The car door shut behind her with a thud too final to be anything but symbolic.
Leona sat in the backseat of the matte black town car, her silver dress creasing under her folded arms. No one spoke. The driver wore all black. The guard beside him held a gun across his thigh like it was part of the uniform.
Lucien slid in beside her five seconds later.
He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. He adjusted his cufflinks and gave a curt nod to the driver.
They pulled away from the Romano estate in silence.
No music. No small talk. Not even the soft rustle of fabric, Leona made sure she didn't move an inch, didn't give him the satisfaction of twitching.
"So," she said finally, her voice slicing through the quiet, "this is your idea of a honeymoon?"
Lucien glanced at her. Just once.
"You already signed the contract."
"You didn't even pretend."
"I don't pretend."
"Not even for optics? No ring? No priest? No ceremony?"
"You wanted a dress and flowers?" His tone was bland. "Get a different man."
She leaned her head back and laughed once, bitterly. "You're right. I should've aimed for a monster with better manners."
Lucien didn't reply. He stared out the window like she wasn't even there.
They drove for over an hour through winding hills. The sun had already set, and the sky outside bled red at the edges, as if the day itself had been stabbed.
Finally, stone walls and wrought iron gates loomed ahead. Cameras turned. Guards stepped aside. The car rolled into the private estate like a hearse.
Lucien's home looked more like a fortress than a house tall, black, silent. No lights on in the upper windows. No welcome party. Just a stone archway and the echo of her heels as she stepped out onto the gravel.
He led her to the front door but didn't open it for her. She did it herself.
Inside, the foyer was cavernous white marble floors, black walls, gold light dripping from a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. But the air was cold. Sterile. As if no one actually lived here.
Lucien walked ahead, hands in his pockets. "I'll show you your room."
"Not our room?"
He didn't answer.
PART 2: THE CAGE
The walk through the Romano estate was eerily quiet. Their footsteps echoed through the long, dark halls like a rhythm with no melody.
Leona didn't bother asking questions. Lucien wasn't offering answers.
He stopped at a tall white door near the end of a hallway she hadn't counted the turns to. There were no paintings on the walls, no family photos—just shadow and silence.
"This is yours," he said, pulling a keycard from his pocket and tapping it against the black panel beside the door. A soft click followed.
The lock disengaged.
He opened the door and stepped aside.
Leona entered slowly, wary. The lights flicked on automatically, revealing a room that was… stunning.
Cream and gold. High ceilings. A crystal lamp on each nightstand. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed by sheer drapes. A walk-in closet, untouched. The bed was king-sized, the linens perfectly smoothed, the pillows fluffed like clouds waiting to smother someone.
It looked more like a hotel suite than a bedroom.
Beautiful. Expensive.
Lifeless.
Leona turned back to him. "No offense, but you don't strike me as a hospitality guy."
"I'm not."
She crossed her arms. "And what happens if I try to leave this room?"
Lucien tilted his head, mildly amused. "You'll be followed."
"So I'm a guest in a luxury cage."
"You're not a guest." He walked to the wall near the door and tapped the black panel again. The lock slid back into place with a sharp clack.
Then he looked at her. "You're property. Mine."
She stepped toward him, slowly. "Is this how you treat all your toys?"
"I don't usually marry them."
"Charming."
"I warned you, Leona." He moved to the door. "You made your choice the second you stayed at that table."
"I didn't stay," she said quietly. "I was traded."
Lucien paused. His back to her.
Then: "Same difference."
The door shut behind him.
She ran to it instantly. Turned the knob. Locked.
She laughed under her breath. Bitter. Furious.
Then she turned back to the room, eyeing every perfect surface with growing contempt.
It was elegant.
It was large.
It was hers.
And it was a prison.
PART 3: HOUSE RULES
The knock came two hours later. Sharp. Two taps. Then the lock clicked.
Leona didn't move from the velvet chair she'd taken post beside the window. She'd pulled the drapes aside just enough to stare out into the dark garden, searching for exits she already knew weren't there.
Lucien entered like he lived in silence.
He held no tray, no drink. Just a file folder in one hand and a black phone in the other.
She raised a brow. "I didn't realize this marriage came with paperwork."
"This isn't marriage." He dropped the folder on the edge of the bed. "It's an arrangement."
She stood slowly. "Romantic."
"You don't need romance. You need boundaries."
Leona walked over, opened the folder.
Inside: a printed schedule, maps of the estate, and a list of House Protocols. The wording was stiff, almost corporate.
"You typed up rules for your wife?" she asked.
"Had them printed this morning."
She looked at the list:
1. Do not leave the estate without written permission.
2. No entry into the east wing.
3. Do not speak to security without clearance.
4. No phone calls outside approved contacts.
5. Obey curfew. Midnight. No exceptions.
Leona snorted. "Obey? Are we pretending I signed up to be your assistant?"
"No," Lucien said. "Assistants get paid."
She closed the folder with a snap. "What happens if I break your precious little rules?"
Lucien stepped closer, stopping only when their breaths nearly collided.
"I don't bluff," he said. "You already know that."
Her gaze didn't waver. "You'd hurt me?"
"No," he said. "But I wouldn't have to stop the people who would."
She tilted her chin. "And what happens if you break the rules?"
His eyes flickered with something maybe humor, maybe threat.
"I don't have any."
She let the silence stretch before saying, "You should. Men like you need them more than anyone."
Lucien turned toward the door. "Curfew's in three hours. Do what you want until then."
She didn't respond.
He was almost gone when he added, without turning:
"And don't go near the east wing."
Then the door shut behind him again.
And this time, it didn't lock.
Which somehow made it worse.
PART 4: ICE AND FIRE
The silence that followed Lucien's exit was louder than any scream.
Leona stared at the door for a full minute, waiting to feel something coherent rage, fear, helplessness. But what bloomed instead was something colder. A bitterness that scraped her ribs from the inside.
She turned back to the folder on the bed, opened it again. The rules stared back, black ink on white paper, sterile and suffocating.
Curfew. Clearance. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not breathe unless you're told to. Blah blah blah
Her fists clenched.
Across the room, a small marble vase sat on a glass shelf near the fireplace. Expensive. Pointless.
Leona walked over, lifted it, and hurled it full-force against the wall.
It shattered with a satisfying, violent crash porcelain shards skittering across the floor like tiny fleeing soldiers.
The echo died. Nothing followed.
No guards. No reprimand. No reaction.
She didn't know what made her angrier—that no one stopped her… or that maybe no one cared enough to.
A quiet knock came ten minutes later.
No voice. Just two soft taps.
She said nothing.
The door opened anyway.
Lucien stepped in. Same calm. Same suit. Same perfect mask.
His eyes flicked to the shattered vase.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Not even close."
He looked down, then up. "That belonged to my mother."
She met his gaze. "Good. She raised a tyrant."
Lucien didn't blink. "She raised a soldier."
"Then she failed."
He took a slow breath through his nose. "Do you want to survive this, Leona?"
"Do you?"
For the first time, his expression shifted. Just a fraction. A tension in his jaw. A twitch in his right hand like he was suppressing something more violent than words.
But he didn't explode.
He turned.
And left.
The door shut behind him with surgical precision. No slam. No curse. Just the finality of someone who chose to disengage rather than ignite.
And somehow, that stung more.
Because if he'd shouted, at least it would've meant he felt something.
PART 5: NIGHT WATCH
She waited ten minutes after the door closed.
Then she started searching.
Leona didn't know what she was looking for—weakness, maybe. A crack in the design. A button to push.
She checked the windows first. Locked tight. Bulletproof, by the feel. Reinforced frames. They weren't meant to open.
Next, the closet. Empty except for hangers. No shoes. No scent of another woman. No forgotten clothes. Just clean, cold luxury.
The dresser drawers had silk pajamas in her size, tags still on. She ignored them.
Bathroom: marble floors, rainfall shower, everything sterile and untouched. Like no one had ever breathed in here.
But then she noticed it.
In the corner of the mirror just the faintest smudge.
She leaned closer.
It wasn't a smudge. It was a lens.
Tiny. Almost invisible.
A camera.
She stepped back slowly, heart hammering.
They were watching.
He was watching.
The walls had eyes. The room was a stage. And she was the show.
She turned on her heel and began scanning every edge of the room. The ceiling corners. Inside the lamps. The smoke detector above the bed slightly off-center.
Another lens.
She stopped cold.
She could scream. Rip them down. But what would that change?
He would know. He wanted her to know.
Leona stood in the center of the room, looking straight up into the nearest camera.
Then she smiled. A slow, poisonous smile.
"If you're watching," she whispered, "you'd better blink first."
She changed into a plain T-shirt no pajamas from him, never that and slipped under the covers fully dressed. No lights off. No comfort.
She lay stiffly, eyes on the ceiling.
The silence wasn't peaceful.
It was crowded.
And somewhere behind a screen, her new husband was watching her sleep.