The ride from the hospital was a blur of tinted glass and silent tension.
Julian didn't say a single word as his private security team escorted them out through a basement exit. He just kept his hand firmly wrapped around her wrist, guiding her into the back of a sleek, black SUV. Every time she tried to pull away, his grip tightened just enough to remind her that she couldn't escape.
Now, the elevator doors chimed and slid open, revealing a sprawling, two-story penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off a glittering city skyline, but the interior felt cold. It was all polished concrete, dark wood, and minimalist furniture. It didn't look like a home. It looked like an expensive gallery.
"Welcome back, ma'am," a trembling voice said.
She blinked, looking toward the entryway. An older woman in a neat, gray uniform stood there, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Beside her stood a younger houseman, his eyes locked firmly on the floor.
Both of them were pale. The woman's knuckles were white, and she looked at her as if she were a walking ghost.
"Don't just stand there, Mrs. Gable. Julian said, his deep voice echoing off the high ceilings. He steered her into the living room. "Take her coat."
The older woman jumped, quickly stepping forward. "Of course, Mr. Vance. Right away."
She held out her arms, letting the housekeeper slide the oversized trench coat off her shoulders. "Thank you," She muttered softly.
Mrs. Gable froze. Her eyes went wide, and she looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time. A flicker of profound confusion and raw terror passed through the older woman's face. She looked at Mr. Vance, then back at her, before quickly backing away with a stiff bow.
"Is something wrong with my face?" She asked, turning to the man beside her. "Why is she looking at me like I'm about to bite her?"
"You've been through a traumatic accident," he replied smoothly, though his jaw remained rigid. "Everyone is on edge. Come. You need to rest."
He placed a hand on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through her thin blouse, sending a familiar jolt of electricity straight down her spine. His touch was heavy, possessive, and entirely unyielding. He guided her up a floating glass staircase, leading her toward a massive master suite at the end of the hall.
The room was dominated by a king-sized bed covered in charcoal-gray sheets.
"Sit," he commanded gently, pressing her down onto the mattress.
Before she could object, he knelt on the floor in front of her. His large hands unlaced her sneakers, removing them with surprising tenderness. He treated her like she was made of fine crystal, yet the dark intensity in his eyes told a completely different story.
"I can take off my own shoes," she said, her voice tight as she tried to pull her foot back.
"I've got it," he said, his voice flat. He gripped her ankle, his thumb rubbing against her skin. "The doctors said you need to avoid any physical exertion. I'm taking care of you."
"You're suffocating me," she shot back, her natural defense mechanism kicking in. She didn't know who she used to be, but she knew she wasn't the type to sit quietly and be handled. "You brought me to this fortress, your staff looks like they want to faint when I speak, and you won't leave me alone for a single second. If you're my husband, why do I feel like your prisoner?"
He paused, holding her bare foot in his hand. He slowly stood up, towering over her. The tenderness vanished, replaced by that massive, impenetrable wall she had sensed in the hospital.
"You're my wife," he said, his voice dropping to a cool, detached whisper. "Protecting you is my job. Whether you like it or not."
"Then talk to me," she demanded, standing up to meet him. She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes, but she refused to back down. "Tell me my name. Tell me how we met. Tell me why your housekeeper looks at me like I'm a monster."
A dark shadow crossed his face. He stepped closer, crowding her space until she could smell the sandalwood and rain on his skin.
"Your name is Elena," he said, his voice thick with a strange, bitter emotion. "And we met because you wanted something from me. You always want something from me."
"What does that mean?"
Instead of answering, he reached out, his long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled her forward just an inch, his gaze dropping to her lips. The sexual tension in the room spiked instantly, thick and agonizing. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but before his lips could touch hers, he stopped. He let go of her, stepping back as if he had just burned himself.
"Get some sleep, Elena," he said coldly. "I have calls to take."
He turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the heavy bedroom door behind him.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She was shivering, trapped between the fierce physical pull she felt toward him and the terrifying sense that he was hiding something monstrous.
She couldn't just sit there. She needed answers.
She walked over to the massive walk-in closet on the left side of the room. Pulling the handles, the double doors swung open to reveal rows of designer clothes, expensive handbags, and rows of pristine shoes. Everything was meticulously organized by color.
She stepped inside, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She brushed her hands against the fabrics, hoping for a spark of memory, a sense of familiarity. Nothing.
Then, her foot hit something hard at the very back of the closet, hidden beneath a row of long winter coats.
She knelt down and parted the heavy wool garments.
Tucked away in the darkest corner was a sleek, black designer suitcase. It wasn't empty. When she pulled it out and unzipped the top, her breath caught in her throat. Inside were stacks of folded casual clothes, a thick bundle of cash in various currencies, and a small, leather organizer.
With trembling hands, she opened the organizer.
A dark blue passport slipped out, landing flat on the carpet. She picked it up, flipping to the photo page.
Her own face stared back at her. The dark hair, the sharp jawline, the wide eyes, it was definitely her. But when her eyes drifted to the text below the photo, her entire world tilted on its axis.
The name printed next to her face wasn't Elena.
She stared at the passport, then at the fully packed bag, then at the cash. She hadn't just been living in this penthouse.
She was preparing to run away from him.
A chill swept through her blood, freezing the air in her lungs. She stared down at the strange name on the page, her thumb tracing the crisp paper. Why was she fleeing her own husband?
Shoving the passport back into the leather organizer, she hastily buried the suitcase beneath the heavy coats just as a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against the bedroom door.
"Ma'am?" Mrs. Gable's trembling voice called out from the hallway. "Mr. Vance is waiting for you in the dining room. Dinner is served."
Elena swallowed the lump of panic in her throat, smoothing down her skirt as she stepped out of the closet. If she was a prisoner in a golden cage, she wasn't going to starve in it. It was time to look her "husband" in the eye.
