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985 Words
The Voss penthouse was exactly what Elara expected—sleek, cold, and painfully expensive.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Manhattan’s skyline, but it was the kind of place that screamed solitude. Too much space. Too many shadows. Not enough warmth.
Just like him.
Damon Voss stood beside the kitchen island, swirling a glass of something dark. The wedding had ended less than an hour ago, and already, he looked like he was hosting a board meeting.
He didn’t even loosen his tie.
“This is your new home,” he said simply. “For appearances’ sake, we’ll share the penthouse. You’ll have the guest wing. I’ll stay in the master.”
“How generous,” Elara muttered, setting her overnight bag by the entrance. “So I get the part of the palace furthest from the king.”
He raised a brow. “Would you prefer I redecorate? Move you into my bed?”
Her head snapped up.
“Try that, and I’ll put a pen through your eye.”
He smirked. “Still so dramatic.”
“No,” she said, stepping forward, “I’m just allergic to arrogance and cologne that costs more than rent.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said smoothly, sipping his drink. “Would you like a tour?”
“I can find my own way around. I’m not some doll you get to parade and pose.”
“Actually,” he said, “you are—for now.”
Her breath caught.
“And you wonder why people hate you.”
“I don’t wonder,” he said, walking past her, “I just don’t care.”
The silence that followed was brittle. Heavy. Tense.
Elara crossed her arms, her eyes never leaving him.
“This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” she asked. “Just another business transaction to manipulate and control.”
He paused mid-step. Slowly turned.
“Do you know how many women offered to marry me for this deal?” he said, voice cool. “Socialites. Models. Actresses. Some didn’t even ask for compensation.”
“And yet,” Elara said, “you chose me. The one woman who despises you.”
“Because you’re the only one I can trust not to fall in love.”
The air between them shifted.
Thickened.
Elara hated the way her stomach twisted at his words—not because she wanted him to be wrong, but because she knew he wasn’t.
Love? She’d buried that fantasy a long time ago.
Still… something in his tone made her pause.
“You don’t believe in love?” she asked.
“I believe in contracts. They don’t lie. They don’t change. And they don’t stab you in the back over breakfast.”
For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped.
There was something there—hidden behind the expensive suit and razor-edged words. A flicker of something… damaged.
But then it was gone.
Buried.
“Sounds lonely,” she said quietly.
Damon walked to the bar and refilled his drink. “Lonely is better than stupid.”
Elara turned away, jaw tight.
“I’m going to my room.”
“Guest wing is on the left. Third door. Try not to get lost.”
She didn’t respond.
Didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, she walked the wide marble hallway, her heels echoing like defiance against the silence. When she opened the door to the guest suite, she was almost angry at how beautiful it was.
Luxurious, elegant, and utterly impersonal.
Like everything else in his world.
A knock came ten minutes later.
She didn’t answer.
The door opened anyway.
“Privacy doesn’t exist in your world either, I see,” she said, not turning around.
Damon leaned casually against the frame. “I came to give you this.”
He tossed a slim, leather-bound folder onto the bed.
“Full itinerary for the next three months. Appearances. Photoshoots. Dinners. You’ll need to attend at least three charity events and one gala with me by the end of the quarter.”
She flipped the folder open and scowled. “You’re managing our marriage like a merger.”
“Should I have drawn hearts in the margins?”
She glared at him.
“I’m not your assistant, Damon. Or your trophy wife. Don’t treat me like one.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re something far more dangerous. A woman who thinks she’s immune to the game.”
She stood up, closing the folder.
“Let me be very clear. I’m here because I need to be, not because I want to be. I’m not going to play your ice-cold wife with a fake smile and a perfect dress. I’ll follow the rules—but I won’t pretend.”
Damon stepped closer. Too close.
“Then don’t pretend,” he murmured. “Be exactly who you are. Fiery. Stubborn. Impossible. It’ll make this more entertaining.”
Her pulse spiked.
She hated how his nearness made her skin hum. Hated how his voice could slide under her defenses like silk over skin. Hated that for all his arrogance… part of her wanted to understand him.
“Get out,” she said quietly.
He didn’t move.
“Elara…”
“I said—get out.”
This time, her voice cracked.
Damon looked at her for a long moment. Studied her.
Then, without a word, he turned and left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the ring on her finger suddenly unbearable.
She didn’t cry.
Wouldn’t give him—or the world—that satisfaction.
But she also couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stepped into a cage… and the man who locked the door wasn’t holding the key.
He was the key.
And that terrified her more than anything.
- Writer
