Lillian Monroe had grown up surrounded by wealth, but nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared her for Killian Blackwood's world.
Her father, Reginald Monroe, had once been a powerful businessman. Their estate had been grand, their life draped in luxury. But his greed had swallowed everything whole, leaving them drowning in debt. Now, standing inside Killian's fortress of a mansion, she realized that what she had known as wealth was nothing compared to this.
Everything here screamed power.
The vast entrance hall was lined with towering white marble columns, and gold chandeliers dripped from ceilings so high they could swallow a cathedral. The air smelled of polished wood, expensive cologne, and quiet ruthlessness.
The staff stood rigid like soldiers in formation, their uniforms crisp, their faces void of emotion. There was no warmth, no kindness. Only submission.
This was not a home.
It was a kingdom.
And Killian was its ruthless king.
Lillian felt her stomach tighten as he walked further into the mansion, his presence commanding every shadow in the room.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, he exuded power without effort. His broad shoulders cut a striking silhouette, and his sharp jawline, kissed by the faintest hint of stubble, could have been carved from stone. His icy blue eyes, cold and unreadable, carried a quiet danger that sent a shiver through her.
He was beyond handsome—the kind of man women desired but feared.
And yet, no matter how many women threw themselves at his feet, he never allowed them to choose him.
He chose them.
And unfortunately, he had chosen her.
---
Back at the Monroe Estate…
Tension simmered like boiling water.
Vivienne Monroe clutched the silk curtains, her hands trembling as she stared at the empty driveway. Her daughter was gone.
"You promised me, Reginald," she hissed, her voice thick with barely restrained fury. "You swore you'd fix this without—without selling Lillian like—like some possession!"
Reginald didn't look up from his whiskey glass. "I did what I had to do," he muttered. "She'll be fine."
Vivienne's eyes burned with unshed tears. "Fine?" she echoed in disbelief. "You handed our daughter over to Killian Blackwood. A man no one dares to cross. Do you even understand what you've done?"
A bitter laugh broke from the corner of the room.
"Of course he does, Mother."
Julie Monroe stepped forward, her lips curved into a smirk, but her dark eyes gleamed with something sharper—envy.
Julie, the eldest daughter, had long lived in the arms of powerful men. Governors. Senators. Billionaires. She was no stranger to being bought and paid for.
Because she was a whore.
At twenty-six, four years older than Lillian, she had spent the better part of a decade opening her legs for the rich and powerful. Unlike Lillian, who had been coddled, protected, and treated like a delicate treasure, Julie had learned to survive by seducing men who could give her everything.
And yet, despite all the men she had fucked—men who showered her in diamonds, whispered empty promises, and paid her just to taste her—she had never been chosen by Killian.
But Lillian—her naïve, innocent little sister—was now owned by the most powerful man alive.
Julie's lips curled cruelly.
"Father made a smart choice," she drawled, inspecting her manicured nails. "If Lillian had even a fraction of my experience, she'd know how to handle a man like Killian."
Vivienne whirled around. "Don't you dare talk about your sister that way!"
Julie rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, Mother. Don't act like she was some delicate princess. You and Father always treated her like some untouchable jewel while I had to fight for everything. And now?" Her lips twisted. "Now she's just another man's property."
Vivienne's slap cracked through the air.
Julie's head snapped to the side, but when she looked back, she was grinning.
"Did I hit a nerve?" she whispered.
Reginald sighed and downed the rest of his whiskey. "Enough," he said tiredly. "Lillian is in Killian's hands now. There's nothing more to say."
Vivienne's heart shattered.
Because she knew—her daughter's fate was no longer their own.
"I will never forgive you for what you've done to our daughter," Vivienne said, tears finally spilling as she turned away. And without waiting for his answer, she walked out.
---
Back at Killian's Mansion…
Lillian sat stiffly on the edge of the massive bed, her hands clenched in her lap.
The room was bigger than her father's living room, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The bed was draped in dark silk sheets, and the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the walls.
But none of it felt comforting.
Because he was there.
Killian stood near the fireplace, his expression unreadable as he regarded her.
"You will follow my rules," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel.
Lillian swallowed hard, but she lifted her chin. "Rules?"
His cold gaze locked onto hers.
"Rule one," he began, taking a slow step forward. "You do not question me."
Another step.
"Rule two. You do not leave this house without my permission."
Another.
"Rule three." He was close now. Too close. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "You belong to me. Do not forget that."
Lillian's heart pounded. "I am not a possession."
Killian tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering over her—just for a second.
He had expected her to cower.
But instead, she challenged him.
A faint flicker passed behind his eyes. Annoyance? Or something else?
Something stirred in his chest. An unfamiliar sensation—quickly buried.
He ignored it.
"You will sleep in the room next to mine," he said instead. "You will eat what I provide. You will wear what I decide. And you will never—never—test my patience."
Lillian gritted her teeth, her nails digging into her palms.
I hate him.
He turned away as if she were nothing. "Clara will show you around. Do not make me regret my investment."
Her stomach twisted.
Investment.
That's all she was to him.
As he reached the door, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. His fingers curled around the handle, knuckles whitening. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
But he said nothing.
And without looking back, he walked away.
---
Later That Night…
Clara had shown her around in calm silence earlier. She was composed, observant, and professional—not cold, but not warm either. Her presence hadn't made Lillian feel at home, but there had been something reassuring in her quiet, watchful nature. Clara didn't speak much, only gave small nods and soft instructions. Yet, Lillian could tell—behind the stillness was someone who noticed everything.
Now, Lillian lay curled up in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind drowning in turmoil.
The sheets were softer than anything she had ever slept on. The room was warm, luxurious, and perfect.
But she had never felt so cold.
Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she curled into herself.
She had always been strong. Always fought back.
But here?
Here, she was helpless.
Her thoughts drifted to her mother's touch, the way Vivienne used to hum while brushing her hair. Her father's laughter from better days. A garden swing, a favorite book, a day she'd felt safe.
All gone.
She buried her face in her hands, her chest shaking with quiet sobs.
She was alone.
Alone in a cage built of gold.
And she had no idea if she would ever escape.
---
Down the hall, in a dark study, a single monitor glowed.
Killian watched the bedroom feed in silence, her small frame curled against the vastness of the bed. He set his untouched glass on the desk, jaw tight.
He pressed the intercom button, his voice soft and absolute.
"Lock the east wing. No calls in. No calls out."