Chapter 4 His Doll

• The bed was cold when she woke.
• It always was.
• The sheets still smelled of his cologne, thick and masculine—an expensive mix of sandalwood and something darker, like smoke and scorched earth. But that scent no longer meant safety. Not love. It meant he’d used her. Again.
• Lucien didn’t sleep beside her. Never had. That wasn’t what she was for.
• She was for the nights he returned late and restless, for the moments he needed control. For the illusion of marriage when they had to stand before their world and pretend to be husband and wife. She was the beautiful doll he kept in his glass house—painted lips, quiet smiles, obedient nods.
• She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. One breath. Then another. Counting was better than crying.
• The ache between her thighs wasn’t new. It was a reminder. A signature of the night before. How he’d dragged her into his lap, kissed her like a punishment, and told her she was his. Nothing else. No sweet words. No warmth. Just possession.
• She hadn’t said no. She never did.
• She never would.
• Because she still thought—still hoped—there was a version of him that could love her. Somewhere buried beneath the cruelty and ice, she believed a sliver of a man still existed who once looked at her like she mattered. Even if it was a lie. Even if it never happened at all.
• She padded barefoot across the marble floor and slipped into the bathroom. Her body bore the signs of him—marks on her hips, a bruise blooming purple at the base of her throat. She touched it and didn’t flinch.
• This was what it meant to be his wife.
• Lucien had made that clear from day one.
• Their marriage was a contract. Signed, sealed, and locked away in a drawer neither of them spoke about. She was chosen—not courted. She was offered up in exchange for peace between her father’s legacy and Lucien’s ambition. Two empires forged in blood and manipulation.
• But she wasn’t supposed to fall for him.
• She wasn’t supposed to feel anything when he pulled her close and told her to be quiet. When he tied her hands and whispered filth into her ear with a voice so low and sinful it made her ache.
• She’d tried to be what he wanted. Every day. Every night. She’d learned how to wear his favorite dresses, how to stay silent when other women sat on his lap in public, how to keep smiling when he walked out the door to find pleasure elsewhere and only came home when he needed to reclaim her.
• Because that’s all she was. His to reclaim.
• She rubbed the lotion into her thighs, smoothing out the bruises like they weren’t there, like she hadn’t whimpered when he gripped her harder just to hear her cry. Like she hadn’t begged beneath her breath for him to be gentle—just once.
• But Lucien didn’t do gentle.
• Not with her. Not with anyone.
• She left the bathroom and made her way downstairs. The mansion was too quiet. His men were shadows in the hall, always watching. Not for her safety. For his. She wasn’t a wife. She was property.
• The pet who sat at his feet at dinners. The pretty thing he paraded when he needed to remind the world what he owned.
• And yet, she still made his coffee the way he liked. Two sugars. No cream. She still laid out his suit every morning and pressed her lips to his cheek when he ignored her entirely.
• Because maybe one day… he would look back.
• Maybe one day, he would see that she never stopped trying.
• “Is he in?” she asked one of the guards by his office door.
• He didn’t look at her. “With company.”
• That meant another woman.
• Of course.
• She stepped back before they could see the way her lip trembled. She turned around slowly, like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t rip her in half every single time.
• She was twenty-four years old. Married for three. And not once had he kissed her in front of anyone. Not once had he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together like she dreamed of.
• But he fucked her when he felt like it.
• Bent her over the edge of his desk. Slapped her face and called her his good little wife. Spat praise like poison in her mouth and told her to thank him when he finished. She did. Every time.
• Because she wanted it to mean something.
• She wanted him to feel what she felt.
• The love that refused to die no matter how often he buried it beneath cruelty.
• Back upstairs, she sat at her vanity and stared at herself. There were fine lines around her eyes now. Shadows beneath the softness. She didn’t wear makeup unless he told her to. Didn’t eat unless he ordered her to sit. Her entire life was dictated by his whims.
• And still… she loved him.
• A knock at the door made her flinch.
• Lucien didn’t knock.
• The man who entered was one of his soldiers, younger and leaner, with hungry eyes.
• “Boss wants you in the playroom.”
• Her throat tightened. Her skin prickled.
• He only called her there when he wanted to remind her what she was.
• “Yes,” she whispered.
• She stood and followed the soldier down the hallway. Her bare feet were silent on the floor, but her heart thundered loud in her ears.
• Lucien was waiting.
• He always was.