Chapter 4

Alistair's reaction to Elara's new injuries, inflicted by Diana, was strange. He banished Diana from the estate, not with public pronouncements, but with a quiet, chilling finality conveyed through Mr. Davies. But when Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, dared to suggest to Alistair that perhaps Elara needed more specialized medical care, or even a brief respite away from the estate, Alistair exploded.

"She is my responsibility!" he thundered, his voice echoing in his vast office. He swept a crystal glass from his desk; it shattered against the far wall. "She is fine! She's being attended to. Do not presume to tell me how to manage my own affairs, or my own... staff."

His outburst was not about Elara's well-being. It was about his authority, his absolute control. He couldn't stand anyone implying he was losing that control, or worse, that he might actually *care* for Elara in any conventional sense. His facade of cold indifference, of pure possessiveness, had to be maintained at all costs. He dismissed Mrs. Gable with a curt wave, his eyes blazing.

Elara recovered slowly. The physical pain eventually dulled, but the internal scars remained. During her forced convalescence, with Diana gone and Alistair mostly leaving her alone, brooding, Elara had time to think. And to plan.

The memory of Micah, the injured man she had helped, the one who said, "I owe you," became her lifeline.

She had very little of value. A few pieces of her mother's jewelry she had managed to hide. A small amount of cash saved from the meager allowance Alistair sometimes provided, an allowance that felt more like a mockery than a wage.

Carefully, secretly, she began to convert these meager possessions. She found a way, through a junior staff member she cautiously befriended with small kindnesses, to sell a gold locket online, the money sent to a hidden account she'd managed to open under a slightly altered name. She stitched some cash into the lining of her oldest coat. Every act was a small step towards freedom. She studied maps of the California coast, of Nevada, Arizona. Places far from Sacramento, far from the Sterlings. Her escape wouldn't be easy, but the thought of it fueled her.

Alistair was under increasing pressure from his family and political backers. Whispers about his volatile private life, his lack of a suitable partner, were starting to circulate. A powerful, older senator, a kingmaker in the party, visited the Sterling estate for a private dinner. The unspoken agenda: Alistair needed to project stability, to find a wife, to secure his dynasty.

During the dinner, the old senator made a pointed remark about "family values" and the importance of a "supportive spouse" for a man in Alistair's position.

Alistair's eyes narrowed. He looked at Elara, who was serving drinks, trying to be invisible.

Suddenly, Alistair stood. He picked up a heavy, ornate letter opener from a side table. Before anyone could react, he drew the sharp edge across his own palm, a thin line of red appearing. Gasps filled the room.

He then grabbed Elara's hand, pulled her to his side, and pressed his bleeding palm against hers, smearing his blood onto her skin.

"Elara is all the support I need," Alistair declared, his voice ringing with a wild, possessive energy. His eyes dared anyone to challenge him. "She understands loyalty. She understands sacrifice."

The old senator looked shocked, then deeply uncomfortable. Alistair's mother looked furious. Elara stood frozen, Alistair's blood warm and sticky on her hand, his grip like iron. It was a mad, theatrical gesture, a public branding. He was claiming her, binding her to him in the most dramatic, unsettling way possible, deflecting the pressure about marriage by presenting Elara as his utterly subservient, blood-bound companion.

The incident with the bloodied hand left Elara shaken but more determined. She had to get out before he completely lost his mind, before he bound her to him in ways she could never escape.

She became careless in her desperation. One afternoon, while Alistair was unexpectedly away in D.C., she was looking at a small, crudely drawn map she'd made, marking possible escape routes towards the coast, when she heard his office door open.

Alistair. He was back early.

She tried to hide the map, but it was too late. He strode across the room, snatched it from her hand.

His face, as he looked at the map, then at her, contorted into a mask of cold fury.

"Trying to leave me, Elara?" he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. He crumpled the map in his fist. "After everything I've done for you? After I've marked you as mine?"

He grabbed her arm, his fingers bruising her skin.

"There is no escape from me," he hissed, his eyes blazing with a possessive fire. "You belong here. With me. If I have to lock you in a tower, I will. You will never leave."

His threat was absolute. He dragged her from his office, not to her small room, but to a more opulent guest suite in a secluded wing of the mansion. The windows had new, discreetly reinforced locks. A guard was posted outside her door.

Her cage had just become more gilded, and infinitely more secure. Her hope, so carefully nurtured, withered.

Elara sat on the edge of the silk-covered bed in her new prison. The room was beautiful, luxurious. And terrifying. Alistair's outburst, his discovery of her map, had only tightened her chains. The brief respite she'd used for planning was over.

She thought of Micah. "I owe you." It was a faint whisper of hope in the overwhelming darkness of her despair. How could she even contact him now, under this new level of surveillance?

Alistair's words echoed in her mind: "You will never leave."

A cold dread settled in her heart. But beneath the dread, a tiny ember of defiance still glowed. He could lock her up, guard her, but he couldn't crush her will. Not completely. She would find a way. She had to.