Penthouse prisoner & The Devil Silk
1113 Words
I woke up to silk sheets and suffocating silence.
Not the comforting kind of silence—the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket. No. This was the cold, calculated kind. The kind of silence that whispers: you’re not safe anymore.
For a second, I thought maybe it was a dream. Maybe the courthouse wedding was a twisted nightmare. Maybe the contract my father forced me to sign, binding me to the Blackwood Empire, didn’t exist. Maybe Damien Blackwood wasn’t real.
But reality struck when I sat up and felt the brush of satin against my bare skin.
The sheets weren’t mine.
The nightgown I wore—deep red silk that hugged my body like a second skin—definitely wasn’t mine.
And the penthouse suite I now found myself in? It looked like something torn out of a billionaire’s magazine spread—dark walls, velvet drapes, polished obsidian floors, and a fireplace that roared with perfectly controlled flames. Everything was luxury. Everything screamed power.
Everything screamed him.
I walked toward the window, heart hammering, feet chilled by the cold marble. I pulled the curtain aside and sucked in a sharp breath.
We were high up—so high the people looked like ants, and the buildings bowed beneath us. The skyline glowed like a galaxy of lights, stretching endlessly into the dark. New York had never looked so beautiful… or so far away.
This wasn’t just a penthouse.
It was a palace.
And a prison.
Then, I felt it.
A shift in the air. Heavy. Electric.
“I see you’re awake.”
I didn’t need to turn to recognize that voice. Smooth. Sharp. Laced with disdain and danger. It was the voice that haunted me since the day the engagement was announced.
Damien Blackwood.
The man I was now legally married to.
The man who hadn’t looked me in the eyes once during our rushed courthouse ceremony.
The man who hadn’t said a word during the exchange of vows.
The man whose father bought me like a pretty, polished chess piece.
I turned around slowly.
He stood at the door in a tailored black-on-black suit, no tie, his shirt’s top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of ink curling across his collarbone. His jawline could cut glass, and his jet-black hair looked intentionally tousled, like he’d just rolled out of a scandal. His eyes—dark, stormy, unreadable—locked onto mine with an expression I couldn’t place.
Pity?
No.
Contempt.
“Where am I?” I asked, voice smaller than I wanted.
“My home,” he said casually, stepping in. “Though calling it a home is generous. It’s more of a glass castle. With excellent security.”
I stiffened. “Why am I here? Why didn’t you let me go back to my apartment?”
He let out a laugh—low, humorless. “Your apartment? That shoebox above the diner? It's been emptied. Don’t worry, your things are in storage. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
He moved closer.
“You’re Mrs. Blackwood now. My father doesn’t want his daughter-in-law seen catching trains or pouring coffee. That part of your life is over.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped, even though my knees felt like jelly.
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t.”
My breath hitched.
Damien walked over to the sleek fireplace and leaned against the mantel, as if this conversation were casual—mundane.
“You’re a pawn,” he said. “A beautifully dressed, reluctantly useful pawn in my father’s never-ending empire game. And so am I.”
His voice dropped lower.
“But don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re on the same side.”
I folded my arms. “Then what am I doing here?”
“You’re here to smile for the press. Sit beside me at boardroom tables. Attend charity galas and ribbon-cutting ceremonies. And at night…” He glanced at the bed behind me, his lips curling with something bitter. “Sleep in the same castle, in a separate wing.”
I followed his gaze and felt my cheeks heat.
“We’re not going to—”
“No.” His tone was flat. “You’re safe from that. I have no intention of touching you. This is a contract, not a honeymoon.”
He reached into his pocket and tossed something onto the bed. A sleek black phone.
“Your schedule, wardrobe choices, and NDA reminders are all there. The elevator won’t take you past the penthouse unless I approve it. Your calls are monitored. Internet access is limited. And no, there’s no way out—not unless you want the media tearing into your life like vultures.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
“This is insane.”
“This is business.”
“I’m not a business deal!”
His jaw ticked. “Then you should’ve said no at the altar.”
“I tried!” I exploded. “But your father threatened to destroy my family! He told me he’d bankrupt my dad, leave my sister without a scholarship, ruin everything if I didn’t go through with it!”
Damien's eyes flickered—just for a second. A c***k in the mask. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
“And you think I had a choice?” he said darkly. “My father controls everything. He owns the board, the players, and the rules. You were just the final piece he needed to lock in his merger with your father’s failing tech company. He gets the press. The influence. The illusion of family values.”
“And you?” I asked, voice trembling. “What do you get?”
He looked at me then, really looked at me.
“A leash,” he said.
Silence thickened between us. He started to walk out.
“Wait,” I said, panic rising. “What am I supposed to do until then? Just stay here?”
He stopped in the doorway. “You’ll have dinner with my father tonight. He expects his new daughter-in-law to make an appearance. Wear red.”
“Why?”
“Because he likes to see blood,” Damien said without flinching. “Especially when it’s not his own.”
He walked out and slammed the door.
The sound echoed in my chest.
I turned back to the window and stared at the glittering city that once felt so full of hope.
Now it felt a million miles away.
And I—
I was married to the devil’s son.
But something told me…
The devil’s son might be just as trapped as I was.
- Writer
