Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage
The room they gave her wasn't a room; it was an architectural masterpiece designed to intimidate.
Situated on the western wing of the penthouse, the guest suite featured an Italian marble bathroom larger than Briar’s entire apartment in Crown Heights, a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian silk, and a private balcony overlooking the Hudson River. On the vanity sat designer toiletries she couldn't pronounce and three sets of soft cashmere loungewear, neatly folded with the tags still attached.
Briar didn't touch the clothes. She sat on the edge of the mattress, still in her bleach-stained jeans, staring at the polished rosewood door.
There was no lock on the inside. Only a digital keycard reader on the exterior.
Trapped.
The word clawed at her chest, constricting her lungs. Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands, leaving red crescent moons. For two years, she had fought tooth and nail for her autonomy. She had eaten expired bread, cleaned up animal vomit, walked through freezing rain—all so no man could ever dictate where she slept or when she woke.
A soft scratching sound at the base of the door broke her spiral.
Briar stood up, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was Baron. He was unsteady on his legs, his ribs still terribly pronounced, but he was upright. Behind him, leaning against the hallway wall with a tablet in hand, was Damien Ashworth. He had stripped off his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos weaving across his skin—ancient Latin script, thorny vines, and the brutal silhouette of an iron crown.
"He refused to sleep in the conservatory," Damien said, not looking up from his screen. "He whined at your door until I had the guards let him out."
Baron pushed his large snout past Briar’s hip, stepping uninvited into her room and collapsing onto the sheepskin rug beside her bed with a contented grunt.
Briar crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, her gaze blazing with fury. "Is this how you operate, Mr. Ashworth? Kidnap people off the street when you can't buy their cooperation?"
Damien finally lowered the tablet, his piercing gray eyes scanning her face. "You were living in a rat-infested walk-up, working eighty hours a week for a vet who skims twenty percent off your cash tips. I ran your background check forty minutes ago."
Briar’s heart seized. She clamped her teeth together, willing her expression to remain stone-cold. "What did you find?"
"Nothing," Damien said, stepping toward her. He stopped just outside her threshold, radiating an overwhelming, magnetic menace. "And that is precisely what makes you fascinating. Briar Lennox has a social security number that activated only eighteen months ago in Albany. No high school transcripts. No credit history before last year. No family. No digital footprint."
He leaned an arm against the doorframe above her head, trapping her in his space without ever touching her. "You are a ghost, Briar. Someone erased you very cleanly. Or, more likely, you erased yourself."
Briar felt the blood drain from her face, but she didn't look down. "Everyone has a right to start over."
"Not when they step inside my home," Damien whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that made her pulse race against her will. "In my world, secrets are liabilities. Liabilities get eliminated. But because Baron breathes tonight, I will grant you a single courtesy: I will not dig into your past. For now."
"How generous," she spat back, her chin high. "A tyrant with manners."
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed Damien’s stern features—a rare, fleeting glimpse of something human beneath the iron facade. "Keep that sharp tongue, little bird. You'll need it. Tomorrow morning, we have company."
"Company?"
"A charity gala for the Ashworth Foundation," Damien said coldly, turning on his heel to walk away. "The entire New York elite will be downstairs in the ballroom. Including the people who tried to poison my dog to force me out of the logistics merger."
May you like
Briar gasped, taking a step into the hallway. "Poison? You said he was grieving!"
Damien paused at the end of the corridor, his profile sharp against the dim lights. "He was grieving. Which made it easy for them to slip arsenic into his water without raising suspicion. They thought his death would break my focus." He turned his head, his cold eyes gleaming with lethal promise. "They don't know he's eating again. And tomorrow night, you and Baron are going to show them exactly why nobody takes what is mine."
