Chapter 17 017
Rhea's POV
It's been a week since the world collapsed. Seven days of being caged within the four walls of Alejandro's mansion.
My life has been reduced to a repetitive, hollow loop: working from my laptop, baking until my shoulders ache, listening to music to drown out the silence, and sleeping to escape the reality of the sun rising.
We hardly speak. When we do, it's transactional, cold, and brief.
Despite the walls of arrogance he's built around himself, he's been coming home with bags: designer clothes, shoes that look like they belong on a runway, and jewelry that glitters with a mocking, artificial light.
He's even restocked the vanity with expensive makeup and luxury perfumes that smell like a life I no longer recognize.
My wardrobe looks like a curated boutique now, filled with things I have no intention of wearing.
Each item feels like a bribe for a silence I haven't agreed to give.
Every night, he drops the bags on the settee without a word, and every morning, I look at them and feel the distance between us grow.
He's dressing a ghost, and I'm just the body left behind to haunt the clothes.
He never offered a window for a thank-you—or a "why."
When I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, he'd already turned his back, vanishing into his study or out the front door.
Was this guilt? Some belated apology for the way he'd let me rot until I was desperate enough to sign his contract? Or was it just a new, more expensive form of control—dressing me in his choices, his colors, his brand?
Maybe he was simply playing the "husband" role to satisfy some twisted internal script, making sure that if anyone looked through the windows of this mansion, they'd see a perfect, pampered wife instead of a prisoner.
It infuriated me, this opacity. It was like trying to read a book with half the pages ripped out; I was left guessing at the plot while he held all the leverage.
That night, catching the low murmur of his voice on that phone call had gutted me. The memory was a fresh blade twisting in a half-healed wound, refusing to let the bleeding stop.
If his heart belonged elsewhere, why the charade? Why the gifts, the contract, the ring?
To escape this madness, this circus of pain and heartbreak, I could easily run away... Pfft, who was I kidding?
This place was a polished cage with cameras tucked into every corner and guards patrolling the grounds like silent, hungry shadows.
And even if I made it past the gates, where would I go?
The world thinks I'm a murderer.
Owen was still out there, a lurking threat with a debt he intended to collect in blood. If I fled Alejandro's cage, I would just be trading one monster for the rest of the pack.
No, I'd bide my time. I'd stay within these walls and watch the calendar bleed out, day by agonizing day. Two hundred and twenty-eight left until I could disappear for good.
Yes, it was a grim transaction: my soul as the down payment, and this silence as the tax. But it was all for the eventual purchase of my freedom and safety.
^^^^
Alejandro had vanished before the sun was fully up, leaving behind nothing but a set of instructions for his driver to take me to the office. It was a silent confirmation of what he'd told me the night before over a tense dinner of Thai takeout.
He'd pronounced the coast clear the night before, his words muttered over a tense dinner of Thai takeout while his attention remained tethered to his phone.
He didn't offer details on how Owen's smear campaign was buried. All I knew was that the online hatred had cooled, and the authorities seemed conveniently satisfied, thanks to whatever strings his lawyers had pulled.
Catherine, the housekeeper, intercepted me as I headed for the door.
"Have a good day at work, Mrs. Alvarez," she said, pressing a travel mug of coffee into my hand.
Her voice was gentle, a rare touch of humanity in a morning defined by sharp edges.
I returned the sentiment with a polite smile.
"Thanks, Catherine. You too." The title, Mrs. Alvarez, sat awkwardly on my skin, like a role I hadn't agreed to audition for.
Outside, a sleek black G-Wagon sat idling at the curb. The driver was a man in a sharp suit, his eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses that gave me nothing but a distorted reflection of my own tired face.
He held the door open with a robotic efficiency, no nod, no greeting.
Fine. If he was going to treat me like a piece of luggage rather than a person, I wasn't going to waste my breath being the polite one.
I slid inside without a thank you, sinking into leather that smelled faintly of a new car and Alejandro's cologne.
As we carved through the morning traffic, the city felt hostile. I watched people on the sidewalks and felt a spike of paranoia.
As we carved through the morning traffic, the city felt hostile.
I saw a woman at a crosswalk, her thumbs flying across her screen with energy. Instantly, I felt a cold spike of paranoia.
Was she reposting a thread about me?
Further down the block, a man sat on a park bench, his face illuminated by the glow of a tablet.
I found myself staring, my heart hammering against my ribs. Had he just finished reading a hit piece on my "crimes" against Brenda?
Then I caught sight of a group of girls huddled together on a corner, looking exactly like the type of people who'd have "Justice for Brenda" in their social media bios. They were probably her biggest fans.
I couldn't help but stare, wondering if they were the ones who'd spent the last week dragging my name through the dirt.
Did they look at my photo and wish I was dead? Probably. In their heads, I was the villain of the story, and they were just waiting for a finale that ended with me behind bars....or worse.
Alejandro's PR machine might have doused the flames, but I could still smell the smoke everywhere.
The world has already found me guilty. Now, every stranger felt like a juror, and every screen felt like a weapon aimed directly at my life.
I let out a shaky breath and looked down at my phone. The screen flickered to life, a cruel little gift from my phone's algorithm: 'Memories from this day.'
I tapped it without thinking. There we were: a photo from our parents' anniversary years ago. Brenda and I had our arms linked, wearing matching dresses for a surprise backyard party.
We had thrown it together—though, looking at the picture, you'd never know I was even there. She stood front and center, glowing under the light, while I was caught in a slight blur off to the side.
It was a perfect summary of our lives. She was the focal point, the main character, and I was just the background detail the camera hadn't quite bothered to sharpen.
I remember doing all the actual work while she took the credit for "vision and styling."
On the surface, it looked perfect. Laughter, toasts, the big family hug. But looking at it now, I just felt that old, familiar ache in my chest.
I remembered the way Mom and Dad gushed over Brenda's "brilliant planning," even after she'd admitted it was mostly my idea.
They'd just given me a distracted, "Oh, that's nice," before turning back to her with those beaming, proud smiles.
My eyes stung, and the screen turned into a watery mess.
I couldn't help the thought that always clawed at me: Why was I so hard to love? What was the fundamental difference between me and her—between me and everyone else who got to be cherished?
I just wanted parents who would fight for me, or a partner who didn't come with a set of betrays, conditions and a contract.
Alejandro's face flashed in my mind. He'd once been my everything, but now he was just a stranger who treated me like a problem to manage.
I took a shaky breath and wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand as the office tower came into view.