The limousine was too quiet.
Elena sat with her hands clenched in her lap, heart pounding as the city blurred past outside. Dominic sat beside her, immaculate in his tailored suit, not saying a word. His presence filled the space like a thundercloud—elegant, composed, and humming with unspoken power.
When the car finally stopped outside a towering glass skyscraper, Elena's breath caught. She didn't belong here. The building loomed above her like it could swallow her whole.
"This is where you'll live now," Dominic said, stepping out and motioning for her to follow.
Live?
She thought maybe he'd pay for a cheap apartment. Not… this.
Inside, the penthouse was clinical and cold—white marble floors, chrome fixtures, and window-like walls. It smelled like wealth and emptiness.
"This is too much," she said softly.
He didn't answer. He was already halfway across the room, pouring himself a drink.
"I don't want..."
"You don't get to want anymore, Elena." He turned, and his eyes pinned her like a hawk catching prey. "You gave up wanting the moment you agreed to belong to me."
His words hit her harder than any slap.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
"It means you'll do what I say. You'll see how I tell you. Smile when required. Suffer in silence, and perform like a star when the lights are on."
She swallowed the rising bile in her throat.
"This isn't an audition, Elena. It's obedience."
Her first day as Dominic's protégé—and prisoner—began with silence. He handed her a new phone. It had no internet and no texting apps. Just a contact list with one number.
"she…"
She asked about seeing her friend, Claire—the only girl from the shelter who'd ever shown her kindness.
"She's a distraction," he replied, not looking up from his laptop. "You won't see her again."
"You can't do that," she said, a flash of heat rising.
His jaw twitched. "You're testing me already."
"I just.."
In a heartbeat, he was in front of her, and the air between them dropped ten degrees.
"You belong to me, Elena. I don't care what sob story you dragged in here. If I wanted, I could ruin you in minutes. Take your name, your voice, your freedom. Remember that before you open your mouth again."
Her lips trembled, but she bit back tears.
This wasn't protection. This was possession.
He put her through "training" hours of etiquette, media coaching and vocal rehearsals. She was paraded in front of stylists, all under Dominic's watchful, unforgiving eye. If she stumbled, he said nothing. His silence was more terrifying than any shouted insult.
And then came the punishments.
They started small.
The first time she questioned a dress he chose for her red carpet appearance, he cancelled the event and locked her in her room. For twenty-four hours, she had no food. No light. Just a silent room and her own spiralling thoughts.
The second time, when she refused to sing a rewritten song he provided—changing the lyrics to something that glorified control—he shattered her favourite photograph from childhood in front of her.
"Memories are weights," he said coldly. "We only keep what's useful."
She learned fast after that.
Her smile became plastic. Her movements were rehearsed. The girl who had once dreamed of freedom was now a puppet in the hands of a master who wielded pain like a conductor's baton.
But even as she obeyed, a fire grew inside her.
He thought he had broken her.
He hadn't.
Not yet.
Just before the end of the chapter, Elena sneaks a look at a locked drawer in Dominic's office. Inside, she catches a glimpse of a worn photograph—a younger Dominic, bloodied and bruised, beside a woman with terrified eyes. The look on his younger face mirrored her own now.
He's been hurt, she realizes.
Maybe he's not the monster he pretends to be. Maybe he's hiding from something too.
But then the drawer slams shut. Dominic stands behind her, jaw clenched, eyes like ice.
"Curiosity," he says slowly, "is the most dangerous form of defiance."
And she knows he'll make her pay.