Chapter 8 - The Golden PrisonThe master suite was larger than my entire apartment in Queens—a sprawling expanse of dark mahogany wood, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River, a king-sized bed dressed in heavy silk linens, and a private adjoining study.
A medical professional—a quiet, efficient trauma nurse named Clara—was already waiting inside to change my bandages.
When Clara gently peeled back the gauze covering my right shoulder, the stark, ugly purple bruises and the jagged red line of stitches made my stomach turn.
“You healed remarkably well given the trauma,” Clara murmured professionally, applying a fresh antibacterial dressing. “The bullet missed your subclavian artery by less than a centimeter. Whoever operated on you at St. Catherine’s was a master surgeon.”
I glanced across the room where Dominic stood by the window, his back turned to us as he reviewed documents on his tablet. Of course he used a master surgeon, I thought bitterly. When you own the city, you get the best mechanics money can buy.
Once Clara finished and packed her medical bag, she gave me a sympathetic nod and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving me alone with my jailer.
Dominic didn't turn around immediately. He locked his tablet screen and finally faced me, his slate-gray eyes scanning my face.
“Dinner will be served in the formal dining room in an hour,” Dominic said. “Mother expects you to join us.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said coldly, turning my back on him and walking toward the window to look out at the dark, sprawling gardens.
“You need protein to regenerate muscle tissue and blood cells, Elena,” Dominic reasoned, his footsteps falling silently on the Persian rug as he closed the distance between us. “Starving yourself out of spite won't hurt me. It will only weaken you.”
I spun around, my patience finally snapping. “Stop acting like you care about my health, Dominic! You didn't marry me because you care about my white blood cell count! You trapped me in this gilded cage because you needed a human shield who couldn't legally testify against you!”
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stepped closer until I could feel the clean, sharp scent of his cologne and the oppressive heat of his presence.
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“Believe whatever you need to survive, Elena,” he said softly, his hand rising to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my skin, sending an electric, unwanted shiver down my spine. “But never forget this: while Victor Costa is breathing, the ring on your finger is the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave.”
Before I could slap his hand away, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, locking the heavy oak door from the outside with a soft, definitive click.
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