Chapter 4 A Cage Made Of Gold

Ivy had been in many luxurious places before—five-star hotels, private yachts, grand estates that screamed wealth. Yet standing in Damien Wolfe’s mansion, she felt something she never had before. Trapped. The place was stunning, in a cold and unwelcoming way. Dark marble floors stretched endlessly beneath her, and the ceilings towered so high they could swallow the light. Despite its vastness, the house lacked warmth. No personal photos, no signs of life. Just sheer, intimidating power. Like its owner. Damien had barely spoken to her since their arrival. After dropping the bomb that she "belonged" to him now, he had disappeared up a grand staircase without another word, leaving Ivy standing in his massive office like an afterthought. Now, she was alone. Well, not entirely. She could feel the eyes of his men on her—guards stationed at every possible exit, watching her movements with unreadable expressions. A prisoner in a palace. Ivy clenched her fists. This isn’t over. She wouldn’t roll over and accept this. She had already lost her family, her reputation, and her entire life in one night. But she refused to lose herself. A door creaked open behind her. She turned, expecting Damien, but instead, a tall, sharp-dressed man entered. He had the look of someone who had spent years in this line of work—calculating, efficient, and completely unfazed by the situation. “You’ll be staying in the east wing,” he said. “Your room has been prepared.” Ivy narrowed her eyes. “And you are?” “Elias. Mr. Wolfe’s right-hand man.” Of course. Even Damien’s assistant carried an air of silent menace. Elias gestured toward the door. “Follow me.” Ivy didn’t move. “And if I don’t?” His expression didn’t change. “Then you’ll stand here all night.” Her jaw tightened. Bastard. With an exasperated sigh, she followed him through the massive house. The hallways were lined with dark, expensive art—pieces that looked more like statements than decorations. Ivy didn’t know if Damien even liked art or if he simply bought things that radiated power. They reached a large wooden door, and Elias pushed it open. Ivy’s breath hitched. Her “room” was bigger than her entire apartment back when she had a life. A grand bed sat at the center, wrapped in silk sheets. The walls were adorned with floor-to-ceiling windows, though the heavy curtains ensured no one could see in—or out. It was beautiful. And it might as well have been a cage. Elias turned to her. “Everything you need is in here. Clothes, toiletries, anything else you require. If you attempt to leave the mansion without permission, the guards will stop you.” Ivy crossed her arms. “So I really am a prisoner.” Elias didn’t react. “You’re alive.” Her blood boiled. “And I’m supposed to be grateful?” Elias sighed, rubbing his temple as if she were an annoying child. “Miss Lancaster, you’re not the first woman to find herself under Mr. Wolfe’s protection.” Ivy’s stomach twisted. “Oh? And what happened to the others?” Elias gave her a knowing look. “They weren’t as lucky as you.” The implication was clear. A chill ran down her spine, but she masked it with a smirk. “Well, aren’t I special?” Elias didn’t respond. He simply turned toward the door. “Dinner is at eight. Someone will escort you.” The door clicked shut behind him. Ivy exhaled sharply. She walked to the bed and pressed her hands against the cool sheets, grounding herself. She needed a plan. The First Dinner By the time eight o’clock rolled around, Ivy had managed to explore every inch of her "prison." The windows didn’t open. The doors locked from the outside. The closet was filled with elegant, tailored clothing—things she never bought but that somehow fit her perfectly. Damien had thought of everything. The bastard. A knock at her door startled her from her thoughts. Before she could respond, it swung open, revealing a different man in a suit. “Dinner.” Ivy arched a brow. “No ‘please’? No ‘your presence is requested’?” The man remained stone-faced. “Charming,” she muttered, pushing past him. The dining hall was just as overwhelming as the rest of the house. A long table stretched across the center, decorated with silverware and crystal glasses. And at the very end of it sat Damien. He was leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, fingers lazily drumming against the table. His dark eyes met hers as she entered, unreadable as ever. Ivy forced herself to hold his gaze. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. “You actually came,” Damien mused. “I was told I’d be dragged here if I didn’t.” She sat down, crossing her legs. “So, I figured I’d save your men the trouble.” His lips twitched in amusement. “Thoughtful.” Dinner was served. Ivy didn’t recognize most of the dishes, but the rich aroma told her they were expensive. She picked up her fork. Then hesitated. Damien caught the pause. “Afraid it’s poisoned?” She met his gaze, expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t put it past you.” He smirked. “If I wanted you dead, Ivy, you wouldn’t be sitting here.” Charming. Still, she took a careful bite. The food was delicious, but Ivy barely tasted it. Her mind was racing, calculating her next move. “So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Are you planning to keep me locked up here forever?” Damien took a sip of wine, watching her. “Depends.” “On?” “Whether or not you make yourself useful.” Ivy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “And what exactly does ‘useful’ mean to Damien Wolfe?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You were once an heiress. You know how to handle negotiations, power plays, deception.” Her breath caught. He wasn’t planning to use her as a trophy. He wanted something else. “What do you want, Damien?” He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “You’ll find out soon enough.” The First Act of Rebellion That night, Ivy couldn’t sleep. Her mind replayed the dinner, every word, every glance, searching for clues. Damien was toying with her, keeping her on edge. She needed to tip the scales. She needed to get under his skin. An idea formed in her mind. Slipping out of bed, she walked to the vanity. Among the neatly arranged perfumes and accessories was a lighter. Convenient. Too convenient. Did Damien want her to cause trouble? She smirked. Fine. Let’s play. She grabbed the lighter and made her way to the curtains. One flick. A spark. A flame. The fire licked at the fabric, curling the edges into blackened embers. It spread quickly, the scent of burning silk filling the room. Seconds later, the alarms blared. Footsteps pounded down the hall. The door burst open. And there stood Damien. His gaze swept the flames, then landed on Ivy. She stood by the window, arms crossed, watching him. His expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. But something dark flickered in his eyes. “Really?” he muttered, voice eerily calm. Ivy smirked. “Just testing your security.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. Then, without hesitation, Damien strode forward, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her over his shoulder. “What the—Put me down!” she shrieked. “No.” He carried her out as his men rushed to extinguish the flames. Ivy kicked and punched, but Damien didn’t even flinch. As he carried d her down the hall, he murmured, “You want my attention? Congratulations. You have it.” For the first time since her downfall, Ivy felt a chill of uncertainty. She had poked the devil. Now, she had to survive him.