Chapter 2 The Golden Cage

Marcus's office occupied the entire top floor of the Blackwood Tower. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city that stretched to the horizon. The desk was made from a single piece of mahogany that had cost more than most people's cars. Everything in the room screamed power and success.

It felt like a cage.

"Sir?" His assistant, Jennifer, stood in the doorway holding a tablet. "The Henderson contract is ready for your signature."

Marcus examined the document with practiced precision. Each clause had been negotiated over weeks, every detail scrutinized by his legal team. He read through it again, marking two small changes in the margin before signing.

"What time is it?"

"Two-thirty."

He'd been in the office since five that morning. The same routine he'd followed for eight years. Gym at four-thirty. Shower and breakfast at home. Office by five-fifteen. First meeting at six. The schedule never varied.

"The car's here for your three o'clock," Jennifer said. "The meeting with the overseas investors."

Marcus nodded and reached for his jacket. The same jacket Elena had repaired three days ago. His fingers found the spot where the tear had been, tracing the invisible stitches.

Three days. He'd thought about that woman every day since the storm. The memory of her hands working at the sewing machine. The way she'd looked at him without fear or calculation.

It was becoming a problem.

"Cancel the meeting," he said.

Jennifer's tablet nearly slipped from her hands. "Sir?"

"The three o'clock. Cancel it."

"But the investors flew in specifically-"

"Reschedule." Marcus was already walking toward the door. "I have something else to handle."

Jennifer's voice followed him down the hall. "What should I tell them?"

"Tell them I'll see them tomorrow."

Marcus took the elevator to the parking garage. His new car waited in its reserved spot, black and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The insurance company had delivered it the day after the storm, identical to the one that had died in the rain.

He drove through the city center, past the financial district where men in suits hurried along sidewalks, their faces set in the same expression he wore most days. Cold. Focused. Untouchable.

The buildings grew smaller as he moved away from downtown. The streets narrowed. The people walking here moved differently, without the sharp edges that came from constant competition.

He was going back to her.

The thought should have worried him more than it did. Marcus Blackwood didn't chase women. He didn't think about them during contract negotiations or cancel important meetings to see them. Women came to him, drawn by his money and power like moths to a flame.

But Elena hadn't even asked his last name.

The industrial district looked different in the afternoon sun. The buildings were still old and weathered, but they seemed solid rather than run-down. People moved with purpose along the sidewalks, heading home from work or stopping at small shops that Marcus had never noticed before.

He parked across from Rossi Tailoring and sat in his car for five minutes, watching the shop through the windshield. The same hand-painted sign hung in the window. The same warm light spilled onto the street.

What was he doing here?

Marcus had built his empire on logic and calculated risks. Every decision was made with careful analysis of potential outcomes. This felt like madness.

He got out of the car anyway.

The bell jingled as he pushed open the door. Elena looked up from her sewing machine, and for a moment, surprise flickered across her face before she composed herself.

"Marcus," she said, her voice polite but cautious.

"I was in the area."

Elena nodded and returned to her work. "How's the jacket?"

"Fine. Your repair was adequate."

She glanced up at him, something unreadable in her expression. "I'm glad it worked out."

The conversation died. Marcus stood in the middle of the small shop, feeling foolish. Elena continued sewing, her attention focused on the deep red silk in her hands.

"What are you making?" he asked, needing to fill the silence.

"A dress for a customer. Her granddaughter is getting married next month."

"It's..." Marcus searched for something neutral to say. "It looks complicated."

"Most things worth doing are."

Another silence fell. Elena's hands moved with practiced efficiency, guiding the needle through the fabric. She didn't look at him, didn't invite conversation. Marcus realized she was treating him like any other customer who'd wandered in off the street.

"I have a business dinner next week," he said. "I need some alterations."

"What kind of alterations?"

"The usual. Sleeve length, maybe adjust the fit."

Elena set down her work and looked at him properly for the first time since he'd entered. Her examination was thorough and professional, taking in the cut of his suit, the way it hung on his frame.

"Your suit fits well," she said finally.

"It could fit better."

"Could it?" She tilted her head slightly. "What specifically needs adjustment?"

Marcus felt heat rise in his neck. He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "The sleeves are a bit long."

Elena's eyes moved to his sleeves, which were perfectly tailored. "They look fine to me."

"Well, they're not."

"I see." Elena's tone was carefully neutral. "Would you like some coffee while I take your measurements?"

"Yes."

She moved to the small table and began preparing the coffee with the same methodical approach she brought to everything else. Marcus watched her hands, steady and precise. Everything she did seemed deliberate, purposeful.

"How long have you been in business?" he asked.

"Five years."

"That's young to start your own shop."

"I suppose." Elena poured the coffee into two mismatched cups. "My mother got sick. I needed steady income for the medical bills."

"I'm sorry."

"She passed away two years ago." Elena's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "But the shop keeps me busy."

She handed him a cup, careful not to let their fingers touch. Marcus noted the deliberate distance and felt something cold settle in his chest.

"What about you?" Elena asked. "What do you do?"

"I'm in steel."

"Like construction?"

"Manufacturing, mostly. Industrial applications."

It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Marcus owned three steel mills, two shipping companies, and a dozen smaller businesses. His net worth was measured in billions, not millions. But looking at Elena's polite, professional expression, he found himself reluctant to share those details.

"That sounds stable," she said.

"It is."

Elena nodded and retrieved a measuring tape from her supplies. "I'll need to take some measurements."

Marcus removed his jacket and stood still while she worked. Elena's touch was impersonal, professional. She measured his shoulders, his chest, the length of his arms. Her hands moved quickly, efficiently, without lingering.

"Your suit really does fit well," she said, stepping back. "I'm not sure what adjustments you think you need."

"The sleeves."

"The sleeves are perfect."

They stared at each other across the small space. Elena's expression was polite but distant. Marcus felt like he was losing something he'd never quite had.

"Maybe the waist could be taken in," he said.

"The waist is already tailored to your frame."

"Then why-" Marcus stopped himself.

"Why what?"

"Nothing."

Elena folded her measuring tape with precise movements. "I could make minor adjustments if you insist, but I think you'd be wasting your money."

"It's my money to waste."

"Yes, it is." Elena's voice was cooler now. "But it's my reputation if I do unnecessary work."

Marcus felt his own temperature drop to match hers. "I see."

"Do you still want the alterations?"

"No."

"Then I think we're done here."

Marcus put his jacket back on, his movements sharp and controlled. "What do I owe you for the coffee?"

"Nothing."

"I insist."

"And I insist you don't owe me anything."

They faced each other across the small shop, two people who had somehow become adversaries without meaning to. Marcus felt the familiar cold settling over him, the protective barrier he'd built around himself snapping back into place.

"Thank you for your time," he said.

"You're welcome."

Marcus walked to the door and paused with his hand on the handle. "For what it's worth, your work is exceptional."

"Thank you."

He stepped into the afternoon sun, feeling like he'd just lost a battle he hadn't known he was fighting. Behind him, the shop door closed with a gentle jingle. He walked to his car and sat behind the wheel, staring at the building that had somehow become important to him.

Through the window, he could see Elena returning to her work, her head bent over the red silk dress. She looked peaceful, undisturbed by his visit.

His phone buzzed. A text from Jennifer: "Rescheduled meeting for tomorrow. Hope the business matter was resolved."

Marcus typed back: "It was."

But as he drove away from the industrial district, back toward his tower of glass and steel, Marcus knew that nothing was resolved. If anything, the problem had gotten worse.

Because he was thinking about a woman who treated him like a stranger.

And he couldn't figure out why that bothered him so much.