Chapter 4: The Glass Prison

The elevator ride to the top floor of Blackwood Tower took exactly forty-seven seconds. I counted.

Adrian stood beside me, a monolith in a perfectly tailored suit, his gaze fixed on the gleaming metal doors. He hadn't spoken a word since we left the courthouse, his silence a physical weight in the enclosed space. I clutched the single duffel bag containing everything I owned—a few worn jeans, my favorite sweater, and a tattered copy of *Jane Eyre*. My entire life condensed into twelve pounds of fabric and paper.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a marble foyer that could have swallowed my childhood home whole. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, the lights of Manhattan glittering like scattered diamonds below. It was breathtaking. It was also utterly, terrifyingly transparent.

"Your room is the third door on the left," Adrian said, striding past me with the casual confidence of a man who owned the world. "Mrs. Hargrove will show you around. I have a call."

And then he was gone, disappearing down a hallway and into a room I assumed was his study. I stood alone in the cavernous space, feeling like an intruder in a museum. The air smelled of leather and expensive cologne, and every surface was so polished I could see my own uncertain reflection staring back at me.

"Miss Whitmore."

I spun around to find a woman standing in the doorway of what must have been the kitchen. She was in her sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun and a face that looked like it had never learned to smile. Her gray uniform was starched to within an inch of its life.

"Mrs. Blackwood, I mean," she corrected herself, though her tone suggested the mistake was entirely my fault. "I am Mrs. Hargrove, Mr. Blackwood's housekeeper. I run this household with efficiency and discretion. I expect you to respect both."

"Of course," I managed, clutching my duffel bag like a lifeline. "It's nice to meet you."

Her eyes swept over me, taking in my bargain-bin sneakers and thrift-store jacket. Something flickered in her gaze—disapproval, perhaps, or pity. I couldn't tell which was worse.

"Your room is this way. I've taken the liberty of stocking the closet with appropriate attire. Mr. Blackwood has standards."

I followed her down the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The room she led me to was larger than my entire apartment, dominated by a king-sized bed draped in white silk. An en-suite bathroom with a claw-foot tub gleamed through an open doorway. The closet was bigger than my bedroom back home, filled with designer dresses and shoes in my exact size.

It felt like a cage wrapped in luxury.

"This is... a lot," I said weakly.

Mrs. Hargrove nodded, as if she'd expected nothing less from someone like me. "Dinner is served at eight sharp. Mr. Blackwood prefers quiet during meals." She paused at the door. "He also prefers his coffee black, two sugars, no cream. I trust you'll remember that."

She left me standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a stranger's generosity and my own suffocating sense of displacement. I sank onto the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the cool silk of the duvet.

*Welcome to the family, Mrs. Blackwood.*

The text message burned in my memory. Whoever had sent it knew about the marriage before it even happened. They knew my new name. They knew where I was going to be. The thought made my skin crawl.

I spent the next hour exploring my new prison. The penthouse was a masterpiece of modern architecture—sleek lines, minimalist furniture, and glass everywhere. I found the kitchen, a gleaming expanse of stainless steel that looked like it had never been used. I found a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that made my heart ache. I found a balcony overlooking the city, where the wind bit at my cheeks and reminded me that I was very, very far from the only home I'd ever known.

At eight o'clock, I made my way to the dining room. Adrian was already there, seated at the head of a table that could have seated twelve. He was reading something on his phone, a glass of wine untouched at his elbow. He didn't look up when I entered.

I took the seat farthest from him, hoping to disappear into the space between us. Mrs. Hargrove appeared with covered dishes, setting them before us with practiced efficiency. When she lifted the lids, I found a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, and a sauce that smelled divine. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

We ate in silence. The only sounds were the clink of silverware and the faint hum of the city below. I kept my eyes on my plate, hyperaware of his presence at the other end of the table. He moved with the same precision he did everything else—cutting his steak into perfect bites, chewing with deliberate calm.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Adrian?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

He looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine. There was something guarded in them, a wall I couldn't see through.

"Why did you marry me?"

The question hung in the air between us. He set down his fork, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might actually answer. Then he reached for his coffee cup—black, two sugars—and took a slow sip.

"Because you needed saving," he said finally. "And I needed a wife."

It wasn't an answer. It was a deflection, smooth and practiced. I opened my mouth to push further, but the sharp buzz of his phone interrupted me. He glanced at the screen, and something flickered across his face—concern, maybe, or anger.

"I have to go," he said, rising from his chair. "Mrs. Hargrove will clean up."

He was gone before I could respond, leaving me alone with my cold steak and the uncomfortable realization that I had just married a man who saw me as a transaction.

I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. When I reached for his abandoned coffee cup, I noticed a small envelope tucked beneath the saucer. My name was scrawled across the front in elegant script.

*Lily.*

My heart hammered as I pulled out the card inside. The message was short, but it made my blood run cold.

*Enjoy your honeymoon, Mrs. Blackwood. I'll be watching.*