Chapter 3 A Cage with Velvet Bars

Elena

The lie starts small.

A simple statement printed on the morning cover of The Elite Weekly:

"Lucas Thorn's Secret Fiancée Revealed: Street Artist Turned Socialite"

Followed by a blurry photo of me stepping into his car, myhand loosely in his, my face tilted toward him in a way I swear was just the wind catching my hair.

The comments flood in before I've even had coffee.

"She looks like a groupie, not a fiancée."

"Publicity stunt. Lucas doesn't even like people, let alone date them."

"Another gold digger caught in the web."

I toss the tablet across the room, watching it bounce on the plush white duvet without even leaving a wrinkle. This whole penthouse is like that ,too soft, too perfect, designed to cushion every sharp edge until you forget you ever had claws.

I haven't seen Lucas since yesterday morning.

Which makes sense. Kings don't babysit their prisoners.

But I'm not some helpless captive. If I'm going to play the role of fiancée, I need to own it and control it.

So I march toward the kitchen, find the automated espresso machine, and make myself a cappuccino with extra foam. It's petty rebellion, but it tastes like victory.

Adrienne arrives twenty minutes later, dressed like a Vogue headline. Her heels click against the marble like a metronome of doom.

"Good, you're awake. We have exactly one hour before your fitting."

"Do I get to speak today or just stand still while people paint me in lipstick and pearls?"

She smiles tightly. "You get to be seen, darling. Speaking is optional."

I sip my cappuccino and flash her a saccharine smile. "Well, I plan to speak."

She doesn't bother arguing.

We head down to the lower level of the penthouse, which I've now learned has an entire runway-length walk-in closet. There are tailors waiting. Stylists. A hair consultant. A woman whose sole job seems to be eyebrow symmetry analysis.

They start circling me like I'm a slab of meat in couture.

"We need elegance but not too polished," Adrienne says, pointing at a rack of gowns. "She's an artist, remember. Make it look like money found her, not the other way around."

I'm poked, measured, and wrapped in silk. Somewhere in the chaos, a dress is declared the winner: deep emerald, off-the-shoulder, with a slit that practically guarantees headlines. Paired with stilettos sharp enough to kill and a necklace that probably costs more than every car I've ever seen.

"Gala's in four days," Adrienne says. "You'll need to memorize the guest list. Smile like you're in love. And don't get caught looking bored."

"Got it. Fake adoration and mild sedation."

She narrows her eyes. "You're lucky you're pretty."

I grin. "You're lucky I haven't stabbed anyone yet."

It's hours before I see him again.

Lucas Thorn, in all his god-of-cold-logic glory, standing on the private balcony outside the east wing, staring at the skyline like he owns it.

He probably does.

I linger in the doorway, watching him.

His suit jacket is off. Shirt sleeves rolled. No tie. And for the first time, I catch a hint of something almost human in the way his shoulders tense.

"You planning to jump or just thinking about stock prices?" I ask.

He doesn't turn.

"I don't waste time on hypotheticals," he replies.

I step out, arms folded. "You've turned my life into one big hypothetical."

Now he looks at me. "You signed the contract."

"You cornered me into it."

He leans on the railing. "Would you prefer jail?"

"No," I say, stepping closer. "But I'd prefer honesty."

"You have it. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I need stability for my board and stockholders. You need freedom. We both win."

"Is that how you see people? Functions and formulas?"

His gaze sharpens. "No. That's how I survive them."

The air stretches tight between us.

"Tell me something real," I say softly. "Something not in the contract."

He doesn't blink.

And for a moment, I think he won't answer. But then he says, voice lower now:

"My mother was a pianist. She used to play in the mornings. After she died, I stopped listening to music."

My throat tightens. "How old were you?"

"Twelve."

I study him. "Have you ever talked about her?"

"No."

We're quiet.

Then I ask, "What's behind the west wing door?"

Those walls slam back into place. Instantly.

"You're not allowed there."

"Because of your mom?"

He turns away. "That's not your concern."

So much for honesty.

"I'm not a child," I snap. "If I'm going to lie to the world for you, live in your house, wear your rings, you could at least treat me like I'm more than just a warm body to fit the narrative."

"You're more than that," he says, facing me again. "You're leverage. And you're smart enough to know how to use it."

I want to scream.

Instead, I walk away, heels echoing against stone like gunshots. But even after I slam the bedroom door, my heart won't stop racing.

Because I'm beginning to understand something dangerous.

Lucas Thorn doesn't need a fake fiancée.

He wants control.

And I just handed it to him wrapped in diamonds.

Three days later, we debuted at the Thorn Foundation charity gala.

The ballroom is a glittering nightmare. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling like melting stars. Everywhere I look, there's wealth and ambition wrapped in designer silk. Cameraflash. Champagne flows. Gossip swirls like smoke.

Lucas stands beside me like a statue carved from frost.

I loop my arm through his and lean in. "You better smile, fiancé. People are watching."

He tilts his head. "You're enjoying this."

"No," I whisper back. "I just refuse to drown quietly."

The cameras love us.

He plays the stoic billionaire. I play the mysterious new muse. Together, we're a headline waiting to happen.

By the third dance, I've memorized all the tricks: fake laugh at strategic intervals, make eye contact with the right socialites, feign awe when people talk about yachts and oil mergers. It's exhausting.

But it works.

Everyone wants to know my story now.

And that scares Lucas more than anything.

After a toast, he pulls me aside.

"You're getting too comfortable."

I sip my champagne. "That's the point, isn't it?"

His jaw tics. "Stay in your role. Don't forget what this is."

"I'm not," I say, eyes locked on his. "But maybe you are."

And for one breathless second, I swear he almost kisses me.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he says, "We leave in ten."

And just like that, the moment shatters.

Back at the penthouse, I don't go straight to bed.

I wander.

And somehow, I end up outside the west wing again.

It's late. The lights are dim. My heels are off.

I reach for the biometric lock again.

Access denied.

I stare at the door, pulse racing.

What are you hiding, Lucas?

Suddenly, I hear it.

A faint musical sound.

Coming from behind the door.

Not speakers. Not digital. Live.

A piano.

My breath catches.

No one is supposed to be there.

I press my ear closer. The melody is soft, mournful. A lullaby? A memory?

And then it stops.

I bolt back down the hall before I'm caught.

Heart pounding.

And the thought that haunts me as I dive into bed isn't about secrets or contracts or scandals.

It's this:

There's a part of Lucas Thorn that still feels.

And I need to find it.

Before the lie becomes truth.

Before the cage becomes an ornament.

Before I forget, have I ever wanted to escape?