Gilded Cage: The CEO's Unwilling Bride

Midnight. Thunder rattled the windowpanes, masking the hum of the surveillance cameras. She waited for the lightning. Flash. One, two, three. Darkness. She slipped out of her room. She was barefoot, wearing the silk pajamas the staff had provided. They were navy blue, blending into the shadows. She moved down the corridor, counting the steps. The patrol passed the intersection at 12:05. She had a three-minute window. She reached the study door. She swiped Ivy's stolen card. The light turned green. She pushed inside. The room was massive, smelling of old paper and expensive scotch. She went straight for the desk, reaching for the hardline phone. Suddenly, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then dead. Total darkness. The storm had knocked out the main grid. She froze. The backup generators would take ten seconds to kick in. She heard a sound. A glass clinking against wood. The soft sigh of an exhale. She turned to run, but she slammed into something solid. A wall of heat. A hand clamped around her waist, burning through the silk. She was yanked backward, dragged into the center of the room. She opened her mouth to scream, but a large, hot hand covered it. "Looking for something?" a voice growled. Adrien. He sounded sober. In control. "Adrien," she muffled against his hand. "Let me go." "In my private study," he muttered, his forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. He smelled of whiskey and rage. "After I explicitly forbade it. You're not just unstable, you're defiant." He spun her around and pinned her against the heavy oak desk. His lips crashed onto hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. He tasted of whiskey and desperation. She struggled, her nails digging into his back, scratching skin. "Stop!" she cried out as his hand moved from her mouth to tear at the buttons of her top. "Quiet," he growled. "If you're going to act like a thief, I'll treat you like one." Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for a split second. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, not with confusion, but with a cold, possessive fury. He saw Clarice Howe. He saw his property, misbehaving. The pain of his betrayal was driving her mad, and he was using her fear to ground himself. They fell onto the thick Persian rug. She fought him, but he was too strong, and the heat radiating from him was confusing her own senses. Fear mixed with a dark, twisted arousal. He bit her neck, hard. She gasped, arching her back. It was chaotic. Fast. A blur of thunder and friction. When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, his breathing slowing as the adrenaline left him. The emergency lights buzzed to life, casting a dim orange glow. She pushed him off, scrambling backward. She was shaking. Her clothes were torn. Her neck throbbed. She looked at him. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. Panic seized her. If Victoria found her... She grabbed her shirt, clutching it to her chest, and ran. She didn't notice the small pearl button that had popped off her collar. It rolled under the edge of the desk, a silent witness in the shadows. She made it back to her room and locked the door. She ran to the bathroom, turning on the water to drown out her sobbing. She looked in the mirror. A purple bruise was already forming on the side of her neck. A bite mark. She touched it, wincing. She had to hide this. She had to hide everything.