Chapter 2

Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. Alistair's presence filled the small room, suffocating her.

"I... I didn't mean anything, Senator," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. Sweat prickled her palms. "I was just... feeling unwell. Talking to myself."

Alistair's lips curved into a cold smile. He knew she was lying. He always knew.

"Feeling unwell?" he repeated, stepping closer. "Or feeling ungrateful? I provide you with a roof, with purpose. Your family is spared further... embarrassment... because of my generosity."

He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched. His touch was like ice.

"You belong to me, Elara. Until I decide otherwise."

His words were a chain, each one a heavy link reinforcing her captivity. Her attempt to deflect his suspicion had failed, only exposing her fear, her vulnerability.

Later that day, Diana found Elara in the hallway. Alistair had allowed Elara out of her room, but her movements were still restricted. Diana's eyes blazed with a furious jealousy. She must have seen Alistair leaving Elara's room earlier, or perhaps his possessive words had been repeated.

"You think you're special, don't you?" Diana hissed, grabbing Elara's arm, her nails digging in. "Playing the sick little victim to get his attention."

"Let go of me, Diana," Elara said, trying to pull away.

Diana shoved her hard against the wall. Elara's head hit the paneling with a dull thud. Stars exploded behind her eyes.

"He'll never care about you," Diana spat, her face contorted with rage. "He's mine. He was always mine, until I decided I didn't want him. You're just a temporary distraction, a toy."

She slapped Elara across the face, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. Then again.

Elara stumbled, her vision blurring. Diana pushed her to the floor, kicking her side. Pain shot through Elara's ribs. She curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. Diana was relentless, her fury unchecked. Elara felt herself blacking out.

"Enough!"

Alistair's voice cut through the air like a whip.

Diana froze, her foot raised for another kick. She turned, her expression shifting from rage to a feigned concern.

"Alistair! She... she attacked me!" Diana cried, pointing a trembling finger at Elara.

Alistair ignored her. He looked at Elara, crumpled on the floor, then back at Diana. His face was thunderous.

He strode towards Diana and, without a word, slapped her so hard she staggered back, a red mark blooming on her cheek.

"No one touches what is mine," Alistair said, his voice low and venomous, each word precise. He wasn't looking at Diana with anger for hurting Elara. He was looking at her with anger for damaging his property.

"She is under my protection, such as it is," he continued, his gaze chilling. "You will not lay a hand on her again. Do you understand?"

Diana, stunned and humiliated, could only nod, tears welling in her eyes.

Alistair then turned to Elara, who was slowly pushing herself up. He offered no help, no word of comfort. He simply looked at her, his expression proprietary. The intervention wasn't for her. It was a declaration of his ownership, a warning to Diana. Elara felt a cold dread. His "protection" was just another form of control.

The next day, Alistair seemed determined to reinforce Elara's subservient status. He had her work in his private office all day, not at her small desk, but standing beside his, anticipating his needs. Handing him pens, documents, pouring his water. Constant, close proximity. It was a torment.

He was signing a stack of letters, his movements sharp, impatient.

"Ink," he snapped, without looking up.

Elara reached for the inkwell. Her hand was still trembling slightly from Diana's assault and the subsequent confrontation. As she unstoppered the heavy glass bottle, her fingers fumbled. The bottle tipped, spilling dark blue ink across Alistair's pristine white shirt cuff and onto the polished mahogany desk.

Elara gasped, mortified. "I... I'm so sorry, Senator!"

Alistair looked down at the spreading stain, then up at her. His eyes were glacial.

"Clumsy," he said, his voice flat, dismissive. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His disdain was a physical blow.

She scrambled for a cloth, trying to blot the ink, making it worse. Her blood, a small drop from a hangnail, mixed with the blue ink on the desk. A tiny, vivid stain of red and blue. Symbolic of her trapped life.

Alistair watched her frantic efforts for a moment, then stood up.

"Get out," he said.

Elara fled, her cheeks burning with shame.

Later that afternoon, Mr. Davies approached her small, windowless office. He placed a small, unmarked bottle of antiseptic and a box of bandages on her desk without a word.

Elara looked at them, confused. Then she remembered the tiny cut on her finger, the drop of blood.

"The Senator asked me to give these to you," Davies said, his tone neutral. He turned to leave.

"Wait," Elara said. "Why?"

Davies paused. "He dislikes... imperfections."

He left. Elara stared at the medical supplies. It wasn't kindness. It was him wanting his possession to be unmarred. Or was it? A tiny, confusing flicker of something unreadable. He'd been harsh, dismissive about the ink. But then this. It just added to her confusion, made her feel more off-balance. He immediately followed this with a harsh command delivered via Davies: "The Senator expects his West Coast briefing papers collated and summarized by six. No errors." The ambiguity was a weapon.

Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper at the Sterling estate, was an older woman who had been with the Sterling family for decades. She was usually quiet, efficient, keeping her distance. But she saw things.

One evening, as Elara was listlessly polishing silver in the pantry – another of Alistair's pointless tasks for her – Mrs. Gable entered.

"He's hard on you, child," Mrs. Gable said softly, startling Elara.

Elara didn't reply, just kept rubbing the tarnished candlestick.

"The Senator... he's not like his father. More intense. Especially about things... or people... he considers his."

Elara looked up, surprised by the woman's directness.

"Don't mistake his harshness for indifference," Mrs. Gable continued, her gaze knowing. "Sometimes, the ones who shout the loudest are the ones who feel the most. He was... very affected by what your sister did."

Elara frowned. "He hates my family. He hates me."

Mrs. Gable gave a small, sad smile. "Hate and obsession can look very similar, dear. Especially in a man like Alistair Sterling."

Her words offered a strange sort of comfort, a different perspective, but Elara couldn't bring herself to believe them. Alistair's actions spoke only of cruelty and possession.

A week later, there was another Sterling event. A smaller, more intimate dinner party for key political allies. Diana was there again, invited by Alistair's mother, who seemed to enjoy stirring drama. Alistair had been cold to Diana since he'd struck her, but her ambition kept her returning, hoping to regain favor.

Throughout the dinner, Alistair largely ignored Diana. Instead, he focused an unsettling amount of attention on Elara, who was tasked with serving wine, always keeping her close.

During a lull in conversation, Alistair suddenly reached out and pulled Elara onto his lap. In front of everyone. His allies, his mother, and Diana.

Elara froze, her face burning. Murmurs went around the table.

"My devoted Elara," Alistair said, his voice carrying clearly. He stroked her hair, his touch possessive. "She takes such good care of me."

His eyes, however, were fixed on Diana. He was using Elara, humiliating her, to provoke a reaction from his former fiancée. To show Diana that he had someone else, someone completely under his control.

Elara felt sick. She was a prop, a tool for his games. Diana's face was pale, her lips tight with fury and humiliation. Alistair's public display had hit its mark. But it was Elara who bore the brunt of the shame, her dignity stripped away in front of these powerful, indifferent people. She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.