His punishment wasn't violence. It was a demonstration of absolute power, and it was far more effective.
Elara stood frozen in the study's dim light, the severed call still echoing in her ears. Damien's bare feet made no sound as he crossed the room, the silver key to her collar glinting between his fingers like a scalpel. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The silence was his weapon, and he wielded it with surgical precision.
He lifted the landline receiver from her numb hand, set it back in its cradle with a soft click, and pressed a single button. The speakerphone crackled to life.
"Mr. Vance?" came the immediate, deferential voice of his CFO.
"Freeze the second tranche of the Larsen Industries investment," Damien said, his tone conversational, as if ordering coffee. "Indefinitely. Effective now."
Elara's breath caught, a sharp, audible gasp. Her mother's joyous words—the house is safe, the company—flashed through her mind, now ashes. Damien's eyes never left hers, dark and unblinking, as the CFO murmured confirmation and the line went dead.
He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. "Your father's phone has been monitored since the day you signed the contract," he said softly. "I knew the moment you lifted that receiver. I was in the hallway before your mother said hello."
The confession landed like a slap. He'd allowed her to reach the phone. He'd let her taste hope, only to crush it. Her knees buckled, but she locked them, refusing to fall. The choker bit into her throat, diamonds suddenly sharp as teeth.
Damien stepped closer, the key cold against her skin as he unlocked the collar with a faint snick. For one dizzying second, she thought he might remove it. Instead, he adjusted the band, pulling it a fraction tighter—enough to feel, not enough to bruise—then snapped the lock shut again. The click was final, a gavel's, her sentence.
"Your defiance has a price, Elara," he murmured, his fingers lingering at the hollow of her throat. "Your father will be served with default notices tomorrow morning. Every tear he sheds will be on your hands."
Her vision blurred, hot tears spilling over. She hated them—hated that he saw. Hated that he knew.
He stepped back, the mask of calm never slipping. "Now, come. We have a gala to attend. You will smile, and you will remember your place."
He turned, expecting obedience. The study door stood open, the hallway beyond lit like a runway to her next performance. Elara's hands clenched at her sides, nails carving crescents into her palms. The tighter collar pressed with every swallow, a living reminder: one wrong move, and her family paid.
She followed him into the light, the key to her freedom swinging from his pocket like a taunt.