Chapter 29

Elena’s POV

The punishment room felt colder than I remembered.

The walls were stripped bare, empty of warmth. A single lamp glowed faintly in the corner, stretching my shadow across the wall in crooked lines. Silence hung thick in the air, pressing against my chest until every breath felt shallow.

I knelt where Damian had ordered, the stone floor biting through the thin fabric of my dress. My hands trembled against my thighs. I tried to force them still, pressing my palms hard into my knees, but they shook anyway, betraying me with each uneven breath.

I hated that he saw me this way. Fragile. Afraid.

And I was afraid.

My throat still burned from his grip, the ghost of his hand lingering like a bruise not yet visible. Every swallow reminded me of how sharp his words had cut. What else do you want from Marco… you bitch.

The words pierced deeper than his fingers ever had.

I lowered my forehead to the wall, trying to quiet the rush of my thoughts, but his face, twisted with anger, stayed fixed in my mind.

The note.

If I closed my eyes, I could see it as clearly as when I first picked it up. The slant of his handwriting, the faint smudge of ink at the edge. It had looked real. It had felt real. My stomach twisted. Someone had planted it there for me. Someone wanted me in Marco’s room.

But why?

And worse, why would they want me punished for it?

Footsteps broke the silence. Heavy. Measured. Damian’s.

My heart leapt painfully in my chest. I straightened at once, back rigid, knees pressing harder into the floor. I didn’t turn. I knew the rules. Facing the wall meant facing the wall until he gave permission.

The door creaked open. His presence filled the room long before his voice did.

He let me wait.

The door shut again, sealing us in silence. His steps came closer, slow and deliberate, circling me without a touch. I could feel his eyes on me, burning into my back, crawling over my skin like fire.

“You disobeyed me,” he said finally. His voice was calm. Too calm. That was always worse.

I flinched. “I didn’t mean to, Damian. I thought—”

“Thought?” His voice sliced across mine, quiet but sharp enough to cut the rest from my mouth. “You thought wrong. And in this house, your thoughts mean nothing unless I put them there.”

I closed my eyes, swallowing back a sob.

“Who gave you the order?” His voice came from behind me, closer now. I could feel the weight of him. “You know the rule. No one commands you but me. So who?”

“There was a note,” I whispered, throat tightening. “On my table. It looked like your handwriting. I thought it was from you.”

The silence dragged, heavy, suffocating.

Then he laughed, low and humorless. “A note.”

“Yes,” I whispered again, desperate. “Please, Damian, I wouldn’t have gone in there on my own. I thought—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the air, freezing me in place.

Leather scraped against stone as he crouched behind me. His hand gripped the back of my neck, not crushing, just holding, pressing my forehead harder into the wall.

“You expect me to believe a story about a note?” His breath brushed against my ear. “And yet when I look, there is nothing. No paper. No ink. No proof. Only your word.”

Tears blurred my vision. The note had been real. I wasn’t imagining it. But he was right—when I checked again, it was gone. Taken away.

His breath lingered near, his silence worse than any grip. He let me drown in it, stretching the moment until dread carved deeper into me.

“You have two choices, Elena,” he whispered. “Tell me the truth, or suffer until you do.”

My voice broke. “I already told you the truth.”

His hand slipped away, leaving my neck cold.

The sharp sound of his shoes echoed as he paced behind me. Each step was steady, measured, like the rhythm of my fear.

“You think I am a fool,” he said. “You believe I will look at your trembling, your tears, and accept them as innocence. You want me to see weakness. A victim.” His voice hardened. “Victims do not survive in this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered, lips shaking.

The steps stopped. He was close again. My heart pounded, though I stayed still.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed instantly, lacing my fingers together.

The silence grew heavy. Then rope slid over my wrists, rough and certain. He tied the knot quickly, efficiently. Not painfully tight, but firm enough to remind me I would not move without him.

My breath caught as he stepped back. “Stay like that until I return,” he said. “You will not move. You will not speak. You will not close your eyes. If you do, your punishment will be worse.”

“Damian, please—”

“Silence.” His voice cut sharp through the air.

I pressed my forehead harder into the wall, tears streaking down my cheeks.

Time dragged into something unbearable. Minutes stretched like hours. My knees ached against the cold stone, my wrists throbbed bound behind me, my head pounded from holding still. I wanted to shift, to beg, to breathe differently but I didn’t.

Because I knew he was watching.

Maybe not in the room. Maybe through hidden cameras I always suspected were buried in the walls. But he would know. And if I disobeyed, if I moved, he would return and there would be no limit to what came next.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. The punishment was worse than any strike. It was silence. It was not knowing. It was waiting for a storm that refused to break.

The tears slowed. My body trembled less. Fear gave way to something colder, steadier, a dread coiling deep inside me.

Whoever left that note wanted this. They wanted me here, kneeling, tied, crushed beneath his rules. They wanted me broken.

And the truth was—they were winning.

The door opened. My breath caught.

His steps entered, steady. The air shifted with him.

I didn’t move.

He stood behind me for a long time, silent. Weighing. Watching.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet, cold as ice.

“You will stay here until I decide otherwise. And when I return, if you have not learned obedience, I will teach it to you.”

He paused, leaning close enough for me to feel his breath.

“And Elena,” he whispered, “if you ever lie to me again, if you ever step into that room again, I will break you in ways you cannot imagine.”

The rope dug tighter into my wrists as my body trembled.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

The door shut, leaving me alone with silence.

This time, I didn’t cry. I only pressed my forehead harder against the wall, praying that when he returned, I would still be breathing.