Chapter 4 The first punishment

"You're not just wearing my name, Calla. You're wearing my will."

The morning after the gala, Calla awoke alone.

Not that she expected otherwise.

Lucian Wolfe hadn't touched her-not once since the wedding, not even when they posed like lovers for the world's ravenous cameras. The kiss on their wedding day had been calculated. A performance. His lips had barely grazed hers, like a contract signed with silence.

She slept in her own wing of the penthouse, a floor above his. Her door guarded like a vault. The security detail didn't even flinch when she passed, trained to protect her, not to assist her.

Still, his presence lingered.

In the chill of the marble floor beneath her bare feet.

In the stiff luxury of the sheets that smelled faintly of cedar and command.

In the note left beside her bed, stark and succinct:

"Breakfast. Ten sharp. Be dressed."

-L.W.

No signature. No warmth. No choice.

She stared at the handwriting.

Bold. Precise. Final.

Just like the man.

Her pulse quickened as she folded the note in half and slipped it into the drawer. Something about the way he wrote, even that conveyed dominance. Every inch of him was control, from the way he never wasted words to the silence that filled the spaces between them.

She washed quickly, dressed in the pale blue silk gown laid out at the foot of her bed-chosen, no doubt, by him. The high neckline offered modesty. The backless design whispered of seduction. Even her clothes, it seemed, were a contradiction.

At 9:59 AM sharp, Calla stepped into the dining room.

Lucian was already seated.

Coffee. Newspapers. A sleek silver pen gliding across a contract like it was a blade. He wore black-immaculate as always. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms. One hand rested casually on the table. The other continued to write, as if her entrance meant nothing.

He didn't look up.

"Late," he said evenly.

She blinked. "The elevator paused on every floor."

"I don't tolerate excuses," he said calmly. "Sit."

Calla obeyed, but not out of submission. It was strategy. Her spine straightened as she lowered herself into the chair, her fire banked-but not extinguished.

Lucian finally looked at her. His gaze swept over the dress approvingly, lingering just a second too long on the exposed line of her back.

"You wore the dress. That's good."

"I'm not a doll," she said, voice low.

"No." He set the pen down, his tone unreadable. "But you wear instructions well."

Breakfast arrived.

Poached eggs. Sliced kiwi and strawberries. Black coffee in delicate porcelain.

Lucian flipped through his morning report while she ate in controlled bites. The only sound was the occasional clink of silverware and the tick of the grandfather clock above the fireplace.

"You danced well last night," he said without looking up.

"Should I be grateful for the compliment?"

"You should be obedient."

That word again.

That cursed, clipped word.

Calla's grip tightened on her fork.

"Obedient?" she repeated, her voice steel-edged. "To a man who married me for power?"

Lucian slowly folded his newspaper and set it aside. His eyes, glacial and unreadable, locked with hers.

"No," he said coolly. "To your husband."

The word fell between them like a loaded weapon.

Calla didn't back down. "You mean the one who hasn't even touched me?"

A shadow flickered across Lucian's face. Brief. Dangerous.

He stood slowly, like a storm rising to its feet.

She watched, every muscle taut.

Lucian stepped around the table, his movements deliberate. He gripped the back of her chair and pulled it out, forcing her to stand.

Her pulse pounded.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't answer.

One hand curled around her chin, tipping her face up, not harshly, but with the kind of restraint that felt more powerful than violence. His touch was possessive, not tender.

"I don't need to touch you to own you," he murmured.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"But since you're so desperate to test me..."

His hand dropped.

"You'll be punished."

He didn't shout.

Lucian Wolfe didn't need to.

His punishment came quietly an iiron fist wrapped in cashmere silence.

Ten minutes later, Calla's world began to shrink.

Her phone vanished. Her credit cards-gone. Every outfit, gown, accessory, and pair of heels stripped from her walk-in closet. Only one item remained, laid across her bed like a sentence:

A simple black dress. Collar high. Hem low. Stark. Modest. Controlling.

Calla stood in the center of her room, heart slamming in her chest.

"Lucian!" she yelled, fury lacing every syllable. "You arrogant, manipulative-"

No answer.

Only the soft click of the bedroom door locking behind her.

She spun toward the bed. A note sat on her pillow.

Lesson One: Disobedience has a price.

Her hands shook as she read it.

Not from fear. From rage. From disbelief.

And yet... deep beneath the indignation, something colder stirred. Not helplessness. Not submission.

Clarity.

Lucian didn't play fair-but neither did she.

The hours stretched like prison bars.

Calla paced, barefoot on polished marble.

She wasn't his prisoner. Not technically. But the reality was harder to swallow.

A locked wing. Cameras in the hallway. Staff too afraid to look her in the eye. No access to the outside world.

A cage with gold trim was still a cage.

She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

Instead, she folded the dress and placed it on a chair.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, breathing slow.

If Lucian Wolfe thought this would break her, he didn't know her at all.

She wasn't bred from silk and roses.

She came from thunder. From shattered glass. From nights spent surviving things people didn't speak of.

Calla pressed her hand to her heart. It was still beating.

Stronger now. Harder.

She wasn't afraid of his rules.

She was going to learn how to weaponize them.

That night, the door finally clicked open.

Lucian stood there.

Suit jacket off. Shirt sleeves rolled again. No apology in his eyes. No regret. Just that same maddening calm.

"I trust you've had time to think," he said.

Calla rose slowly, chin tilted just enough to challenge him.

"About how many different ways I'd like to slap you?" she said sweetly.

His jaw ticked.

"Wrong answer."

He stepped forward.

And this time-he touched her.

Not gently. Not cruelly.

But intimately.

One hand found her waist. The other lifted her chin again, just as before, but this time, his eyes didn't let go.

"You want a reaction?" he asked, voice low. "Fine."

He leaned in. His mouth brushed past her cheek, heat grazing skin. His lips hovered at her ear.

"I can give you pleasure, Calla. Or power. Or pain."

His breath was warm and deliberate.

"But only if you learn to ask the right way."

He stepped back.

Left her trembling.

And shut the door behind him.

Calla stood in the middle of the room, breath shallow, skin burning.

Not from fear.

But from the dangerous realization that she didn't want him to stay away.

She wanted him to come back.