Chapter Two : You Bought The Wrong Girl
1363 Words
Celina’s POV
The hallway felt like a tunnel—long, sterile and endless. Every footstep echoed louder than the last, like the house itself was counting down.
The woman leading me didn’t speak. Her bun was pulled so tight that I wondered if it hurt. Her heels clicked against the marble with militant precision, and I hated the way she walked like she owned the path beneath her.
She stopped in front of a door and turned the knob. It hissed open.
“This is your room,” she said, voice clipped and British. “You’ll find everything you need inside. Dinner will be brought shortly.”
I didn’t move.
She finally looked at me—and for a brief second, something flickered in her eyes. Pity, maybe. Then it vanished.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
She blinked. “Mrs. Alden.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
She stiffened. “I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to, ma’am. My job is to keep you safe and comfortable. Nothing more.”
“Comfortable,” I repeated, my tone deadpan. “Right. Because being bought like a luxury pet is very comfortable.”
She didn’t respond. Just gestured toward the room again. “We all have roles to play. Some come with marble floors. Some don’t. Goodnight.”
Then she walked away, the door sliding shut behind me with a soft hiss that sounded louder than a scream.
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The room wasn’t what I expected.
No cold steel. No bars. No visible restraints.
I stood in the center of the room, too stunned to move. The space was beautiful in the way museums were—high ceilings, sheer curtains, ivory walls, and gold-trimmed details everywhere. A bed that looked too pristine to sleep in. A vanity lined with products I didn’t recognize. A walk-in closet stocked in my size. Even the scent— lavender and linen—felt artificial, like it had been curated to soothe me.
But nothing could.
Because this wasn’t a room.
It was a cage wrapped in silk.
I stood there, unmoving, afraid that if I touched anything, I’d be giving in.
A knock came ten minutes later. A different woman this time—tall with kind eyes and a soft tone. She wheeled in a silver tray covered in domes and steam.
“Dinner, ma’am.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
She hesitated. “Would you like something else?”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
She bowed slightly and left.
I still didn’t move. The scent of food—steak, potatoes, wine—wafted through the room but I ignored it.
Instead, I walked to the windows. Locked.
The curtains were thick enough to muffle light and sound. Behind them, I saw only my reflection—haunted, pale, barely recognizable.
The glass didn’t show the city. It didn’t show the world. Because I was sure this place wasn’t part of the world.
I curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled to my chest, and stared at the untouched food. My stomach growled, but pride won.
I would not eat like his guest.
I would not dress like his prize.
And I would not sleep in that bed.
Not tonight.
Not until I figured out what Damon Vale truly wanted from me.
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Damon’s POV
Two hours passed.
I watched her from the camera feed—no sound, just movement. She hadn’t touched the food. Hadn’t opened the closet. Sat in the corner like a wounded creature, too proud to show pain, too angry to rest.
Predictable. But fascinating.
“She’s refusing to eat,” Alden’s voice crackled through the intercom.
“I see that.”
“Should I intervene?”
“No. Hunger will outlast her defiance.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
I ended the call and leaned back. Behind me, the city twinkled through the glass like a map of obedience and control.
But this girl—Celina—she made the air feel heavier.
She didn’t know what she was yet. What she could do. What her very presence had already shifted.
The numbers didn’t lie.
Since she stepped into my house, two stalled deals resumed, a lawsuit threatening to ruin my name quietly dissolved. Market indicators—previously volatile—also stabilized.
Coincidence?
No. I don’t believe in coincidence.
I believe in patterns. And leverage.
And she was mine now.
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Celina’s POV
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, still on the couch. My neck ached.
The food tray was gone—replaced with a new one. Oatmeal. Fruit. Tea. Comfort food. Strategic.
I hated that it smelled good. I hated that my stomach growled louder than my fear.
But I hated him more.
I moved toward the ensuite bathroom. It was like something out of a luxury hotel—white marble, gold fixtures, recessed lightings, light dimmers and a tub built for royalty.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The girl in the mirror looked like me—but hollowed out. My eyes ringed with exhaustion, hair tangled.
The girl I was yesterday had hope.
This one had resolve.
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I stepped into the steaming shower, hoping the heat would wash away the ache in my chest. It didn’t. My skin turned pink under the water, but the cold inside me didn’t leave.
I wrapped myself in a towel —very soft like nothing I've ever touch.
After drying off, I stood at the vanity. Something shimmered at the edge of the mirror—a flicker gone before I could name it.
The air shifted—heavy, charged. Like the room was holding its breath. I ignored it.
I combed through my hair and approached the wardrobe. It opened like gates to a curated life.
It was a fashion empire in itself—rows of sleek gowns, tailored pieces, fine fabrics. All expensive. All in my size.
All picked without my voice.
I chose a simple black dress. Not because it was beautiful, but because it made me feel like armor.
Then I stepped into the hallway, barefoot, walking softly across plush rugs in a mansion too quiet for its size.
And that’s when I saw him.
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Damon’s POV
She appeared at the end of the corridor like a shadow wrapped in silk.
Barefoot. Poised. Controlled.
Her eyes met mine without flinching.
“I thought you might come looking for answers,” I said.
“I didn’t come looking for anything,” she replied coolly.
“Then why are you out of your room?”
“To prove I’m not a ghost in your gilded cage.”
I chuckled—low and humorless. “That’s cute.”
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“You know why.”
“I want your reason.”
I took a slow sip from my glass. “I don’t owe you that.”
“But you think you own me?”
I didn’t answer that.
“This isn’t a fairy tale,” she said. “You don’t get to lock me in a tower and expect me to thank you for the view.”
“Gratitude isn’t required. Just obedience.”
“Obedience?” she scoffed. “I’m not a pet.”
“No,” I said flatly. “You’re an asset.”
The words landed like a slap.
She stepped back, eyes burning. “So that’s it? I’m part of a transaction?”
“You can call it whatever helps you sleep.”
She turned to leave, but I stopped her with one sentence.
“This world isn’t kind to girls who dream of freedom.”
She froze. Then turned, voice shaking—but not with fear.
“You bought the wrong girl,” she said, “because I don’t break.”
A beat of silence.
Then I smiled. Slow. Measured.
“Good,” I murmured. “Because broken things lose their magic.”
And with that, I turned and walked away—leaving her standing in the dim corridor, fire burning behind her eyes, and war brewing in her chest.
- Writer
