Chapter 3 His Cage, My War

Life wasn't just different now.

It was stolen. Twisted. And rebuilt into something unrecognizable.

I used to belong to a family. Now I belonged to a man.

Marcelo Dominique.

According to him-and everyone else in this suffocating mansion-I was his property.

Not a person. Not a survivor. A possession.

And it all traced back to one man-Alex.

My so-called father.

The man who failed us as a husband, as a protector, as a human being. He didn't just vanish like a coward-no, that would've been merciful. Instead, he dragged us all into the depths of his betrayal, tying our lives to the wrath of someone far more dangerous than he could ever comprehend.

Then he ran.

And left me behind to pay for his sins. Marcelo's price.

His words still echoed in my mind, cold and deliberate: "Live by my rules. Obey my standards. When you're old enough to repay every fucking cent your father stole from me, then and only then will you have your life back."

The audacity. The cruelty.

Even Gwen, the sweet old woman who treated me with motherly kindness, warned me in hushed tones. "Lucía, please," she'd whispered once, her frail hands trembling around mine, "don't push Mr. Dominique. He's not like other men. He may seem like your enemy, but he's the only thing standing between you and a much worse fate."

I wanted to scream every time someone defended him.

Marcelo wasn't a savior. He was the monster who burned down everything I loved.

The reason my home was reduced to ash. The reason my mother died screaming beneath the rubble. The reason my little brother and sister would never laugh again.

I didn't care how many bodyguards he paid to shadow me or how many gourmet meals Gwen left untouched on the table. This house-his house-was nothing more than a gilded cage.

I tried escaping once.

Slipped through my bedroom window under the veil of night, barefoot, desperate, my breath caught in my throat like a prisoner gasping for freedom. I barely made it two steps before I saw them-two men stationed on the balcony, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes flat and emotionless.

Marcelo had thought of everything.

But so had I.

Someday, I would find a way out. Even if it meant setting fire to every wall he'd built around me.

☾

The morning sunlight pierced through my curtains like blades, stabbing straight into my skull.

"Rise and shine!" Gwen's chipper voice rang through the room as she swept open the blinds, flooding the space with golden light.

I groaned and buried my face into the pillow, clinging to the last strands of sleep.

"Up you get, dear. It's your first day of college," she said brightly, as if that explained anything.

My head snapped up.

"Wait-college?"

She nodded, unfazed. "Yes, sweetheart. Mr. Dominique has arranged everything."

Panic flared. "I didn't apply for anything. I was taking a year off. It's not even close to over yet!"

"Just get dressed and come downstairs," Gwen said with a knowing smile. "He'll explain."

His name sent a shiver down my spine.

Marcelo.

Not fear-something worse.

Hatred.

And hate, I was beginning to understand, was dangerously close to obsession.

Still, I dragged myself to the bathroom. The hot water did little to soothe the cold pit in my chest. Afterward, I slipped into the dress Gwen had left for me-red, floral, too soft for how hard I felt inside. It clung to my frame, accentuating curves I didn't even want him noticing. But maybe that's why I let it.

I applied lipstick with a shaky hand, dabbed blush on my cheeks, and drew a razor-thin line of eyeliner along my lashes. In the mirror, I looked like a woman in control.

But beneath it, I was just a girl burning.

I descended the stairs slowly, the tension coiling tighter with every step.

And then I saw him.

Marcelo.

Standing in the foyer like a king awaiting an audience. A crisp white shirt hugged his chiseled torso, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible and taut. A tattoo curled up from his collarbone, dark and intricate, begging to be touched.

I hated how good he looked. Hated how effortlessly he commanded space.

I hated that my body noticed.

"What the hell is this?" I demanded, my voice sharp and my chin high.

His eyes locked on mine, unreadable. "You'll watch your tone when you speak to me, girl."

"Girl?" I repeated, scoffing. My fists clenched. "You don't own me."

He took a step forward. "Don't I?"

The question slithered down my spine.

Before I could respond, he continued. "You want to repay your debt, yes? How do you plan to do that without a degree? I pulled strings and got you a spot in the business program. No questions. No complaints. You'll go, you'll graduate, and you'll stay the hell out of trouble."

I stared at him, seething. "How thoughtful. Will I at least get a dorm room with this... generosity?"

His expression darkened.

"The fuck you will," he growled. "You're mine. You live in my house. Under my roof. Two armed guards will escort you to class and bring you right back. Every. Single. Day."

The way he said mine lit something wicked inside me. Possessive. Brutal. Final.

And God help me-it didn't just scare me.

It thrilled me.

"I fucking hate you," I whispered.

"Say it louder."

"Fuck you, Marcelo!"

In a flash, his hand was on my throat-firm but not cruel.

Not choking. Just reminding.

I gasped, breath catching, not from pain-but from the force of him. The heat. The nearness.

You will speak to me with respect," he said, his voice dark, trembling with restraint. "Fight it all you want, Lucía. But it won't change what we both know."

He leaned in, so close his breath tickled my lips.

"You're mine."

My knees nearly buckled. My heart thundered. And in that instant, I hated him so much.

Then, just as suddenly, he released me.

Turned away like none of it happened.

Like he hadn't just branded me with his touch.

Gwen rushed in with my bag, her eyes flicking between us. "Lucía, please. Don't provoke him. Just take this. Go to college. Try to live."

I didn't speak. Couldn't.

I grabbed the bag and stormed out the front door.

Two guards stood waiting beside a sleek black car. One opened the door for me.

I slid in without a word and slammed it shut.

The engine purred to life, and the house began to shrink in the distance behind me.

But it wasn't far enough.

I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to calm the chaos beneath my ribs.

My pulse pounded like war drums. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me.

And I hated that a part of me wanted to feel it again.

I whispered into the silence of the car, bitter and broken,

"I fucking hate you, Marcelo."

But even I could hear the lie.