Celeste'

I don't sleep.

How could I? Every time I close my eyes, I see Ares standing in my doorway, shirtless and terrifying, telling me he's going to make me beg for him. Every time I try to convince myself this is survivable, I remember the way his body felt pressed against mine—solid and hot and completely unyielding.

The room is too quiet. That's the problem. Back at the Brown estate, there was always noise—Elara's music bleeding through the walls, my father's late-night phone calls, the sound of staff moving through the corridors. Here, in this pristine penthouse ninety-something floors above the city, there's nothing but the faint hum of climate control and my own racing thoughts.

I give up trying to sleep around 4 AM and sit up in the massive bed, my duffel bag still beside me like a security blanket. The sheets are ridiculously soft—some obscene thread count that probably cost more than I've earned in my entire life of invisible servitude. Everything in this room is expensive and perfect and completely foreign.

My phone—my old, cracked phone that I've had for six years—buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, hope flaring stupidly in my chest that maybe someone from my old life is checking on me.

It's Elara.

You think you won? You think stealing my life makes you special? He's going to destroy you, little maid. And I'm going to enjoy watching.

I should delete it. Should block her number and pretend she doesn't exist anymore. But my hands are shaking too badly to manage either, so I just set the phone face-down and try to breathe through the panic clawing at my throat.

A soft knock on my door makes me jump.

"Miss Brown?" A female voice, unfamiliar. "Mr. Hawthorne has requested you be ready to leave in thirty minutes."

I check the bedside clock. 4:47 AM. Of course. Because apparently Ares Hawthorne operates on some kind of inhuman schedule that doesn't require sleep or basic human decency.

"Leave for where?" I call through the door.

"I wasn't informed of the destination, miss. Only that you should dress comfortably for travel."

Travel. Great. Less than twelve hours after being auctioned off, I'm apparently being relocated somewhere else. Maybe he's taking me to some secondary location where he can murder me without witnesses.

The thought should be ridiculous, but after last night, I'm not sure anything is off the table.

I drag myself out of bed and dig through my duffel bag. My options are limited: three oversized cardigans in various states of wear, four pairs of baggy jeans, a handful of tank tops and t-shirts, my canvas shoes, and one pair of worn sneakers. I pull on the jeans that are least faded, a soft gray tank top, and my cream cardigan—the one with the small hole in the elbow that I've been meaning to fix for months.

No makeup. I don't own any, wouldn't know how to apply it properly if I did. My hair goes up in its usual messy bun, loose strands already escaping to frame my face.

I look exactly like what I am: a girl pretending to be something she's not.

When I emerge from my room twenty-eight minutes later, Ares is waiting in the main living area. He's wearing different clothes than last night—dark jeans that probably cost more than a mortgage payment, a black henley that clings to his ridiculous physique, and a leather jacket that makes him look like some kind of apocalyptic warlord.

His eyes rake over me, cataloging every detail of my appearance with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.

"That's what you're wearing?" Not a question. An accusation.

"You said comfortable." I hitch my duffel higher on my shoulder. "This is comfortable."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he turns and heads toward the elevator. "Marcus is waiting. Don't make me repeat myself about keeping up."

I follow him into the elevator, and the descent feels endless. Neither of us speaks. The silence is thick enough to choke on, heavy with everything that happened last night and everything that hasn't been said.

The Maybach is idling at the curb when we exit the building, Marcus standing at attention beside the rear door. He nods respectfully as Ares approaches, then his eyes flick to me with what might be curiosity or pity—I can't tell which.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne," he says, and the name hits me like a physical blow.

Mrs. Hawthorne. That's who I am now. Not Celeste Brown. Not even just Celeste. Mrs. Hawthorne, property of the ice-eyed monster currently sliding into the back seat like he owns the world.

I guess he does.

I climb in after him, and Marcus closes the door with that same solid thunk that feels like a coffin being sealed. The interior smells like leather and expensive cologne and something darker underneath—the scent of power and control and money that doesn't need to announce itself.

Ares is already on his phone, typing something with quick, efficient movements. He hasn't looked at me since we got in the car.

I press myself against the opposite door, as far from him as the confined space allows. The leather is cool against my back through my cardigan, and I focus on that sensation, trying to ground myself in something real and physical.

"Where are we going?" My voice sounds small in the soundproofed interior.

"Connecticut." He doesn't look up from his phone. "I have a property there that needs my attention. You're coming with me."

"Why can't I just stay at the penthouse?"

Now he looks at me, and the expression in his ice-blue eyes makes my stomach drop. "Because I don't trust you not to do something stupid the second I'm gone. Like try to run. Or contact someone from your old life. Or any number of other ill-advised choices that would require me to discipline you."

"Discipline me?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "I'm not a child."

"No," he agrees, his gaze dropping to my mouth in a way that makes my breath catch. "You're not. But you are mine now, and that means I decide where you go, what you do, and who you interact with. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this will be for both of us."

The casual way he says it—like he's discussing the weather instead of my complete loss of autonomy—makes something snap inside me.

"Fuck you."

The words hang in the air between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Ares sets his phone down slowly, deliberately, and turns to face me fully. The shift in his posture is subtle but terrifying—like watching a predator decide whether you're worth the effort of killing.

"What did you just say to me?"

My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, but I've already committed. Might as well go down swinging.

"I said fuck you. You can't just—you can't kidnap me and drag me to Connecticut and act like I don't get any say in my own life. Contract or no contract, I'm still a person."

"Are you?" His voice is soft, dangerous. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're a girl who signed her rights away for the promise of freedom from Daddy's house. You made a choice, Celeste. Don't pretend you're a victim now."

"I made a choice between two cages!" I'm shouting now, past caring about the consequences. "That's not the same as choosing to be your—your property!"

"No," he agrees, and then he's moving, closing the distance between us in the time it takes me to draw breath. "It's better. Because at least I'm honest about what you are to me."

He's too close. Way too close. I can see the individual flecks of darker blue in his irises, can count the faint scars that mark his face—evidence of whatever violence shaped him into this.

"Get away from me." I press harder against the door, but there's nowhere to go.

"Or what?" He's not touching me, but he might as well be. His body is a wall of heat and muscle caging me against the cool leather. "You'll scream? Marcus can't hear you through the soundproofing. You'll hit me? We both know how that ends."

He's right, and I hate him for it. Hate him for being right, for being in control, for making me feel small and powerless and—

And afraid.

Not just afraid of him. Afraid of how my body is responding despite my terror. The way my pulse kicks up when he gets close. The way heat pools low in my belly even as my brain is screaming at me to run.

"I want out." My voice cracks. "I want out of this car, out of this arrangement, out of—"

"No."

The single word is final. Absolute.

I lunge for the door handle, some desperate part of me thinking maybe I can just throw myself out onto the street and take my chances with traffic. But the handle doesn't budge—child locks, or some kind of electronic system—and then Ares's hand is on my wrist, pulling me away from the door with effortless strength.

"Don't," he warns, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. "Don't make me restrain you, Celeste. You won't like how that ends."

"Let go of me!" I'm thrashing now, trying to yank my wrist free, trying to put distance between us even though there's nowhere to go in the enclosed space.

He doesn't let go. Instead, he uses my momentum against me, pulling me forward and then pushing me back against the leather seat. Before I can process what's happening, he's over me—his knees pinning my wrists to the seat on either side of my head, his massive frame caging me completely beneath him.

I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare up at him as he looms over me like some kind of avenging angel carved from ice and violence.

"Let me go," I gasp, but it comes out weak and breathless.

"No." His face is inches from mine now, his breath warm against my skin. "Not until you calm down and remember who you're talking to."

I try to buck him off, arching my back and twisting my hips, but it's useless. He's too heavy, too strong, and all I accomplish is grinding myself against him in a way that makes his eyes darken with something that definitely isn't anger.

Oh God.

I can feel him. The thick, hard length of his erection pressing against my stomach through his jeans, impossible to ignore or pretend isn't there. And worse—so much worse—is the way my body responds. The way my nipples tighten beneath my tank top and cardigan. The way heat floods between my legs, making my panties damp despite my terror and rage.

"Stop fighting." His voice is rough, strained. "Every time you move, you're making this worse for both of us."

"Making what worse?" But I know. God help me, I know exactly what I'm doing to him. What we're doing to each other.

He shifts his hips, and the rigid length of him grinds against me more deliberately. Not an accident. Not incidental. Purposeful.

"This," he growls, rolling his hips again so the thick hardness of him nudges against my lower belly. "Feel that, little wife? That's what happens when you fight me. My cock gets harder every time you squirm."

The words should disgust me. Should make me redouble my efforts to escape. Instead, they send a bolt of heat straight through me that makes my toes curl in my canvas shoes.

"You're sick," I manage, but my voice is too breathy to be convincing.

"Maybe." He leans down until his lips brush the shell of my ear, and I feel the touch everywhere. "But you're the one getting wet while I pin you down, so what does that make you?"

"I'm not—" The lie dies on my tongue because we both know it's not true. I can feel the dampness between my legs, the way my body is betraying every principle I thought I had.

"Liar." His mouth trails from my ear down to my jaw, not quite kissing but close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "I could check, you know. Slide my hand down these baggy jeans and feel exactly how wet your little cunt is for me. Would you fight me then? Or would you spread your legs and beg?"

"Stop." It's supposed to be a command. It comes out like a plea.

"Why?" Another roll of his hips, harder this time, and I feel him throb against me through our clothes. "Because you're afraid I'm right? Afraid that underneath all that defiance and anger, you want this just as much as I do?"

He's wrong. He has to be wrong. I don't want this—don't want him. I just got free from one cage; I'm not going to willingly walk into another.

But my body didn't get the memo. My body is arching into his weight, my hips tilting up to meet his grinding pressure, my breath coming in short gasps that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with need.

"I hate you," I whisper, and it's the most honest thing I've said since getting in this car.

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his eyes isn't triumph or satisfaction. It's something darker. Hungrier. "But hate is still a feeling, Celeste. And feeling something is better than feeling nothing at all."

He releases my wrists abruptly and pushes himself back to his side of the car, leaving me sprawled on the leather seat, breathless and confused and achingly aware of the wetness between my legs.

I scramble upright, yanking my cardigan closed even though it never came open, trying to restore some semblance of dignity.

"Don't ever touch me like that again." My voice is shaking.

Ares picks up his phone like nothing happened, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the bulge in his jeans that he's not bothering to hide.

"I'll touch you however I want, whenever I want," he says without looking at me. "That's what the contract you signed means. That's what being Mrs. Hawthorne means."

"The contract doesn't give you the right to—"

"It gives me every right." Now he does look at me, and his eyes are cold again. Empty. "Read the fine print, Wife. You belong to me in every way that matters. Legally. Financially. Physically. The only question is how long you're going to pretend otherwise."

I want to scream. Want to claw at his face, want to throw myself out of this moving car and take my chances with the pavement. But I just sit there, my hands twisted together in my lap, my whole body still trembling with adrenaline and unwanted arousal.

"Tell me about your mother."

The non-sequitur catches me off guard. "What?"

"Your mother." He's still looking at his phone, his tone conversational like we didn't just... like that didn't just happen. "The file said she died when you were fifteen. Suicide. But I don't believe in coincidences, and a wellness check eight years ago suggests there's more to that story."

"I don't want to talk about her." Especially not with him. Especially not now.

"I don't care what you want." He sets the phone down again, giving me his full attention. "I need to know everything about you, Celeste. Every secret, every vulnerability, every piece of ammunition someone could use against me by hurting you. So talk."

"Or what? You'll pin me down again?" The words come out more bitter than challenging.

"If necessary." No hesitation. No shame. "I have locked the world out, not just you in. The sooner you understand that you're safer telling me everything voluntarily, the easier this will be."

The car is slowing now—traffic, probably, or we're getting close to wherever the hell we're going. Through the tinted windows, I can see the city giving way to suburbs, buildings getting shorter and spaces between them growing wider.

"She didn't kill herself," I hear myself say, and immediately regret it.

Ares goes very still. "Explain."

"The official story is that she had a breakdown. Post-partum depression that never went away, mental illness, all the things my father told everyone to explain why his wife jumped off a balcony." My throat is tight, but now that I've started, I can't seem to stop. "But I found her journal. Years later, hidden in her things that my father kept locked away. She wasn't depressed. She was terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of Elara's mother. Of what would happen if she didn't... if she didn't step aside." The words taste like ash. "My father wanted to marry his mistress. Wanted to legitimize Elara. But he couldn't do that with my mother in the way."

The silence that follows is absolute.

When Ares finally speaks, his voice is soft and more dangerous than I've ever heard it. "Are you telling me your father murdered your mother?"

"I'm telling you my mother died under suspicious circumstances, and the police never investigated because Arthur Brown paid them not to." I'm looking out the window now, unable to meet his eyes. "And I've spent eight years being treated like I'm crazy for suggesting it was anything other than suicide."

"Where's the journal?"

"Burned. Elara found it two years ago and destroyed it. Said I was delusional, that I was trying to slander our father's name." I laugh, and it sounds broken even to my own ears. "Your grandfather called me 'The Rightful Heir' last night. I don't know what he meant by that, but if he knows something about my mother—"

"He knows everything." Ares's voice is flat. "Ambrose doesn't make moves without complete information. If he arranged this marriage, if he specifically structured the contract so I could choose you over Elara, it's because he wanted you in the Hawthorne family for a reason."

The implications of that settle over me like ice water.

"So I'm not just your wife. I'm... what? A pawn in whatever chess game your grandfather is playing?"

"We're all pawns in Ambrose's games," Ares says, and there's something almost sympathetic in his tone. "The trick is figuring out what the endgame is before you get sacrificed."

The car pulls to a stop, and I realize we're not in Connecticut. We're in some kind of private airport, a sleek jet waiting on the tarmac with the Hawthorne logo emblazoned on the tail.

"I thought you said Connecticut," I manage.

"I lied." He's already opening his door, stepping out into the early morning air. "We're going to Prague. I have business there that can't wait, and I'm not leaving you in New York unsupervised."

Prague. He's taking me to fucking Prague.

I'm still processing this when he appears at my door, pulling it open and offering his hand like a gentleman instead of the monster who had me pinned beneath him ten minutes ago.

"Come on, Wife. We have a plane to catch."

I ignore his hand and climb out on my own, my canvas shoes hitting the tarmac with a soft thud. The jet looms in front of us, sleek and expensive and completely terrifying.

"I don't have a passport," I say, grasping at the only excuse I can think of.

Ares pulls a small leather folder from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. Inside is a passport—my face, but not my name.

Celeste Hawthorne.

"When—how—"

"I had it expedited last night while you were pretending to sleep." He's already walking toward the jet. "Hawthorne money opens doors, Celeste. The sooner you accept that your old limitations don't apply anymore, the better."

I stare at the passport, at the name that's not mine but legally is, at the future that's been decided without my input or consent.

And then I follow him onto the plane, because what other choice do I have?

The interior is exactly what I'd expect: leather seats that probably cost more than a car, a mahogany bar, screens and technology I don't understand. It's a flying penthouse, and I hate every inch of it.

Ares settles into one of the seats and immediately pulls out his laptop, already working on whatever billion-dollar deal can't wait until we land.

I choose a seat as far from him as possible and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs and making myself as small as possible.

"Comfortable?" he asks without looking up.

"Fuck you."

"Later, perhaps. We have an eight-hour flight." Now he does look at me, and his eyes are dark with promise. "Plenty of time to discuss all those rules you seem so eager to break."

I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my knees, trying to block out his voice, his presence, the memory of how his body felt pressing me into the leather seat.

Trying to block out the traitorous voice in my head that whispers I didn't hate it as much as I should have.

The engines roar to life, and we begin to taxi. Through the window, I watch New York disappear beneath us, taking with it any hope of escape.

By the time we reach cruising altitude, Ares has poured himself a scotch and is reading something on his tablet that makes his jaw tighten with displeasure.

"Your half-sister is making quite the spectacle on social media," he observes. "Seventeen posts in the last three hours about how I'm making the biggest mistake of my life. How you trapped me with lies and manipulation."

Despite everything, I feel a cold stab of satisfaction. "Good. I hope she's miserable."

"She's not wrong about one thing." He sets the tablet down and looks at me with those ice-blue eyes. "You are going to be the biggest mistake of my life."

The words should hurt. Maybe they do. I can't tell anymore.

"Then why did you choose me?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Because mistakes are more interesting than safe choices." He stands, moving toward me with predatory grace. "And because when I saw you on your knees scrubbing that carpet, looking absolutely furious about your entire existence, I wanted to see what would happen if I gave you a different kind of cage to fight against."

He stops in front of my seat, looking down at me with an expression I can't read.

"I don't want a wife, Celeste. I want a beautiful, silent reminder of what happens when people try to play me. But you..." He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture almost tender. "You keep refusing to be silent. And I'm starting to think that's exactly what I need."

His hand drops away, and he returns to his seat, leaving me more confused than ever.

I spend the rest of the flight staring out the window, watching clouds drift past and trying not to think about the fact that I'm trapped thirty thousand feet in the air with a man who wants to own me completely.

Trying not to think about the fact that some small, broken part of me might want to let him.