CHAPTER SIX: PHOTOSHOT 2

His breath lingered on my skin long after he stepped away.

The words echoed, wrapping around my ribs like a vice.

You're already mine, Elena. All that's left is the wedding.

I didn't say anything. Couldn't. My throat felt like sandpaper. The courtyard was too quiet, too open, and the weight of him still pressed against me even with a few feet of space between us.

Damien Blackwood didn't need chains or cages.

His power was subtler.

And way slicker, which was worse.

"You can't keep using my brother like this," I said eventually, my voice shaking, but at least it was mine.

He didn't even blink. "Then stop giving me reasons to."

"You're such a fucking bastard."

He smiled. "Yet here you are. Still talking to me."

"Only because I have no choice."

"There's always a choice, Elena" he said, and that dangerous calm returned to his voice. "You just don't like the cost of the other one."

I swallowed hard, fury and helplessness tangling in my chest like barbed wire.

"I hate you, so freaking much" I whispered.

His head tilted slightly. "No, you don't."

I did. God help me, I did. I hated the way he got under my skin, the way he twisted my reality with one look, the way he kissed me the other day like I mattered and then weaponized my brother to control me.

But most of all?

I hated that a small, broken part of me had wanted that kiss to be real, everything to be real.

"Let's go," he said, turning without waiting.

I didn't move.

"Elena." His voice was low. Dangerous. "I told you I don't like being kept waiting."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

"I'm not your property, Damien" I said through gritted teeth. "You don't own me, and I don't appreciate you talking to me like I'm some puppet".

He turned back, slowly. Walked up to me until he was inches from my face again.

"No," he said, his voice soft and sharp. "But I do own this engagement. The wedding. The headlines. The whole narrative."

His eyes burned into mine. "You can hate me all you want. Scream. Fight. Burn every bridge in your life. But when that camera flashes? You smile. You hold my hand. And you wear my fucking ring."

I looked down at the sparkling band he'd slipped on my finger days ago. It felt heavier than it had any right to.

I didn't say anything else.

Because I knew I'd lost this battle way before it even started, that didn't mean I was giving up though or making shit easier for him. He wants me married to him right? He should be prepared for the storm coming his way then, he won't even see it until it hits him.

The ride to the next location was silent.

He didn't speak. Neither did I. And I liked it that way, he was less infuriating when his lips weren't moving.

The car smelled like leather and quiet money, the tinted windows shutting out the world as we glided through the city like ghosts in a coffin.

I stared out the window, arms crossed over my chest. Trying to breathe through the storm inside me. Trying not to think about how close I was sitting to the devil himself.

"Your dress for the gala next week is being tailored," Damien said suddenly, voice emotionless.

"What gala?"

"The Founders' Charity Auction. You'll be on my arm. First official appearance as my fiancée since the press release."

I rolled my eyes. "Yay."

"I mean it, Elena. Show up. Dressed and looking presentable. No surprises. I'll have a few dresses sent to you, so you pick one that suits your taste more.

"I can buy my own clothing Damien, I don't need or want anything from you".

"Yeah you don't but I need you looking your absolute best, and I have to make sure of that"

"I'll try not to embarrass you, darling."

He didn't look at me, but I saw the twitch in his jaw, which made me happy that I could get under his skin even though he pretended I don't.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he said quietly.

"I learned from the best."

The tension in the air sharpened. Thickened.

Then he chuckled low, dark, and far too amused. "Careful, sweetheart. I like my women with bite."

"I'm not your woman."

"We'll see."

With that he picked up his phone, made a quick call in a language I couldn't follow, and by the time we arrived at the studio, there was a rack of designer clothes, a full glam team, and someone saying my name with a French accent.

It was a photoshoot straight out of a dream or nightmare.

They painted me in deep reds, pinned up my hair like I was some goddess from a tragic opera. And Damien of course looked like he walked out of a perfume ad. Black suit and a loosened tie.

He didn't stop looking at me. Not once.

When the photographer told him to hold my waist, he did it too naturally. When he was told to kiss my cheek, he did it too slowly. And when he looked me in the eyes and whispered, "Pretend you like me," I almost forgot I didn't.

I hated how easy it was to act like I belonged there.

Because a small, dark part of me wanted to belong.

When the shoot was over, and I was peeling off fake lashes and glitter, Damien stepped into the dressing room without knocking.

I jumped. "Jesus, can you atleast knock?"

"I paid for the building, I do what I want." I rolled my eyes at that.

He leaned against the door, casually undoing his tie. "You were good today."

"Gee, thanks."

He walked over slowly, stopping behind me. I saw him through the mirror. Tall. Controlled. Lethal.

"You clean up well."

"I'm not doing this for your approval."

"No. You're doing it because you signed a contract."

I turned to face him. "I know what I signed. I haven't forgotten."

"Good," he said. Then, as if he were talking about the weather, "The wedding's in two weeks. Start preparing."

My breath caught. Not out of shock, but because it was suddenly real. Tangible. Right there in front of me.

"Two weeks?" I repeated.

He gave a sharp nod. "I don't like to drag things out. The media's eating this up. Our momentum's hot. We strike while it's loud."

"And if I say I'm not ready?"

He smiled, all teeth. "Then you fake it."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "You really don't care how I feel about any of this, do you?"

"I care that you're presentable, obedient, and in place when needed. You're the image now. And if I lose control of that image, I lose control of the narrative. I don't like losing control."

His words cut sharper than any blade.

"And what if I walk away?" I asked quietly.

He stepped closer until the air buzzed between us.

"Then your brother's transfer goes sideways. And you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if he'd have made it out."

God, he was such a bastard.

He didn't say it loudly. He didn't even raise his voice. But the threat wrapped around my neck like a leash.

"You'd really risk his life over a photo?"

"No," he said smoothly. "Over my name."

I clenched my fists. "You're a monster."

He tilted his head. "And yet you keep showing up."

"I didn't show up. You dragged me here."

"You could've refused. You didn't."

Because he had my brother. Because every time I saw his face, I remembered what was at stake.

He walked to the door, then paused.

"Get some rest," he said. "We're doing interviews tomorrow. Wear something expensive."

Then he was gone.