I didnt sleep that night, I just couldn't. How could I, when I'd just sold my soul to the devil in an expensive suit?
By morning, I was a mess,mascara smudged, hair tangled, body aching like I'd been in a fight. Maybe I had, just not the kind that leaves visible bruises.
The knock at my apartment door was sharp and impatient. I dragged myself out of bed, yanking it open to find a man in a crisp black suit, sunglasses hiding his eyes.
"Miss Cole," he said smoothly. "Mr. Black sent me to collect you."
"Collect me? What the hell do you mean by collect. Like I'm some item, collect me? I repeated, still half-asleep.
"You'll be moving into his residence. Immediately."
I laughed. Actually laughed. "Tell him that's not fucking happening."
The man didn't even blink. "It's not a request."
Before I could slam the door in his face, two more men appeared behind him, already carrying my suitcases my suitcases out of my apartment.
"How….what the hell?" I stammered, chasing after them. "You broke into my place?"
"Mr. Black doesn't like delays, please get into the vehicle ma'am. Mr black permitted me to use a little bit of force if necessary to get you to the house, and we wouldn't that now, so please ma'am." the driver replied calmly, guiding me toward a black car that probably cost more than my apartment building.
The ride to Damien's home—no, mansion—was silent except for the pounding in my ears. When we pulled up, I felt my throat tighten. The place was massive, all glass walls and sharp angles, the kind of property you only see in magazines and movies.
The front door opened before we even reached it. Damien stood there, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who owned the world and everything in it.
"You're late," he said.
"It's eight in the morning," I shot back. "Normal people are still asleep."
"Normal people aren't my wife," he replied, stepping aside so I could enter.
Wife. The word burned, heavy and suffocating.
Inside, the house was stunning white marble floors, a sweeping staircase, crystal chandeliers but it felt cold, like beauty necessary stripped of warmth.
Damien's assistant, a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and sharper heels, appeared at my side. "I'll show you to your room, Mrs. Black."
"I'm not….." I began, but Damien's voice cut through the air.
"Yes, you are."
I turned to glare at him, but he only smirked like he enjoyed watching me choke on my own rage.
The assistant led me up the staircase, down a long hallway, and into a bedroom the size of my entire apartment. My clothes were already hanging neatly in the walk-in closet. My toiletries lined the bathroom counter.
It was unsettling. Like he'd been planning this for a long time.
The assistant left without a word, and I stood there, trying to process. I'd just placed my things inside the closet when I heard it footsteps behind me.
Damien leaned casually against the doorway. "Get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs."
"I'm not hungry."
He stepped inside, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "When I tell you to eat, you eat."
I tilted my chin up, refusing to back down. "When I tell you to go to hell, you go."
His eyes darkened, that dangerous spark lighting up in them. "Careful, Elena. I might start enjoying this too much."
I brushed past him without another word, marching down the stairs. The dining table was long enough to seat twenty, but only two places were set. I sat at the far end out of pure spite.
He didn't comment. Just sipped his coffee and watched me, like he was cataloging every flicker of emotion.
Halfway through my toast, I spoke. "I have work, I'm going to work today."
"No, you're not."
I froze, the knife in my hand clinking against the plate. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
He leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered. "You're my wife. My responsibility. No wife of mine works for someone else."
I laughed in disbelief. "Your responsibility? You don't even like me."
"That's irrelevant."
"No, what is irrelevant is your opinion," I snapped. "I am not going to be some rich man's dependent. I have my own life, my own job—"
His voice dropped, cold and final. "Not anymore."
I slammed my napkin on the table, standing so fast the chair screeched. "Go fuck yourself, Damien."
Something in his jaw ticked, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he simply said, "We'll see."
Five minutes later, his driver was escorting me to work. I thought I'd won until Damien showed up at my office hours later.
The receptionist's eyes went wide as he strode in like he owned the place, his assistant trailing behind.
"I need to see your boss," he told me.
"Damien what the hell, what the fuck are you doing here. Whatever it is please don't," I warned.
He smiled, that infuriating curve of his mouth that said he'd already decided. "Show me his office, Elena."
My stomach knotted as I led him down the hall. He walked in without knocking, shutting the door behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged with a stack of documents in hand.
"What did you do?" I demanded.
He adjusted his cufflinks, utterly calm. "I just bought the company."
I stared at him, speechless.
"Now," he said smoothly, "you don't have to worry about working under anyone else. You work for me now. "
My blood boiled over, but all he did was give me that dark, triumphant smile.
Checkmate.