The last lust before divorce

Chapter 3: The Golden Cage

​The gates of the Vane Estate groaned open like the jaws of a beast. Elena stared out the window of the Rolls Royce at the sprawling limestone manor. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress of glass and cold ambition.

​"Get out," Dante commanded. His voice had lost the velvet edge from the car. Now, it was pure steel.

​Elena hesitated, clutching her torn robe. "I don't have anything. My clothes, my-"

​"Everything you owned was bought by Silas. Which means it's trash." Dante stepped out, not waiting for her. He stood in the rain, indifferent to the downpour, looking like a god of the underworld surveying his domain. "You'll find that I provide for my own. Walk."

​Elena stepped out, her bare feet hitting the wet gravel. She followed him through the massive oak doors into a foyer that breathed wealth. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and a silence so thick it felt heavy.

​"You said you'd help me destroy him," Elena said, her voice echoing. "When do we start?"

​Dante turned, his eyes raking over her shivering form. "You're in a rush for blood, Elena. I like that. But a weapon needs to be sharpened before it can strike."

​He gestured to a wide staircase. "Upstairs. Second door on the left. Wash the scent of that man off your skin. I'll be there in ten minutes to discuss your first lesson."

​"Ten minutes? Dante, I need to know the plan."

​"The plan starts when I say it starts," he snapped, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He pinned her against the cold marble of a pillar, his hand bracing beside her head. "You asked for my influence. You asked for the power to ruin Silas Thorne. That power comes with a leash. Do you understand?"

​Elena's heart thudded. The heat radiating from his body was a sharp contrast to the cold hall. "I understand."

​"Good. Don't keep me waiting."

​The Cleansing

​Ten minutes later, Elena stood in a bathroom larger than her entire bedroom at Silas's. The water was scalding, turning her skin a flushed pink as she scrubbed. She wanted to erase every ghost of Silas-every touch, every insult, every moment she had been forced to be his "doll."

​She stepped out, wrapping herself in a plush, black silk robe she found hanging on the door. It was far too big for her, the sleeves falling over her hands, smelling faintly of Dante's cedarwood scent.

​The bedroom door clicked open.

​Dante didn't knock. He walked in, having changed into a dark grey shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal the hard muscle of his chest. He held a leather folder in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other.

​"Sit," he directed, nodding toward the velvet chaise lounge.

​Elena sat, her legs tucked under her. "What's in the folder?"

​"Silas's life," Dante said, tossing it onto her lap. "Bank accounts he thinks are hidden. Properties he bought with stolen investors' money. And the name of the woman he's been seeing for the last six months."

​Elena's blood turned to ice. She flipped the folder open. Her eyes landed on a photo of a young, blonde socialite-someone Silas had introduced as his 'cousin' at a charity event.

​"He was cheating?" Elena whispered, a bitter laugh escaping her. "I was his 'slave' at home while he was playing house with her?"

​"He didn't just cheat, Elena. He used your family's land as collateral for the loans he took to buy her that diamond necklace," Dante said, taking a slow sip of his drink. "If he defaults-which he will by the end of the month-your parents lose everything."

​Elena gripped the folder so hard the paper crumpled. The rage she felt was a living thing, a fire that finally burned away the last of her fear. "He's a monster."

​"He's a weak man who thinks he's a monster," Dante corrected. He set his glass down and walked toward her, his shadow looming large against the gold-leafed walls. "I'm the monster you should be worried about."

​He reached down, his fingers sliding into the collar of her robe, pulling her slowly to her feet. The silk slid against her skin, the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

​"I have a meeting tomorrow morning," Dante murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous, intimate register. "Silas will be there. He thinks he's signing a merger that will save his company. Instead, he's going to find out that I own fifty-one percent of his board."

​Elena's eyes widened. "You're taking his company?"

​"We are taking it," Dante corrected. "But for you to stand by my side, you can't be the broken woman he left behind. You have to be the woman who makes him regret ever breathing your air."

​He tilted her head back, his eyes searching hers with a dark, erotic intensity. "Are you ready to stop being his victim and start being my partner?"

​"Yes," she breathed.

​"Then show me that fire you're hiding," he rasped.

​He didn't kiss her. Instead, his hand slid lower, gripping her waist with a bruising force that made her gasp. "Every time he touched you, you felt like a thing. When I touch you, I want you to feel like a queen. A queen who is about to take back her kingdom."

​He pulled her flush against him, the heat between them reaching a breaking point. Elena felt a surge of something she hadn't felt in years-desire mixed with a hunger for power. She reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

​"Show me," she challenged.

​Dante's eyes flared. He swept her up, carrying her toward the massive bed. "The first lesson of power, Elena: Never ask for what you can take."

​He dropped her onto the silk sheets, his body following hers down. The night was no longer about a divorce; it was about a rebirth.

​The Morning After: The First Strike

​The sun hadn't even risen when the master bedroom door was thrown open by a maid carrying a line of designer garment bags.

​Elena sat up, the black sheets pooling around her waist. Dante was already dressed, standing at the mirror, adjusting a silk tie. He looked immaculate, cold, and utterly lethal.

​"Choose one," Dante said without turning. "The red one. It looks like blood."

​Elena reached for the crimson dress. It was backless, cinched at the waist, and made of a fabric that looked like liquid fire.

​"We leave in twenty minutes," Dante said, finally turning to look at her. His gaze lingered on the marks on her neck-marks he had put there. "Silas thinks he's going to a meeting. He has no idea he's walking into his own funeral."

​Elena stood, the dress draped over her arm. She looked at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back wasn't the "doll" Silas had broken. Her eyes were sharp, her posture was regal, and she had the most powerful man in the city standing behind her.

​"Let's go," she said, her voice steady. "I don't want to miss the look on his face."