Chapter 6 La Gabbia d'Oro (The Golden Cage)

Arielle's POV(2 days later)

I woke to the scent of expensive cologne that didn't belong to me and the sound of my apartment being invaded.

Doors opened. Footsteps. Male voices.

I shot up in bed, heart racing, still in my robe from the night before.

What the hell?

I stormed out of the bedroom just as three suited men were wheeling my designer luggage-my luggage, from my closet-through the living room. One nodded politely at me in passing, as if this was all perfectly normal.

"I-excuse me?" I snapped. "What is going on?"

One of the men handed me a sleek black envelope with embossed gold lettering. I didn't even need to open it to know who it was from.

But i did anyway.

Kitten,

Wheels up in one hour. Pack light. I already took care of everything you'll need.

I prefer red.

-D.

My blood boiled. My hands trembled. He packed for me? He sent men into my apartment?

I grabbed her phone and dialed the devil himself.

He picked up after two rings.

"Arielle."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"No," Damien said calmly. "But we are on a schedule."

"You sent strangers into my home-"

"Highly trained professionals," he interrupted. "Your clothing is packed, your documents are secured, and your fridge was emptied. You won't be back for a while."

"I haven't agreed to any of this!"

A pause. Then that low, infuriating voice:

"You came to the party. You wore the ring. You smiled for the cameras. Don't get shy now."

I clenched her teeth. "I'm not your property."

"No," he said smoothly. "But for now... you're mine to protect. And I don't like delays."

Then he hung up.

By the time the last of my things were loaded into the sleek black Rolls-Royce parked outside my building, I had gone from furious to eerily calm.

Too calm.

The kind of calm a woman wears like lipstick before walking into a war.

I slid into the back seat and found a leather folder waiting for her on the center console. My name was stamped across it in gold.

Inside: two first-class tickets-mine and Damien's. A personalized flight itinerary. A platinum AmEx in my name. An Italian cell phone. A list of emergency contacts. A slim black velvet box.

My fingers hesitated on that last one.

I opened it slowly.

Inside: a blood-red diamond necklace so dark it was almost black.

A note was folded beneath it in crisp, masculine handwriting.

Kitten,

You'll need something to wear when you walk off the jet like you were born for this.

Don't embarrass me.

-D.

I slammed the box shut.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to a private hangar at JFK.

No TSA lines. No paparazzi. Just luxury cars lined in a row, security detail in black suits, and a matte black jet waiting like a secret on a silver runway.

The stairs lowered as i stepped out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement. A uniformed attendant smiled warmly, but I didn't smile back.

I was too busy scanning for Damien.

He wasn't there.

Of course not.

He'll show up when it's inconvenient and somehow still make me feel late.

I boarded.

The jet was unreal. Cream leather seats. Gold trim. A glass bar with decanters of whiskey and champagne that probably cost more than my old apartment's rent. A couch. A king-sized bed in the back cabin. Screens inlaid into the walls. And a private attendant who greeted me with soft Italian-accented English.

"Ms. Hayes, welcome aboard. May I offer you a drink?"

"I'll take your strongest red," i replied. "And a weapon, if you have one."

The flight attendant smiled politely and vanished.

I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, glared out the window, and told myself not to scream.

I was halfway through my glass of wine-legs curled under me, playlist on, pretending this wasn't happening-when Damien finally arrived.

Black suit. Black sunglasses. Calm like the world bent to him.

He walked up the steps like he owned the sky.

And when he stepped inside, he didn't greet me with a smile.

He walked over to her chair. Took off his sunglasses. And stared at me like i was both a problem and a prize.

"Nice to see you obeyed instructions."

"I didn't obey," I said coolly. "I tolerated."

"That's how most good marriages begin," he said dryly, handing his briefcase off to the flight attendant and unbuttoning his jacket.

I hated how good he looked in motion.

"I packed my own bag," i muttered.

Damien leaned down, brushing his hand along the back of my chair to steady himself as the plane began to taxi.

"Lingerie's in the left suitcase. I added a few things."

My mouth parted in outrage. "You went through my-"

"I enhanced the essentials."

"Do you ever ask before you touch something that isn't yours?"

He leaned down just enough for his lips to graze the shell of my ear.

"Would it matter, kitten, if I always intend to make it mine?"

My breath caught.

The engine roared.

The jet lifted into the sky.

Three Hours Into the Flight

I hated how comfortable the bed was. How silk sheets whispered against my skin. How Damien sat across the cabin with his laptop, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading some document like this wasn't the strangest power play of a honeymoon that never happened.

I hated even more that he hadn't tried to touch me.

He'd just... let me sit with it. The luxury. The power. The ring on my finger and the necklace i refused to wear still burning in its box.

Every now and then, he'd look over the screen and say nothing. Just watch me.

Like he was waiting for me to speak first.

Or beg.

But i wouldn't.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, glared out the window into the dark sky, and whispered under my breath:

"Marrying you is going to be hell."

From across the cabin, he murmured without looking up:

"Good. I plan to own the flames."