Cynthia stumbled out of the bathroom, her body sore, her skin flushed from the intense heat of Mike’s dominance. He had bathed her himself, washing her as if she was his possession, not a person. His hands had explored her body with cruel patience, making sure she understood one thing—she belonged to him.

She barely had time to catch her breath before the maids entered the bedroom, ready to prepare her for the gala.

They moved quickly, styling her hair into a soft, elegant updo. One of them, a woman named Elara, worked on her makeup.

Elara’s hands were gentle but precise, sweeping soft gold and brown tones across Cynthia’s...