Chapter 2 The Penthouse and the Prison

Elena

There are no windows in the car.

At least, none I can see. Everything is tinted darker than night, the kind of vehicle designed for people who are used to hiding from the world they rule. I sit on butter-soft leather, legs crossed, hands folded so tightly in my lap that my knuckles ache. Across from me, Lucas Thorn is typing on a glass-paneled tablet, his long fingers flying across the surface like they're allergic to slowness.

He hasn't spoken since we shook hands. Not a word.

The silence is so thick, I start to wonder if I dreamed the entire rooftop confrontation. Maybe I passed out, and this is some AI-generated coma illusion. But then I glance at my hands, still smudged with spray paint, and reality slaps me hard.

I agreed to pretend to be the fiancée of a man who could buy the entire city and burn it down just for fun.

"You can still back out," he says, without looking up.

"I know."

"You'd go to trial. The footage alone would sink you. At best, six months of community service. At worst"

"I said I know," I cut in, sharper than intended.

His eyes flick up. Storm gray. Cold steel. Whatever metaphor you want, they don't blink.

"Then why do I get the sense you're about to bolt?"

"Because I usually run when I realize I've been lured into a lion's den," I mutter.

Lucas doesn't react. Just goes back to his tablet like I'm background noise.

I stare at him.

He's so composed, it's unnatural. Like someone ironed the wrinkles out of his soul. His posture is military-perfect. His suit looks like it costs more than my mother's entire life insurance policy. Even his damn fingernails look rich.

"How do you know I won't blow this whole thing up the second we step out in public?" I ask.

"You won't."

"Oh really? You don't know me."

"I know exactly who you are. You're a fighter. And fighters love challenges."

He says it like he's stating the weather.

Before I can snap back, the car slows. We've arrived.

Outside, glass and metal stretch upward like something out of a sci-fi film. His building is the tallest in the district, The Thornspire. Subtle, right?

A doorman opens my door. Lucas exits first without waiting for me. I follow, trying to pretend I'm not overwhelmed by the sheer size of everything. The marble floors of the lobby gleam like mirrors. The walls pulse with slow, ambient lighting. A vertical digital waterfall flickers across one side, morphing into news headlines and stock prices.

This isn't a building. It's a temple.

And Lucas Thorn is its god.

We step into a private elevator. The moment the doors close, the air changes.

I glance sideways. "You always keep things this quiet?"

Lucas replies without turning. "Noise wastes bandwidth."

Jesus.

The elevator stops at the penthouse. Doors slide open. I step out, and my breath catches.

The place is... massive. Cold. Gorgeous. All black marble and brushed steel and floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch so high, the stars feel close enough to touch. But there's no warmth. No books. No color. Just the hum of machinery and the soft hiss of climate control.

This isn't a home. It's a fortress.

Lucas walks ahead, speaking into the air. Elena Marquez is now authorized. Facial scan, voiceprint, retina assign guest access, no restrictions except the west wing."

The room responds in a soft, androgynous voice. "Welcome, Elena Marquez."

I blink. "That thing just scanned my retina?"

"Security," Lucas says, like it's normal.

He walks into a room on the left. I trail after him, glancing at my reflection in the endless glass.

God, I don't belong here.

"This will be your room," he says.

It's bigger than my entire apartment. A plush bed. Walk-in closet. An en suite bathroom that looks like it was designed for royalty. Everything is sleek and spotless.

"I'll have your things brought over," he adds. "And tomorrow, you'll meet with Adrienne, my publicist, and Patrick, our legal advisor. There will be a press announcement by the end of the week."

I spin on him. "You mean I start this fake fiancée thing tomorrow?"

He nods. "The sooner the better."

"I haven't even agreed to the contract yet."

He pauses. For the first time, something like irritation flashes in his eyes.

"You shook my hand."

"You offered me a million dollars to save my ass. That doesn't mean I'm ready to waltz into Vogue and pretend we're America's Sweethearts."

"We don't need to be sweet," he says smoothly. "We need to be believable."

I pace the room. "I need rules."

Lucas crosses his arms. "No PDA unless required. You'll be briefed on every appearance. You'll attend the annual Thorn Gala next week. And you'll live here until the arrangement ends."

I blink. "Live here? That wasn't part of the handshake."

"It's part of the reality."

"And the west wing?" I ask, thinking back to what he said earlier.

He hesitates. "Off-limits."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

Infuriating. This man could drive a monk to commit homicide.

I sigh. "Have you ever tried saying 'please'?"

"No."

Of course not.

He steps back, like he's giving me space. "There will be a staff member outside your door if you need anything. You have until tomorrow morning to read the contract. Make your decision then."

And just like that, he turns and disappears down the hall.

I'm left standing alone in the middle of the most expensive prison in the city.

I don't sleep.

Not because I'm not tired God knows I am but because every time I close my eyes, I see headlines. Paparazzi photos. My face beside Lucas's. The girl from the wrong side of town who somehow landed the tech prince.

And I hate it. All of it.

I curl up on the bed, blanket wrapped around me like armor, and scroll through the contract on the tablet he left me.

It's over 80 pages long. NDA. Media training clause. Morality clause. Required appearances. No real intimacy, thank God, but plenty of "suggestive body language" for press optics. And the million-dollar payment? Contingent on completing the full six months. Early termination means zero payout.

Bastard thought of everything.

I close the tablet and stare at the ceiling.

This was supposed to be about fighting back. Making a point. Instead, I'm being swallowed whole by the very machine I wanted to sabotage.

And yet... I don't want to do it.

Which is terrifying in its own right.

Morning arrives too fast.

Adrienne, the publicist, is an icy blonde with stilettos sharp enough to murder with. She arrives at 7 a.m. with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"We need to reshape your image," she says before she's even sat down. "Tattooed rebel is great for underground art shows, but not for Forbes covers."

I scowl. "I'm not shaving my head."

"God no. That's your signature. We'll lean into the street-artist-turned-philanthropist angle. Think: edgy with a heart."

I grit my teeth. "I have a heart."

"I'm sure you do, darling. Let's just make sure it fits into a designer dress."

She hands me a schedule. Media training. Photo ops. Wardrobe fittings.

I glance at Lucas, who's seated silently at the head of the table, drinking black coffee like it's made of data.

"This is insane," I mutter.

"Welcome to my life," he replies.

That night, I finally explored the penthouse.

The rooms are huge and beautiful, but hollow. I find myself drawn to the art wing a space with canvases, robotic painting arms, and a digital sketch wall. None of it has been touched.

I stare at the blank screen, fingers itching.

Maybe I can still make this mine.

Somehow.

Maybe I can paint my way through the lie.

Later, as I wander back toward my room, I pause outside the west wing.

It's sealed by a biometric lock.

I don't know why I do it, but I press my palm against the panel.

Access denied.

I should walk away.

But instead, I whisper into the empty hallway:

"What are you hiding, Lucas Thorn?"

And for the first time since I arrived, I realize I don't just want to survive this deal.

I want to win.