Chapter 4 - THE GOLDEN PRISON
The master suite on the third floor of the Voss manor was larger than the entire servant cottage Elena had lived in at the Ashworth estate.
It featured a king-sized bed wrapped in soft Egyptian cotton, a burning fireplace made of green marble, and wide glass doors that opened onto a private stone balcony overlooking the snow-dusted pine forest.
For three days, Elena did not leave the bed.
A quiet, middle-aged woman named Mrs. Gable—the manor’s head housekeeper—brought her silver trays loaded with hot soups, grilled vegetables, fresh fruits, and iron-rich juices. Mrs. Gable never asked about the scars, nor did she mention the armed guards standing outside the bedroom door. She simply fluffed Elena’s pillows, ensured the fire was burning bright, and left gentle prenatal vitamins beside her water glass.
On the fourth morning, the heavy bedroom door opened.
Dante walked in. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick wrists and a subtle scar along his right thumb. He carried a small leather folder under his arm.
Elena instinctively pulled the duvet higher around her neck, watching him with wide, cautious eyes.
“You look less like a ghost today,” Dante noted, sitting down in the armchair near the foot of her bed. He set the leather folder on his knee.
“Why am I still here?” Elena asked softly, her voice regaining some of its strength. “You know I’m not Vivienne. You know Arthur won't pay a ransom for me. Holding me doesn't give you any leverage over the Ashworths.”
Dante opened the leather folder, scanning a page lined with financial records.
“Arthur Ashworth held a press conference yesterday morning,” Dante said calmly. “He announced that his beloved daughter Vivienne was overcome with bridal stress and has temporarily retreated to a private wellness clinic in Switzerland.”
Elena blinked in confusion. “He... he’s hiding my kidnapping?”
“Of course he is,” Dante said, looking up from the papers. “If the public knows his family was breached by my syndicate on the morning of a political wedding, his stock prices drop forty percent. He’s covering it up while his head of security searches the city for you in secret.”
“They think I ran away,” Elena realized, her fingers clutching the blanket.
“They know my men took someone,” Dante corrected gently. “They just don't know why I haven't demanded money yet. Marcus Whitlock has hired six private military contractors to sweep the Brooklyn docks.”
Elena felt a cold spike of panic shoot through her chest. “If Marcus finds me—”
“He won't,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into a solid, unshakeable tone. “Marcus Whitlock will never step foot on this property. No one enters this valley without my permission.”
Elena looked at him, searching his sharp features. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Voss? I’m nothing to you. I’m an enemy’s bastard child. Keeping me here costs you time and money.”
Dante leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. His icy eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Twelve years ago,” Dante said slowly, “my father took me to a warehouse in Queens to watch him execute a rival family's lieutenant. I stood in the dark, watching a man beg for his life. I decided that day that I would never be a victim, and I would never allow weak men to destroy things simply because they had the power to do so.”
He stood up, taking a step toward the bed.
“Arthur Ashworth and Marcus Whitlock think they own Manhattan,” Dante said softly. “They think they can bleed people dry and hide behind polished suits and media empires. They treated you like garbage, Elena. But in my house, you are a guest. And I do not allow anyone to touch my guests.”
He placed the leather folder on the bedside table.
“Inside that folder are the new identification papers my team forged for you,” Dante said. “A new name, a clean bank account, and a deed to a small house in Vermont. Once the baby is born and you are fully healed, you can leave. You can start a real life.”
Elena stared at the folder, then looked up at Dante, tears welling in her eyes. “And what do you want in return?”
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Dante looked at her pale, delicate face, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second before his unyielding mask returned.
“I want you to stay alive,” he said softly. “And I want you to eat your lunch.”
