Art of Torment: A Captive's Defiance

Art of Torment: A Captive's Defiance

Gavin

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The cold, sharp edges of the resin necklace dug into my skin, a constant, physical reminder of Alexander Vance' s twisted grasp. Just hours ago, I, Scarlett Hayes, had almost tasted freedom, only to be dragged back to this gilded cage. He didn't yell, he never did, not at first; his silence was always more terrifying than any scream. "Why do you keep trying to leave?" he would ask, his voice a smooth vibration that set my teeth on edge, entirely oblivious to the torment he inflicted. I longed to tell him that his control was suffocating, or that the fractured pieces of my destroyed art embedded in the necklace were a constant agony. Instead, I met his gaze with a defiant chin, "Maybe I like the exercise." But Alexander Vance was never fooled, not the man who saw me only as a broken bird to be possessed. My wrist still carried the faint scar from the day he broke my drawing hand, a brutal lesson in his twisted love. "Don' t lie to me," he whispered, his thumb pressing down on the mark, "You met with someone. You think there' s a single breath you take in this city that I' m not aware of?" The accusation hung thick and suffocating; he was right – I met Marcus Thorne, his rival, my only hope for escape. But what if my hope was just another cage? What if the man I thought was my savior was just as monstrous and possessive as my captor, seeing me not as a person, but as a prize to be won? The question gnawed at me with chilling certainty, just weeks before Alexander' s grand "Aion Project" launch, a monument built on the ruin of my family' s dreams. This elaborate trap, this calculated play for freedom, was not just about survival anymore. It was about discovering how deep the treachery went.

Introduction

The cold, sharp edges of the resin necklace dug into my skin, a constant, physical reminder of Alexander Vance' s twisted grasp.

Just hours ago, I, Scarlett Hayes, had almost tasted freedom, only to be dragged back to this gilded cage.

He didn't yell, he never did, not at first; his silence was always more terrifying than any scream.

"Why do you keep trying to leave?" he would ask, his voice a smooth vibration that set my teeth on edge, entirely oblivious to the torment he inflicted.

I longed to tell him that his control was suffocating, or that the fractured pieces of my destroyed art embedded in the necklace were a constant agony.

Instead, I met his gaze with a defiant chin, "Maybe I like the exercise."

But Alexander Vance was never fooled, not the man who saw me only as a broken bird to be possessed.

My wrist still carried the faint scar from the day he broke my drawing hand, a brutal lesson in his twisted love.

"Don' t lie to me," he whispered, his thumb pressing down on the mark, "You met with someone. You think there' s a single breath you take in this city that I' m not aware of?"

The accusation hung thick and suffocating; he was right – I met Marcus Thorne, his rival, my only hope for escape.

But what if my hope was just another cage?

What if the man I thought was my savior was just as monstrous and possessive as my captor, seeing me not as a person, but as a prize to be won?

The question gnawed at me with chilling certainty, just weeks before Alexander' s grand "Aion Project" launch, a monument built on the ruin of my family' s dreams.

This elaborate trap, this calculated play for freedom, was not just about survival anymore.

It was about discovering how deep the treachery went.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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