Chapter 4
1373 Words
Chapter Four: The Velvet Cage
Lena didn’t sleep.
Not after the door.
Not after the room.
Not after seeing pieces of herself—some long forgotten, some never meant to be captured—pinned like butterflies across an entire wall.
She lay in the massive bed, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, the silk sheets cold against her skin. The air felt heavier now. The villa quieter. Like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for her next move.
She wasn’t afraid.
At least… not exactly.
She was something worse.
Intrigued.
When the morning sun broke across the room, she rose like a sleepwalker. The dress she pulled on was black and thin as smoke. She didn’t bother with makeup. There was no point in performing anymore. He’d seen too much. All of her.
And still wanted more.
---
She found Nikolai on the terrace overlooking the sea, a steaming espresso in front of him and a stack of newspapers he hadn’t touched. He didn’t flinch when she sat across from him. Didn’t even look up.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Not after that.”
His jaw tensed. “I told you I’d show you.”
“You kept it locked.”
He turned a page of the newspaper, his fingers slow, deliberate. “Not because I was ashamed.”
“Then why?”
“Because I didn’t want you to see it before you were ready.”
She let the silence stretch. Then, softly, “You think I’m ready now?”
“No.” He looked up, finally. “But curiosity is stronger than timing.”
A breeze lifted her hair, brushing it across her lips.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked.
He stared at her.
And then, “Yes.”
It was the last thing she expected.
“But I won’t let you,” he added.
Of course.
Always both sides of the blade.
---
They didn’t speak again until mid-afternoon.
She wandered the villa with a painter’s restlessness, touching sculptures and old tapestries with the pad of her finger. She found a sunlit alcove in the library and sat there for an hour, rereading the same paragraph of an Italian novel without comprehension.
Nikolai’s voice startled her from the doorway. “There’s a gallery opening tonight. I want you to come.”
She looked up. “You want to parade me?”
“I want you on my arm.”
“Same thing.”
He walked into the room, no tie, just his shirtsleeves rolled and a glass of whiskey in one hand. “You used to love attention.”
“I used to be in control of it.”
“You still are. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
She met his eyes.
They both knew he would.
“I’ll go,” she said finally. “But on one condition.”
A pause.
“Name it.”
“I pick what I wear.”
---
The dress she chose wasn’t modest.
It was red.
Blood-red, liquid silk, with a high slit and low back, clinging to her like it had been sewn onto her skin. Her hair was down, a loose cascade of waves. She wore no jewelry, no perfume—only the scent of her skin and the sharp gleam in her eye.
When she stepped into the foyer, Nikolai froze.
His reaction wasn’t visible to most people. Just a subtle shift in his jaw, a tightening of his grip on the cufflink he was adjusting. But Lena saw it. Felt it.
“You’re playing with fire,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I am the fire.”
He didn’t say another word. Just offered his arm.
She took it.
---
The gallery was in a stone building nestled into the hillside overlooking the Arno. It was all glass walls and marble floors, with champagne flutes and soft jazz echoing through the crowd.
Everyone turned when they walked in.
Lena knew the feeling. The hush that followed beauty, the greedy eyes trying to drink it in. But this was different.
Because tonight, she wasn’t just a model or a face.
She was his.
And people could tell.
Whispers followed them as they moved. Whispers about the billionaire who never brought a date. About the girl who had vanished from the spotlight only to reappear in his orbit.
She stayed close to Nikolai’s side.
Not because she had to.
But because it gave her power.
Every time a man’s gaze lingered too long, she felt the heat of Nikolai’s hand tighten against her lower back. Every time someone leaned in to ask her a question, he answered for her—calmly, coldly, with that same possessive edge she was beginning to recognize like a heartbeat.
It wasn’t love.
It was claiming.
And it was working.
---
Midway through the evening, she slipped away.
Not far—just into a side hallway lined with photographs. She needed a breath, a moment. The attention was starting to peel at her edges again, making her feel brittle.
“Running away?”
She turned.
The man was tall, handsome, sharply dressed, with an American accent and a smile too practiced.
“Just stretching my legs,” she said smoothly.
“You’re Lena Marceau, right? I thought I recognized you.”
She gave a polite smile. “I used to be.”
He chuckled. “Hard to forget a face like yours. You were everywhere two years ago. Covers, catwalks. Then—poof.”
“Life happens.”
“Or men like Duran happen.”
Her gaze sharpened.
He leaned closer. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”
She straightened. “And why is that?”
“Because obsession isn’t love. And ownership isn’t protection.”
Before she could respond, Nikolai appeared.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t raise his voice.
He simply stepped between them and stared the man down with a stillness more violent than any threat.
The man raised his hands. “Just making conversation.”
“You made a mistake,” Nikolai said quietly.
“And what mistake is that?”
“You thought she was alone.”
The man backed away.
Lena stood frozen as Nikolai turned to her, brushing his fingers along her wrist.
“You don’t need to be afraid of men like him,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Good.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because he won’t be speaking again.”
She stared. “What did you do?”
“I don’t share,” was all he said.
---
The ride home was silent.
She didn’t speak until they were halfway back to the villa.
“You knew he’d talk to me, didn’t you?”
“I knew someone would.”
“And you let it happen.”
He didn’t deny it.
“You were testing me.”
“I was watching.”
“And what did you see?”
“That you still think you have a choice.”
Her chest tightened.
“I’m not your property, Nikolai.”
“You’re not,” he agreed.
“But you will be.”
---
That night, she stood at the door of his studio—the locked room—again.
This time, it was open.
He was sitting in the center, sketching. As if he’d been waiting.
She stepped inside slowly.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “But I can’t pretend it’s normal.”
“It’s not.”
“I should be running.”
“You haven’t.”
She moved closer.
“What do you want from me?”
Nikolai looked up.
And for the first time, she saw something different in his eyes.
Not power.
Not possession.
But need.
“I want you to see yourself the way I see you,” he said.
“And what if I don’t like what you see?”
He stood. Walked over. Stopped inches from her.
“Then I’ll make you love it.”
Her breath caught.
And then, softly, like a promise—
“You don’t need to understand it, Lena. You just have to let it happen.”
- Writer
