Chapter 3
879 Words
First Day in Chains
The penthouse wasn’t a home. It was a cage with a view.
Ava stepped out of the private elevator that evening, her single duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a sad reminder of the life she’d left behind in her cramped Brooklyn walk-up. The doors hissed shut, sealing her in. The space unfolded before her, endless white marble floors, walls of glass framing the glittering chaos of Manhattan below, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum, sharp angles, black leather, no warmth anywhere.
A uniformed woman housekeeper? Stylist? Prison warden? waited in the foyer, arms crossed over a crisp blouse. Miss Harper. Mr. Blackwell instructed me to prepare you. Follow me.
Prepare her. Like she was a meal.
The bedroom, her bedroom, apparently was bigger than her old apartment. A king-sized bed dominated one wall, draped in silk sheets the color of midnight. But the closet drew her eye, doors already open, racks bursting with clothes that screamed money and control. Dresses in red and black, lingerie that made her cheeks burn just looking at it, heels high enough to be weapons.
These are yours now, the woman said, no nonsense. He selected them personally. Wear the gray suit tomorrow for the office. Eight a.m. sharp.
Ava dropped her bag. Selected? He doesn’t even know my size anymore.
The woman’s lips twitched, almost a smile. He knows everything, Miss Harper.
By morning, Ava stood in front of the full-length mirror, transformed. The suit hugged her curves like a second skin tailored wool, pencil skirt that stopped just above the knee, blouse with a neckline that dipped low enough to tease. Black Louboutins that clicked like accusations on the marble. She looked powerful. Owned.
She hated how good it felt.
Lucian was already in the kitchen when she emerged, sipping coffee from a mug that probably cost more than her rent. He glanced up, eyes darkening as they swept over her.
Acceptable, he said, voice flat. But his knuckles whitened on the mug.
The ride to the office was silent, the town car slicing through traffic like a shark. He worked on his tablet, she stared out the window, counting the blocks until freedom or whatever passed for it now.
Blackwell Tower swallowed them again. His executive floor buzzed with activity, assistants scurrying, phones ringing, the hum of an empire at work. Lucian’s office felt even larger in daylight, sunlight pouring through the windows like a spotlight on her humiliation.
Your desk, he said, pointing to a sleek station just outside his door. Coffee. Black. Now.
She bit her tongue. Yes, sir.
The day dragged on like a bad dream. She was good at organizing schedules, fielding calls, drafting emails. Years scraping by in dead-end jobs had honed her efficiency. But Lucian tested her constantly, like he was probing for cracks.
Refile these reports, he barked from his doorway, dumping a stack of folders on her desk. Menial. Pointless. She knew they were already digital.
She did it anyway, spine straight, eyes defiant when she caught him watching.
Mid-afternoon, he called her in. She stood before his desk, notepad in hand.
Closer, he said.
She took one step.
Closer.
Another.
Until she was inches away, the desk was the only barrier.
He leaned forward, voice a whisper that sent shivers down her spine. You think you can play the perfect assistant? Remember, Ava, one mistake, one late coffee, one missed call and your father’s next treatment vanishes. I own you. Don’t forget it.
His breath feathered her skin. She wanted to slap him. Wanted to kiss him. Hated herself for both.
By evening, back in the penthouse, exhaustion clawed at her. She kicked off the heels, sank onto the couch.
His voice from the hallway, Not yet. Performance review. My bedroom. Now.
Her heart stuttered.
She found him there, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The bed loomed behind him like a threat.
Sit, he ordered, pointing to the edge.
She perched, rigid.
He paced in front of her, slow and deliberate. You were adequate today. Efficient. But defiance? I saw it in your eyes every time you looked at me.
I did everything you asked.
Not everything. He stopped, towering over her. Stand up.
She did, chin high.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb pressing her lower lip. You used to beg for my touch. Now you fight it. But your body remembers, doesn’t it?
Before she could answer, he kissed her.
Not gentle. Not loving. A claim. A punishment. His mouth crushed hers, tongue demanding entry, hands sliding to her waist to pull her flush against him. Heat exploded old, familiar, forbidden. She gasped into it, fingers curling into his shirt despite herself, the world narrowing to the taste of him, coffee and fury and five lost years.
He broke away first, breathing hard, eyes black with something darker than hate.
This is revenge, he rasped, forehead against hers for one treacherous second. Nothing more.
Then he stepped back, leaving her breathless, lips swollen, heart shattered all over again.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Ava collapsed onto the bed, touching her mouth, wondering if she’d survive the night let alone the contract.
- Writer
