Chapter 5: Public Wife, Private Prison
Samora’s POV
Life in the penthouse isn’t freedom—it’s surveillance dressed up as luxury.
At first, I think maybe I can test the boundaries, see how far the leash stretches. Spoiler: not very far.
The first attempt happens three days after moving in. I wake up to silence, pull on leggings and a hoodie, and lace up my sneakers. I tell myself I’ll just go for a walk around the block. Fresh air. Space. Something normal.
But when I step into the lobby, the driver is already waiting by the sleek black car. He opens the door like it’s a command.
“I don’t need a car,” I say quickly. “I’m just walking.”
“Mr. Rourke instructed me not to let you walk alone.” His voice is polite, neutral, but unyielding.
My stomach sinks. “It’s just a walk.”
“Then I’ll accompany you.” He gestures toward the sidewalk like a bodyguard escorting a celebrity—or a prisoner.
Heat crawls up my neck. Pedestrians glance at us as I walk down the street, the driver trailing a respectful but obvious few steps behind. I last ten minutes before giving up, turning back toward the building with humiliation burning in my throat.
When I return, Adrian is waiting in the foyer, hands in his pockets, as if he somehow knew.
“Going somewhere?” His tone is mild, but his eyes pin me in place.
“I wanted to walk. Breathe.”
“And you did,” he says smoothly. “With supervision. I don’t compromise on security.”
I glare at him. “Security or control?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Both.”
The second time I buy a cheap mug online—just a plain ceramic mug with sunflowers on it, the kind Mom would love. Something that feels like me.
Two days later, a box arrives. But before I can even open it, Adrian appears in the kitchen, tearing through paperwork with a glass of scotch in his hand. His gaze flicks to the package.
“What’s that?”
“A mug,” I say, a little too defensively. “I bought it online.”
His brow arches. “Why?”
“Because I wanted it.”
He takes a slow sip of scotch, then sets the glass down with deliberate precision. “You have a house full of crystal. Imported china. And you buy… this?”
“It’s just a mug,” I snap. “Do I need permission to drink coffee now?”
“You need to remember everything you do reflects on this household,” he says evenly. “Even your purchases.”
“It’s a mug, Adrian, not a press release.”
His gaze sharpens. “Careless details make careless people. Don’t be careless.”
I clutch the package to my chest and storm off to my room, hating that my hands are shaking. Later, when I drink tea from the sunflower mug, it tastes more like defiance than comfort.
----
The next day, I walk into my room to see a black bag sitting on my bed.
I stare at it, suspicious, then tug the zipper down. Silk pours out—champagne-colored, delicate beading that glitters faintly in the lamplight. The fabric is heavy, expensive, the kind of gown I used to see only in magazines. It feels wrong in my hands, like it belongs to someone else.
“Try it on.”
I flinch. Adrian leans in the doorway, jacket already perfectly tailored, tie knotted with surgical precision. His arms fold across his chest, his gaze cool, commanding.
“Why?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
“We have a gala tonight.” His eyes flick over my pajamas—cotton shorts, an old t-shirt—and a smile tugs his mouth. “And you’re not going like that.”
My pulse skips. “A gala? You expect me to parade around like your… ornament?”
“I expect you to stand beside me,” he says smoothly. “You’re Mrs. Rourke now. People will look. Smile when they do.”
My jaw tightens. “And if I don’t?”
He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room. Close enough that his presence presses against my skin, close enough that I can smell the clean bite of his cologne. His hand lifts the dress, brushing my knuckles.
“Then I’ll teach you how,” he murmurs. “Piece by piece.”
Heat runs through me—betrayal by my own body—and I yank the gown from his grip. “Fine.”
His smile deepens, slow and satisfied. “Good girl.”
The gala shimmers with chandeliers and jazz, a world of diamonds and practiced laughter. I feel like a mannequin, posed on display. My arm is tucked in Adrian’s, his grip unyielding, guiding me step by step as if every movement is choreographed.
“Smile,” he murmurs at my ear, teeth grazing the word. “Convincing, remember?”
I force my lips upward, my cheeks already aching.
Cameras flash. Heads turn. Around us, people murmur—admiration for him, speculation about me.
Adrian bends slightly, his lips almost grazing my temple. “Relax your shoulders. Tilt your chin. Yes… like that. You’re learning.”
My heart slams against my ribs. His hand rests at my waist, firm, steady, and I hate that it anchors me. I hate the shiver that races down my spine when his breath brushes my ear.
---
We drift from one conversation to the next. Adrian is magnetic, his charm polished, effortless. He knows exactly when to laugh, when to listen, when to touch the small of my back like a silent cue.
I smile when he tells a story about a recent business deal, though I barely hear the details. I nod when a woman compliments my dress, though it doesn’t feel like mine. Every reaction is prompted by him—his squeeze at my waist, his subtle nudge, his whispered correction.
“Too stiff,” he murmurs against my hair when I offer a clipped reply. “Loosen your voice.”
Later, when I shift awkwardly under the scrutiny of a board member’s wife, he leans down. “Smile wider. Softer. Imagine you’re enjoying yourself.”
I grit my teeth, but my lips obey.
Applause rises from the crowd when someone gives a toast. I clap on cue, my palms stinging. Adrian leans close again, his whisper intimate, a performance for my ears alone.
“See how easy this is when you stop fighting?”
I turn my head slightly, enough that he sees the anger in my eyes. “Easy for you. You’ve had years of practice.”
“Practice makes perfect,” he says smoothly, lifting his glass.
The bastard is enjoying this.
Hours crawl by. Wine, small talk, more corrections. By the time the gala winds down, my smile feels glued in place, my body humming with nerves. Adrian guides me toward the exit, cameras flashing again as we leave.
In the car, silence presses in. His hand rests on mine, casual, deliberate. I stare out the window, pulse racing, the memory of his touch at my waist replaying in a loop I can’t stop.
I yank my hand back. “You don’t have to keep pretending. The show’s over.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You think this is pretending?”
“What else would it be? You don’t touch me like that unless there’s an audience.”
His smirk deepens. “Maybe the audience isn’t who you think it is.”
---
Back at the penthouse, I can’t get the dress off fast enough. The zipper sticks and I curse under my breath, tugging until the silk collapses around me. I step out of it and kick it across the room, the delicate beading scattering light across the walls.
Adrian watches from the doorway, loosening his tie. “Careful. That dress cost more than most people make in a month.”
I whirl on him. “And what do I cost, Adrian? What am I worth to you?”
He doesn’t blink. He drapes the tie over a chair, his voice calm, unflinching. “You agreed to this. Don’t confuse your cage for a boutique. There’s no price tag. You’re not for sale. You’re mine.”
The words knock the air from my lungs.
“Yours?” My voice cracks with fury. “I’m not a possession.”
“You’re not acting like a wife, either.” His gaze sweeps me, lingering on the gown crumpled on the floor. “Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to present you properly? How much I had to correct tonight?”
My fists curl. “You don’t get to train me like some animal.”
“Don’t I?” He steps closer, eyes gleaming. “Play your part, Samora, and you survive. Isn’t that why you signed?”
“I signed to save my mother, not to be humiliated.”
“You signed to save her with my money,” he counters, low and sharp. “Don’t twist the terms.”
Anger blazes through me, hot and desperate. “You’re a manipulator. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Something flickers in his eyes—dark, dangerous—but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He smiles instead, cool and unshaken. “And you’re learning faster than I expected. That fire will serve you well. Just not out there.”
He brushes past me on his way to the door, his hand grazing mine. The contact sears, my breath catching, my skin traitorous in its response.
“Good night, Mrs. Rourke,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone.
---
Later, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, wrapped in one of his silk robes. My reflection stares back: hair styled, makeup smudged but still flawless, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
I barely recognize her—the polished stranger in the glass, the one who smiled on command, who let his touch guide her like a marionette.
I press my fingers to the cool surface. “Who are you?” I whisper.
The silence answers.