I woke with my cheek pressed to cold silk sheets, my body still humming from the memory of Arthur's hands. The phone rang—a shrill, insistent sound—and for a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing the world to leave me alone.
It didn't.
The nurse's voice was crisp, professional. "The payment's been processed, Ms. Stark. Your mother's surgery is scheduled for Thursday."
I sat up too fast, the sheets pooling at my waist. "Who—?"
"Anonymous," she said, and the word settled like a stone in my gut.
Michael. It had to be Michael. No one else would—no. Arthur wouldn't. Not after last night, not after the way he'd looked at me, like I was something to be tolerated, not saved.
I dressed in a hurry, my fingers fumbling with buttons, my reflection in the mirror a stranger—dark circles, bitten lips, a body that didn't feel like mine anymore. The elevator ride down was silent. The city outside was louder, all honking cars and chattering strangers, the world moving on while mine had cracked open.
Michael's café smelled like espresso and burnt sugar. I used to love that smell. Now it curdled in my stomach. He was behind the counter, Claire perched on a stool beside him, her laugh too bright, too sharp. They hadn't seen me yet.
I should've turned around. Should've walked away. But my feet carried me forward, my voice too loud in my own ears. "You paid for her."
Their heads snapped up. Claire's smile froze. Michael's grip tightened around the coffee cup.
"Lily," he said, too calm. "You shouldn't be here."
The words slithered between my ribs. "Was it you?"
He didn't answer. Just exchanged a glance with Claire, something dark passing between them. My pulse thudded in my throat.
Claire slid off the stool, her heels clicking against the tile. "You really think he'd waste half a million on that dying woman?" Her voice was syrup-sweet, poison underneath. "Face it, Lily. No one wants you. Not even him."
Michael's jaw twitched. "Enough."
But Claire wasn't done. She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, choking. "You're pathetic. Running back here like he'd ever—"
A hand closed around my wrist.
I didn't have to look to know who it was. The air changed when Arthur was near, thickening, charged like the moment before a storm. His grip was iron, his voice colder. "You're late."
Claire recoiled. Michael paled.
Arthur didn't glance at them. Just tugged me backward, his body a wall at my back. "We're leaving."
Michael found his voice. "She came to me ."
Arthur finally looked at him. Just a glance. That was all it took. Michael's bravado crumbled.
"Touch her again," Arthur said, so quiet it was almost gentle, "and I'll peel the skin from your bones."
No one moved. No one breathed.
Then he turned, steering me toward the door, his hand sliding to the small of my back. Possessive. Final.
The café blurred. The street outside was too bright, too loud. Arthur's car idled at the curb, black and sleek as a panther. He opened the door, nudged me inside.
I didn't speak. Neither did he.
The drive was silent. The city melted into trees, into iron gates, into a mansion that loomed like a tomb. Arthur killed the engine. For a long moment, we just sat there, the only sound our breathing, uneven, out of sync.
Then he turned to me. "Out."
The house was bigger than anything I'd ever seen. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, windows that stretched from floor to sky. It should've been beautiful. It felt like a cage.
Arthur didn't look at me as he led me through the halls, his footsteps echoing. "Your things have been moved. The staff will handle your needs."
I swallowed. "Why here?"
He stopped. Turned. His eyes were black, endless. "Because I own you."
The words should've made me flinch. Instead, something hot and shameful curled in my stomach.
He stepped closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "You are my wife. You will act like it."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. But the weight of the last twenty-four hours crashed over me, and all I could do was nod.
Arthur's thumb brushed my chin, just once. "Good."
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading, leaving me alone in a house that wasn't a home, with a man who wasn't a husband, and a baby that wasn't his.
The front door clicked shut.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
I sank to the floor, pressed my forehead to the cold marble, and finally let myself cry.