stopped, and suddenly, her life spiraled into an abyss she couldn’t claw her way out of. She had nothing left. Not even hope. “Careful,” came a voice at her side, low and smooth as silk. “You’re bleeding dignity all over the floor.” She froze. She knew that voice. Had heard it once before, years ago, in a business news interview her father used to obsess over. She turned with measured steps, her breath faltering. Cassian Vale. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a glass of scotch, as if the auction was a mildly amusing show. He was tall; well over six feet, with the kind of predatory stillness that made the air shift around him. His suit was charcoal-gray, tailored to a frame carved from stone. No tie. Collar open. A man who didn’t need to follow rules, because he owned the rulebook. His eyes were what caught her most. Ice blue. Piercing. Cold. Empty. Like they saw every part of you and judged it unworthy. “What are you doing here?” Elara said stiffly. Cassian’s smile was slow and clinical. “Collecting.” Her heartbeat quickened. “You’ve collected enough. The company. Our staff. The house. What’s left to take?” He glanced toward the auctioneer as another item; her father’s watch, a family heirloom, was sold. “That depends,” he said, “on whether you still believe you have anything left to lose.” Elara stepped back. “I have nothing to say to you.” “But I have something to offer you.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a pristine white envelope. “A solution to your... current situation.” She didn’t take it. “Is this supposed to be funny?” “Not at all,” he said. “It’s a proposal.” “A what?” Cassian’s eyes gleamed. “A contract. Six months. You’ll be my fiancée in public. Attend events. Smile. Wear my ring. In return, I’ll pay off your debts. Your mother’s medical bills. I’ll even settle your father’s legal fees.” She blinked. “You’re not serious.” “Oh, but I am,” he said, his voice low and teasing, a smirk dancing on his devastatingly handsome face. Elara felt like the floor shifted beneath her. Her father was still awaiting trial. The charges were severe...embezzlement, insider trading. She knew he wasn’t guilty, but truth and justice rarely went hand-in-hand for people like them. And Cassian Vale, the man who destroyed her father’s business, was now offering to save her? No. No. It was a trap. “I’m not for sale,” she said, her voice barely steady. Cassian raised a brow. “Everyone is. It’s just a matter of price. Yours is quite... reasonable, all things considered.” Her cheeks flamed. “Why me?” “I need someone believable,” he said coolly. "You have a tragic backstory. No one would question it if I swooped in and ‘rescued’ you. It makes me look... sentimental. Human.” She stared at him, disgusted. “So you want me as a prop?” “A highly photogenic one,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Without thinking, she slapped him. The sound rang out across the ballroom like a gunshot. A hush fell. Heads turned. Elara’s chest heaved with fury. Cassian only smiled. He smiled. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Now the world will believe it already.” She turned on her heel, humiliated, furious, humiliated again, and stalked toward the doors. But she didn’t leave. Her feet stopped just before the exit. Her hand gripped the edge of the curtain. Because in her purse were three eviction notices. Her phone held twelve voicemails from debt collectors. Her mother hadn’t gotten her medication in two weeks. And her father’s lawyer just dropped them last night. She closed her eyes. She didn’t have to like him. She just had to survive. Two hours later, Elara sat in a dim corner of the hotel’s lounge, staring at the pages of the contract. Six months. No intimacy required. Just presence. Smiles. Appearances. Cassian hadn’t lied; he didn’t need her. He could have any woman in the city. But he had chosen her for a reason. Was it control? Revenge? Or something else entirely? She reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, and hesitated over the dotted line. One signature. That’s all it took to trade her freedom for her family’s survival. She signed. When the waitress brought her a drink, Elara looked up. Cassian Vale stood behind her, watching. “You’re mine now,” he said softly. “No,” she replied. “I’m your mistake.”