Velvet Chains

Chapter 3: The Rules of the Game

The penthouse stretched out before her like a kingdom built of glass and shadows.

Celeste paused just inside the doorway, her heels sinking into the thick gray carpet, eyes sweeping across the cavernous space. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the room, revealing the city glittering below like scattered diamonds. At night, the skyline looked almost unreal, skyscrapers lit like watchtowers, red neon signs burning like open wounds in the distance.

It was beautiful. And cold.

Everything gleamed as though polished that afternoon, marble countertops, black leather sofas, chrome fixtures that reflected the city’s fractured light. A row of decanters lined the bar, each filled with amber or ruby liquor. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper, Lucien’s cologne, expensive and clean, with an edge like smoke.

It wasn’t a home. It was a stage.

Lucien stepped in behind her, the sound of the door clicking shut like a lock on a cell. He slipped off his jacket with an ease that made her grit her teeth, tossing it over the back of a chair as though the penthouse belonged only to him. Which, of course, it did.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, rolling his cuffs with slow precision. The motion was casual, but his eyes flicked toward her, dark and steady, like a predator giving its prey a head start.

Celeste unclasped her clutch and set it carefully on the console table near the door. Her fingers brushed the small black box her father had pressed into her hand earlier, the one containing the key. The metal felt heavier now, not like access but like a shackle.

“I’ll take the guest room,” she said, her voice crisp, rehearsed. A boundary drawn in marble.

Lucien poured himself a drink, the whiskey catching the city light in the glass like trapped fire. He looked at her over the rim as he took a slow sip. Then he set the glass down with deliberate grace.

“There isn’t one,” he said.

Her gaze snapped to him. “You’re joking.”

He leaned against the bar, one hand braced casually on the counter, as if he had all the time in the world. “I don’t joke.”

Her pulse stuttered, but her chin lifted higher. “Then I’ll take the couch.”

Lucien’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Suit yourself.”

The indifference stung more than an argument would have. She wanted him to fight her, to try to assert dominance so she could resist. Instead, he offered amusement, as if her rebellion was a game he’d already won.

Celeste strode deeper into the penthouse, heels striking sharp against polished stone as if she could carve her will into the floor. She threw open the door to the master suite, and her throat tightened.

The room was obscene. A bed the size of a stage draped in black velvet. Silk pillows arranged like bait. A chandelier dripping crystal light over a glass desk. One entire wall was a closet, sliding doors open to reveal rows of tailored suits and gowns still wrapped in plastic.

It wasn’t a bedroom. It was a carefully constructed display.

Lucien appeared behind her, leaning against the doorframe, glass in hand. He looked entirely at ease, like a king inspecting his throne room.

“Impressed?” he asked.

Celeste crossed her arms, nails biting into her skin through the silk of her gown. “Try harder.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “I don’t have to try.”

She turned sharply, glare like a blade. “Here are the rules, Valez. We may share an address, but that’s all. No touching. No games. No pretending we’re anything other than what we are, hostages in silk.”

Lucien sipped his drink, unbothered. He moved closer, slow, measured steps that brought him just inside her space. His cologne hit her, warm and dangerous.

“Hostages usually fight to escape,” he murmured. “You seem eager to decorate your cell.”

Her heart hammered, but she held his gaze. “You think this is funny?”

“No.” He set the glass on the dresser, his eyes never leaving hers. “I think it’s inevitable.”

An hour later, she found him in the kitchen. The sight stopped her cold.

Lucien had rolled up his sleeves, forearms corded as he worked a knife with expert precision. The sharp thwack-thwack of blade on cutting board filled the air. Fresh herbs and garlic perfumed the space, carried by the hiss of a pan.

“You cook?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Lucien looked up, smirk tugging his mouth. “Surprised?”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type is that?” He slid onions into the pan, flames licking up briefly before settling.

“The kind who dirties his own hands.”

His smirk deepened. “You’d be shocked how often I do.”

Dinner was simple, seared steak, roasted vegetables, a bottle of red wine already breathing. They sat across from each other at the long glass dining table, the city glittering behind them.

For Celeste, every bite tasted like a dare. She cut with careful precision, lifted the fork with elegance. Across from her, Lucien ate slowly, as if savoring not the food but her discomfort.

“You stare too much,” she said finally, setting her fork down with a soft clink.

“You hide too much,” he replied, pouring himself more wine.

“Perhaps I have something worth hiding.”

“Everyone does,” he said softly. “Some of us are just better at keeping it buried.”

The silence stretched, thick and humming.

Later, retreating to the bedroom, Celeste moved like a ghost through the cavernous space. She began pulling open drawers, not because she intended to use them but because she didn’t trust him.

That’s when she found it.

A tiny black device, no larger than a coin, taped under her jewelry box.

Her stomach lurched. She peeled it free with trembling fingers, holding it under the lamplight. A surveillance bug.

Her pulse spiked. She turned it over, scanning the smooth casing. Too clumsy to be Lucien’s. Too exposed. He was many things—cold, arrogant, manipulative, but not sloppy.

This was someone else.

Her skin prickled. She closed her fist around the bug, its edges biting into her palm, and slipped back into the hallway.

Lucien was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a book open in his hands, whiskey glass balanced nearby. He didn’t look up when she entered, though she knew he felt her presence.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked lazily, eyes still on the page.

Celeste moved closer, heart pounding. She tossed the bug onto the coffee table between them. It clattered against the glass surface, small and menacing.

“Do you bug your wives, Lucien?”

That got his attention. He closed the book, setting it aside. His eyes flicked from the device to her face, sharp and calculating.

“That’s not mine,” he said evenly.

Her arms crossed. “Then whose is it?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the little black coin as if it had whispered a secret only he could hear. For the first time that evening, his composure shifted, not broken, but sharpened.

“Someone who’s about to regret it,” he said softly.

Celeste’s pulse thundered. She couldn’t decide which was worse: the idea of Lucien watching her… or the idea of someone else watching them both.

The city lights fractured across the glass wall, throwing them into shards of shadow and gold. In that moment, Celeste realized something chilling.

Their marriage wasn’t just a cage.

It was a target.