Chapter 29
Liam's POV
Too invested.
Translated, it meant: You're spending money and effort on a woman of unknown background, even protecting her shabby tattoo parlor—this isn't how a Sterling family heir should behave.
Then came a longer speech about "family reputation," about "marriage arrangements," about how suitable Miss Isabella was as a match—
I only replied with one sentence: "I'll handle it."
After hanging up, I sat in my study and smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes.
How was I supposed to handle it?
Tell Grandfather "I truly love Elise"? He'd never believe it, of course.
Tell Isabella "please leave us alone"? She was merely an arranged marriage prospect—all she cared about was the business between our two families.
There was only one thing I could do—prove to the family that Elise was completely under my control. That she wasn't a threat, not a variable that could affect my judgment. She was just a pet I kept, one who would sit when told to sit, lie down when told to lie down.
So there was tonight.
So I hired these actors. Rented this seaside villa. Designed the entire scenario—masks, music, scents, every detail meant to frighten Elise, make her submit, make her bow her head in defeat before everyone.
And all I had to do was record it on my phone.
Send this video to the family and tell them: See? She's completely obedient to me. No need to worry.
That was my plan.
Cold-blooded, calculated, using someone's fear as leverage—
Exactly what my father would do.
I glanced sideways at Elise beside me.
Her head was lowered, the black silk skirt swaying gently with her steps, the backless design exposing a large expanse of pale skin. The mask covered most of her face, but I could see her lips pressed tightly together, compressed into a bloodless line.
She wasn't crying or making a scene anymore.
Just like she'd said herself—she'd given up.
Something sharp pierced into my chest.
I didn't want to do this to her.
When I saved her, my panic was real. When I snatched her back from those thugs, only one thought filled my mind—I couldn't let anything happen to her. Even if it meant fighting with her, having a cold war, even pushing her to the brink, I couldn't let her come to any harm.
But what I was doing now was more cruel than any thug.
They only wanted to hurt her body.
I was destroying her dignity.
But I had no other choice.
With my capabilities, with my position in the family, this was the only way I could keep her. If I didn't let the family see this scene, they would use other means to tear us apart—cut off financial resources, pressure the school, or even send people directly to have a "talk" with Elise. By then, it wouldn't just be the tattoo parlor we'd lose, but all of her life, all her safety, all her escape routes.
At least by my side, she was safe.
At least I could ensure no one dared touch her.
As for whether she hated me...
I didn't dare think about it anymore.
The man in the red devil mask approached, handing me a drink.
"Want to play something more thrilling?" He lowered his voice to a volume only we could hear. "According to the script, the next scene is her being taken to the master bedroom upstairs—of course, you can call cut at any time."
I took the glass but didn't drink.
My fingers gripped the stem of the wine glass, knuckles turning white.
Elise stood motionless beside me, like a puppet awaiting instructions.
I looked at her.
She didn't speak, didn't cry, even her breathing had become so light it was almost imperceptible.
This feeling made me very uncomfortable.
Extremely uncomfortable.
It was like holding something in your hand—it was clearly still there, but you vaguely felt it slipping away through your fingers—silent and soundless, and by the time you realized it, only air remained in your palm.
I set the glass on the nearby bar counter, the glass base clicking against the marble surface with a crisp sound.
Elise didn't react.
Didn't even blink.
If this were before, she would have frowned, would have looked at me with those thorny eyes, would have coldly asked "what's wrong with you now." Even when I cornered her against the bathroom wall, there was still fire in her eyes—fire of humiliation, fire of anger, fire of unwillingness.
But now there was nothing in those eyes.
Like a dried-up well.
My hand clenched the phone in my pocket—the recording was on, screen facing up against my thigh, the red recording indicator light constantly flashing. As long as I sent this video out, the family would quiet down for a while. Isabella would have no way to pressure me anymore with "you can't control that woman."
But I wasn't sure if doing this still had any meaning.
Because a person who had already given up didn't need to be "controlled." She was already dead.
Then what did all this I was doing even mean?
Two voices fought in my head.
One said: Push her one more time. Press harder. Push her to her limit, push her until she actually begs for mercy, kneels down crying and clutches your leg saying "I was wrong Liam please stop"—at least that would prove she was still alive, still in pain, still capable of reacting for her own sake.
The other said: Are you insane? What exactly do you want? Do you want an obedient puppet or a flesh-and-blood person?
I didn't know the answer.
I only knew one thing: Elise was definitely not some hothouse flower.
From the first time I saw her at the tattoo parlor, I knew. The way she faced down four men with a tattoo gun, the way she bit her lip and refused to cry no matter what, the almost obsessive light in her eyes when she said "this is proof that I'm alive"—
That wasn't someone who would surrender easily.
So her current silence was what made me so uneasy.
Because I didn't know if this was the calm before the storm.
I hoped it was.
I actually hoped she was faking it.
I hoped the next second she would jump up and slap me across the face, curse me as "scum" in that sharp voice, then turn and run outside—run to the beach, run to anywhere I would chase her.
That way, at least I'd know she was still willing to run once more for me.
The man in the red devil mask approached again, his voice even lower:
"Sterling, want to go upstairs? The master bedroom and several rooms on the second floor are all set up. Much more refined than these crude activities down here—ropes, props, lighting all professional grade. Want to take her up for a look?"
His tone carried a knowing implication.
I didn't answer immediately.
I glanced at Elise.
She still stood motionless, lips pressed into a white line beneath the mask, her entire being like a statue forgotten in a corner.
Then I made a decision I hadn't even expected of myself.
"Fine," I said. "Take her upstairs."