Chapter 4: The Rules of the Cage
SAMORA’S POV
The car glides through the city like a black shadow, silent except for the hum of the engine. My stomach twists tighter the closer we get to his world. I don’t ask where we’re going—I already know.
The driver pulls into an underground garage, sleek and sterile, not a single speck of dirt out of place. Cameras watch from every corner. When the elevator doors slide open, the driver gestures for me to step inside first. Adrian follows, and suddenly it’s just the two of us in a glass elevator that rises so fast my ears pop.
“Penthouse,” the driver’s voice echoes before the doors close.
Penthouse. Of course.
When the doors slide open again, I forget how to breathe.
The space stretches out before me, too big, too clean, too cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the living room, giving a panoramic view of the city glittering beneath us. The furniture is sharp, modern, all angles and glass. White marble floors gleam under recessed lights. It’s like walking into a photograph in a magazine—impressive, beautiful, but lifeless.
It’s not a home. It’s a showcase.
“Welcome, Mr. Rourke.” A man in a tailored suit steps forward, probably the house manager. He bows his head slightly, then flicks a glance in my direction. “Mrs. Rourke.”
The words sound wrong. Like they’re meant for someone else. His eyes sweep over me, quick and assessing, as if calculating how long I’ll last here.
A maid appears next, her uniform perfectly pressed, her smile polite but tight. “Your quarters have been prepared.” Her gaze lingers on me a beat too long, just short of a sneer.
I feel heat crawl up my neck. They already know I don’t belong here.
Adrian doesn’t acknowledge their reactions. He moves through the penthouse like he owns not just the place but the air inside it. Maybe he does. I trail behind him, my cheap Target dress feeling more like a Halloween costume with every step.
He leads me down a hallway, past closed doors and expensive art, until we stop at a pair of double doors. He pushes one open.
“This is your room.”
I step inside. The space is larger than the entire apartment Mom and I shared. A king-sized bed dressed in white linens. A vanity table with a mirror rimmed in soft lights. A walk-in closet that looks like it’s waiting to swallow me whole. Everything gleams with silent luxury.
“This is…” I can’t finish the sentence. It's too much.
Adrian doesn’t wait for me to adjust. “Unpack later. We have business to discuss.”
Of course. Business. Always business.
He leads me into a darker room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a massive desk that looks carved from obsidian. His office. The nerve center of his kingdom. He gestures for me to sit.
I don’t. I remain standing, fold my arms across my chest.
He raises a brow. “Suit yourself.” He settles behind the desk, steepling his fingers. His expression is as smooth as the marble floors, as if he’s about to give a quarterly report.
“Since we are now legally bound, it’s time to clarify expectations.”
“Expectations,” I echo, my voice sharper than I intend.
“Yes.” His gray eyes lock on mine. “This is a transactional marriage. We both know that. There are rules to ensure it runs smoothly.”
“Rules.”
He inclines his head, utterly unfazed by my sarcasm. “First. You live here, in the penthouse. You’ll have private quarters. You may decorate them as you wish.”
“How generous,” I mutter.
He ignores it. “Second. You will not work, socialize without my knowledge, or leave this building without permission.”
My arms drop to my sides. “So, I'm a prisoner.”
“Not a prisoner.” His voice is calm, even. “An asset. Assets are protected, managed, and kept from unnecessary risk.”
The word burns in my ears. Asset. Like I’m a stock he just acquired.
“Third. You will accompany me to public events. In public, you are a devoted wife. Perfectly composed, perfectly loyal. Do you understand?”
I want to laugh. Or scream. Instead, I bite out, “Loyalty usually comes with love. Or at least respect.”
“You’ll perform the role I require.” His tone never shifts, never rises. That’s what makes it worse.
He doesn’t need to shout. He’s already in control.
He flips a folder open on his desk. “Fourth. Conception attempts will be scheduled. Twice a week until successful. We don’t leave things to chance.”
My stomach lurches. He says it like we’re discussing fertilization methods for a cattle.
“Fifth. You will be provided with a credit card for household and personal expenses. Every purchase will be reviewed.”
I can’t hold it in anymore. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you? A cage with marble floors and a platinum credit card.”
He leans back, studying me like I’m some complicated equation. “You agreed to this. You signed.”
“I signed because you left me no choice!” My voice cracks. My hands curl into fists. “Don’t pretend this is some equal bargain. You’re not my husband—you’re my jailer.”
Something flickers in his eyes, quick and unreadable. Then it’s gone. “A jailer ensures discipline. I ensure results. Don’t confuse the two.”
I want to throw something at him. Instead, I spin on my heel and storm out of the office before I say something I can’t take back. My footsteps echo through the penthouse halls until I find myself back in that giant bedroom.
The bed looks too big. I sink onto it, bury my face in my hands, and try to breathe.
This isn’t a home. It’s a cell with a better view.
“This isn’t home,” I whisper to myself. My voice trembles in the silence. “It’s a cell.”
I don’t know how long I sit there. Minutes, maybe hours. The city spreads out beneath the glass like a glowing sea, mocking me with its freedom. People down there are living their lives—working, laughing, falling in love—while I’m up here in a gilded cage I walked into with my eyes wide open.
I tell myself I did it for Mom. That’s the only reason I can breathe through the panic threatening to crush me. But even that thought doesn’t soothe me tonight. It just makes me ache worse.
A soft knock at the door startles me.
I scrub at my face quickly. “What?”
The door opens anyway. Of course it does. Adrian doesn’t wait for permission.
He steps inside like he owns the air, his presence filling the room before he even speaks. He’s taken off his jacket, rolled his shirtsleeves up, but he still looks like he could crush me with a word.
“You left before I was finished,” he says calmly.
“I heard enough.” My voice is flat, brittle.
He crosses the room, unhurried, stopping only a few feet away. Too close.
“You heard the rules. You didn’t hear the reasons.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Reasons? What possible reason justifies treating me like some… some asset you own?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Because this isn’t a game, Samora. I don’t play house. I don’t do sentiment. This arrangement is about control. Order. Results. Without rules, chaos takes over. And chaos destroys.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make you understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” I snap. “You bought me. You get your heir. You get to parade me around like a trophy wife. Meanwhile, I get locked in a tower with a credit card and a schedule for when you want to touch me. Congratulations, Adrian—you’ve created the perfect prison.”
His jaw tightens. For the first time tonight, his composure cracks. Just slightly, but I see it.
“You think this is punishment?” he asks quietly.
“What else would you call it?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something sharp and expensive, like cedar and steel. “I call it protection. You’ve lived in survival mode your whole life. I’m giving you stability. Security. Your mother’s treatment. All you have to do is follow the rules.”
“All I have to do,” I repeat, my voice trembling with rage. “Do you hear yourself? You don’t even see me as a person. I’m just… a function to you. A womb with a contract attached.”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something darker. He leans down, his face inches from mine.
“You made the choice to sign,” he says, low and dangerous. “If you regret it don't blame me.”
My breath catches. Not because I’m scared, though I should be, but because of how close he is. My pulse betrays me, thundering in my ears, heat blooming where his gaze pins me. I hate it. I hate that my body reacts to him even as my mind screams to run.
I shove past him, breaking the spell. “Get out.”
“Careful,” he says, straightening. His voice is calm again, too calm. “Defiance has consequences.”
I whirl on him. “What are you going to do, Adrian? Ground me? Dock my allowance? You already own me. What else is there to take?”
For a heartbeat, silence stretches between us, sharp and suffocating. Then he turns and walks to the door.
He pauses, hand on the frame. “You’re not a prisoner, Samora. But don’t mistake this cage for freedom either. You chose it. Remember that.”
The door shuts behind him with a soft click