Trapped in Tiara

Trapped in Tiara
Emily’s POV

The door clicked shut behind Marco, and silence swallowed the room.
His presence lingered even after he was gone, heavy and suffocating. His words echoed in my head, wrapping around my thoughts like chains. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and uneven, a cruel reminder that my life no longer belonged to me.
My gaze drifted to the yellow dress hanging over the chair.
Its fabric shimmered softly in the dim light, delicate and beautiful. Anyone else would have seen elegance. I saw ownership. Control. It wasn’t just a dress. It was another way for Marco to claim me, another performance where I had no choice but to play the role he had written.
The ticking clock on the wall became unbearable.
Each second stretched endlessly, dragging itself forward like a punishment. My chest tightened as anxiety crept in again, the walls seeming to close around me.
Seven o’clock.
The maid would come soon.
I would have to wear the dress.
The thought made my stomach churn. Being paraded around like some prized possession, forced to smile while Marco showed me off, made my skin crawl. But resistance felt useless. Every attempt to fight had been crushed.
I was trapped.
The clock struck seven, each chime sharp enough to cut through me. My eyes snapped toward the door instinctively. Every part of me screamed to run, but my body stayed frozen.
Footsteps approached.
Soft. Measured.
The doorknob turned.
The maid stepped inside, her expression blank, almost rehearsed.
“Miss,” she said flatly. “I’m here to get you ready. We wouldn’t want to keep the boss waiting.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, the taste of helplessness bitter on my tongue.
She followed me toward the bathroom.
“Are you going to watch me take a bath?” I asked, letting defiance coat my voice.
“Boss’s orders,” she replied without emotion. “He doesn’t want you doing anything… foolish.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “The nerve of him.”
The shower offered brief relief. Hot water ran over my skin, washing away sweat and fear, but it couldn’t wash away the feeling of being trapped. Even here, I wasn’t alone. The maid stood outside, a quiet shadow reminding me that privacy no longer existed.
When I stepped out, she moved with practised efficiency. Hair. Makeup. The careful adjustments of someone used to preparing women for display.
I felt like a doll.
When she finished, I stood before the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looked stunning. The dress hugged every curve perfectly, the soft yellow making my skin glow under the light.
I hated it.
I hated how beautiful it made me look.
I hated that it was for him.
“You look beautiful,” the maid said softly.
The words cracked something inside me.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I whispered desperately. “Please… help me.”
Her hands paused. For a moment, her expression softened, something human breaking through the mask.
She took my hands gently.
“None of us should be here,” she said quietly. “But we don’t get a choice. We smile… and we obey.”
Her words hit harder than any threat.
“You’re here against your will?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, eyes dropping.
“Kidnapped,” she whispered. “From my country. My family. The Marinos took me.”
My chest tightened.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated, as if saying it out loud was dangerous.
“Ava,” she said finally.
Before I could respond, the door swung open.
Marco stepped inside.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his yellow tie matching my dress in a way that felt deliberate… symbolic. His gaze moved over me slowly, satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
Ava stiffened, fear flashing across her face before she hurried out silently, leaving me alone with him.
“You look beautiful,” Marco said, voice smooth and pleased.
I said nothing.
He stepped closer and kissed my cheek, lingering just long enough to make my stomach turn.
“Shall we?” he murmured. “Your guests are waiting for their queen.”
The word felt like a mockery.
I nodded mechanically.

The dinner party was already alive when we entered.
Laughter filled the air. Glasses clinked. Soft music played somewhere in the background. The room was full of elegant people dressed in wealth and confidence.
Marco’s hand rested firmly on my waist, possessive and unyielding as he guided me through the crowd.
Eyes followed us everywhere.
I felt like an exhibit.
He introduced me to countless faces, but their names blurred together. Businessmen. Family members. Powerful figures with cold smiles and assessing eyes.
I smiled when expected.
Nodded when required.
Inside, I felt numb.
A tray of champagne passed by, and I grabbed a glass without thinking.
Then another.
And another.
The alcohol burned pleasantly, dulling the sharp edges of reality. For a moment, everything softened. The noise faded slightly.
My thoughts drifted to Jason.
Was he looking for me?
Did he know where I was?
Did he even know I was alive?
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Marco’s voice slid into my ear.
I rolled my eyes.
“Having to survive this… and you?” I muttered. “I’d need every bottle in this room.”
I finished the glass quickly, but before I could reach for another, he took it from me.
“Time to meet the clan,” he said coldly.
He led me toward a raised podium.
The chatter slowly died down as Marco clinked his glass. The sharp sound echoed across the room.
“May I have everyone’s attention?”
Silence fell instantly.
All eyes turned toward us.
My pulse quickened.
Marco smiled confidently, basking in their attention.
“I present to you,” he announced, voice dripping with pride, “the Marino family’s queen.”
My stomach twisted.
“You may know her as Jason Russo’s marked woman,” he continued, “but that is the past. She is mine now.”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
I felt dizzy.
Their applause echoed in my skull, hollow and overwhelming. The room tilted slightly. Whether it was the champagne or the horror of hearing those words spoken aloud, I wasn’t sure.
Marco’s grip tightened on my hand.
“Everything that belongs to the Russos,” he continued, “will soon belong to us.”
Cheers grew louder.
I felt sick.
My vision blurred at the edges.
Then Marco’s voice cut through again.
“The Marino clan… meet Emily Marino.”
The room fell into a strange, heavy silence.
And then, one by one, everyone dropped to their knees.
The sound of fabric brushing the floor filled the air.
They bowed.
To me.
My breath caught.
The sight was surreal, terrifying. Hundreds of eyes lowered in submission, not to me… but to the power Marco claimed through me.
My knees felt weak.
I wasn’t a queen.
I was a prisoner dressed in gold.
And as I stood there, surrounded by kneeling strangers, one terrifying thought settled deep inside me.
Marco wasn’t just trying to break me.
He was trying to rewrite who I was.