chapter 3
Elena Ross's POV:
My hand was pressed against his face—warm, damp from the shower, the sharp line of his jaw solid beneath my palm.
He'd put it there himself, gentle as if I were made of glass, those storm-gray eyes searching mine with something that looked almost like desperation.
"I'm sorry. I fucked up. You can—punish me however you want. Okay?"
The words hung in the air between us, and I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Punish him? As if I had any power here. As if the last year hadn't proven exactly how powerless I was against Sebastian Vane and his gilded cage.
I let my hand fall away, pulled back into myself. "I need to use the bathroom."
He hesitated, then nodded and moved aside.
The marble was cold beneath my bare feet as I crossed to the en suite and locked the door. My hands shook as I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair was a tangled mess.
Pregnant.
The word still felt surreal, even though I'd seen the test results at the clinic. Even though I'd suspected for days—the nausea that wouldn't quit, the exhaustion that pulled at my bones no matter how much I slept.
I'd told myself it was stress. Trauma.
But this morning, after Sebastian left for his meeting, the retching had been so bad I couldn't ignore it anymore. And when I'd finally stopped long enough to think, to count back the weeks...
Fuck.
I'd checked the condoms. Held them up to the light, squinted at each one.
There it was. Not on all of them—he was too smart for that—but enough. Tiny, almost invisible punctures.
My stomach had dropped to my feet.
I'd read about this once. Desperate women punched holes in condoms to trap wealthy men, secure their futures with a pregnancy.
Never imagined the man himself would be the one doing it.
I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the sick feeling that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
He'd tampered with them. Deliberately. Methodically.
To trap me here forever.
So I'd waited. Watched the security schedules like I'd been doing for months. Marcus took his cigarette break at 10:53 AM. Day shift swapped at 11:00. Seven minutes where the service entrance had only one guard, and if I timed it right—
I'd made it.
Three blocks to the main street. Flagged down a taxi. Gave the address of the nearest private clinic.
The whole ride, my heart hammered against my ribs. Every glance in the rearview mirror made me flinch, expecting black SUVs to materialize.
But they didn't. Not yet.
The clinic was sterile and quiet.
The doctor was professional. Efficient. Drew blood, did the ultrasound, and disappeared to run tests.
I sat there for twenty minutes, staring at the pale green walls, my mind utterly blank.
Then she came back with a folder.
"Congratulations, Miss Ross. You're pregnant. About six weeks along."
The words didn't register at first. Just hung in the air, abstract and unreal.
She was still talking—something about prenatal vitamins, scheduling follow-up appointments—but all I could hear was the rushing in my ears.
Pregnant.
My hand moved to my stomach automatically, fingers splaying over the flat surface beneath the gown.
Oh God.
I took the folder she handed me. Printed confirmation. Test results. Due date calculations.
All of it proof that Sebastian Vane had won.
I was still staring at the papers when the door burst open.
Not the doctor. Not a nurse.
Marcus. And behind him, three more guards in black suits.
"Miss Ross." His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his jaw. "Mr. Vane is waiting."
The folder slipped from my numb fingers, papers scattering across the linoleum floor.
I didn't even get to feel shocked. Didn't get a moment to process what this meant.
Just—caught.
Again.
The ride back had been silent. Marcus's jaw tight, my heart hammering. And then Sebastian—that cold rage in his eyes, the way his hands shook when he grabbed me.
I dried my face, straightened my nightgown, and unlocked the door.
He was still there. Of course he was. Sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, that towel hanging dangerously low on his hips.
And damn him—he was beautiful.
I'd never been one to deny objective reality. Sebastian was gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscles definition that came from actual use. His face could've been carved from marble. All sharp angles and brooding intensity.
And I'd enjoyed that this past year. In the moments when he wasn't being a complete psychopath—I'd let myself enjoy it. Why shouldn't I? If I were trapped here anyway, I might as well take what pleasure I could.
But right now?
Right now, I wanted to claw his eyes out.
He looked up when I emerged, tracking my movement as I climbed back onto the bed.
"Elena, look at me."
It wasn't a request.
I turned my head, met his gaze. The heat from his skin was almost overwhelming this close, shower-warm and alive.
His hand came up, fingers gentle as they brushed hair from my face. "I meant what I said. I'm sorry."
"Sorry you did it, or sorry you got caught?"
His jaw tightened. "Both. Neither. I don't—" He exhaled roughly. "I don't regret wanting to keep you. I'll never regret that. But the way I went about it... the things I said tonight..."
He reached for my hand, and this time I let him take it. Watched as he brought it to his face again, pressed my palm against his cheek.
The stubble was rough beneath my fingers. His skin still damp, warm.
"I lose my mind when I think about you leaving," he murmured, turning to press a kiss to my palm. "When I think about you with—with him. I know it's not rational. I know it's not fair. But I can't help it, Elena. You're mine."
There it was. That word. Mine.
Like I was a possession.
My throat tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "And what am I supposed to do with that information, Sebastian?"
His eyes searched mine, desperate and dark. "Stay. Just—stay. I'll be better. I'll try to be better."
Promises. Always promises.
I let my fingers trace his cheekbone, down to his jaw. Felt him lean into the touch, eyes fluttering half-closed.
"Anything I want?" I asked softly. "You said I could punish you however I want."
He nodded immediately. "Anything."
I almost believed him.
My hand moved to cup his face, thumb brushing over his lower lip. I watched his pupils dilate, felt the sharp intake of breath.
"Anything at all?"
"Yes." His voice had gone rough with want.
I leaned in slightly, just enough that he could feel my breath against his skin. Watched his eyes darken, that predatory focus sharpening on me like I was the only thing in his world.
Then I gripped his jaw—hard—and turned his face away.
"Then we sleep in separate rooms."
The temperature dropped ten degrees.