And everywhere I looked, I saw him. His taste. His presence. The way everything was carefully curated, controlled, and owned.
Just like he wanted to own me.
The thought should have scared me. And it did, in a way. But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.
He led me to a room at the end of the hall, pushing open a door to reveal a bedroom that was bigger than my old apartment. The bed was massive, covered in dark linens, with pillows that looked obscenely soft. The windows faced the city, causing the lights to reflect off the glass.
“This would be yours,” he said, his voice low.
I turned to look at him. He was standing close, closer than I’d realized. His eyes were dark, intense, boring into me as if they could see straight through to my soul.
“My room?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Your room. Or part of it. You also have a private bathroom.” He paused. “The arrangement is what we discussed. You stay here, I provide for you, and in exchange, you marry me. You are to be my wife for one year. That’ll be enough to please my father.”
My heart hammered. “And the… other parts?”
His lips curled into a slow, devious, smile. “The marriage will be real enough to convince my family, but what happens between us, behind closed doors, that’s up to you.”
I should have felt relieved. The only expectation: play the perfect show wife.
But the way he looked at me—the way his eyes traced the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts, the line of my lips—made me feel like he was undressing me with his gaze. And the worst part?
I wanted him to.
I hated myself for it. For being so desperate, so broken, so weak, that I was attracted to the man who was buying me.
But I couldn’t deny it.
He was sexy.
And I was scared.
And I had no other options.
I let out a shaky breath, looking away from him, focusing on the view outside the window. The city lights were starting to flicker on, one by one, like stars descending to earth.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped closer, and suddenly the air seemed to shift, thickening with the tension between us. His hand lifted, knuckles nearly grazing my cheek as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from my face. The scent of his cologne—dark, expensive—wrapped around me. When his fingers slid against my skin, the touch was gentle, almost reverent, so careful I could barely feel it, and yet it burned. I felt heat bloom low in my belly, conflicting with a knot of fear in my chest.
My breath stuttered as my heart hammered, every nerve ending alive and focused on the point where his skin met mine. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to lean in. I couldn’t decide. All I could do was tremble, caught between desire and panic, as his eyes watched me as if he already knew every secret I was trying to bury.
“You can,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is trust me.”
He hesitated, then let his hand linger by my cheek, voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “I know this is a lot. If you need time, take it.”
I looked at him, into those dark, depthless eyes. They held secrets. Pain. An obsession that I didn’t understand.
But they also held something else.
A promise.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted to believe it.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I whispered.
His smile widened, and I felt as if I’d just stepped off a cliff.
