Chapter 2 The Billionaire's Conditions

The drive was silent.

The kind of silence that crawled into your skin and stayed there. Isla sat stiffly in the back of the Rolls Royce, her arms pressed to her sides as the car slid through the city like a black shark, smooth and ominous.

Beside her, Damien Blackwood was silent too but his presence filled the entire car. Tall. Composed. Deadly.

He hadn't spoken since she signed the contract. He didn't have to.

His silence said everything.

He was the buyer.

She was the possession.

And the deal was done.

She clutched the hem of her satin dress, still wearing the same gown from the auction-crimson, wrinkled, stained by fear and sweat. The scent of expensive cologne lingered in the car's cabin, cold and sharp like winter.

She risked a glance at him.

He looked out the window, his jaw tense. The low lights from passing traffic highlighted the cut of his cheekbones and the steel beneath his skin. Every inch of him screamed restraint. Precision. Ruthlessness wrapped in designer clothing.

His voice cut through the silence without warning.

"Take that off when we arrive. It's no longer yours."

Her stomach turned. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he said, still not looking at her. "That dress belongs to the man who sold you. It stays behind with your past."

She folded her arms, her chin tilting up. "And what do I wear instead? Chains?"

His head turned, and this time, his gaze landed on her, sharp and cool and so damn unreadable.

"You'll wear what I give you," he said simply. "Eat what I serve. Speak only when spoken to. I didn't buy you for your defiance."

She flinched. "Then why did you buy me at all?"

The corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. "Because I could."

She looked away, heat building in her throat. Tears threatened to rise but she shoved them back down where they belonged.

He would not see her break.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

---

The car slowed, pulling beneath a towering skyscraper wrapped in glass and shadow. The building stretched into the clouds, a fortress above the world. A doorman rushed to open Damien's door before the vehicle even came to a full stop.

He stepped out like royalty.

Isla hesitated.

The door on her side swung open.

She was already in a cage.

Now she was stepping into its highest tower.

The penthouse was the definition of luxury-cold, breathtaking, and utterly empty of warmth.

Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the city. Crystal decanters, designer furniture, dim recessed lighting casting shadows across pristine walls.

It was a palace.

And it felt nothing like a home.

Damien walked ahead, not waiting. He moved with the kind of authority that told her everything in this place belonged to him including her.

Isla's heels clicked behind him as she followed, silent and tense.

He opened a door without ceremony and gestured inside.

"This is your room," he said.

She stepped inside cautiously. Her breath caught.

A massive bed with black silk sheets. Soft lights. Clean lines. No clutter. No soul.

She turned to him. "You expect me to sleep here? With you?"

Damien didn't blink. "You're my wife now, Isla. In name. In papers. In image. That includes appearances."

Her voice rose. "I didn't agree to that in your damn contract."

He stepped forward slowly. Not with menace, but precision , like a predator making sure its prey didn't run.

"You agreed to play the part," he said. "And if the world expects a happy couple, you'll deliver one. Smile. Pose. Wear the red lipstick."

Her hands clenched at her sides. "And in private?"

He looked down at her, eyes unreadable.

"In private, you'll sleep on the left side. I won't touch you unless you beg."

The heat in her cheeks was immediate-shame, fury, confusion.

"Don't flatter yourself," she spat.

He smirked slightly. "You're not my type."

A low hum of something , something dark and wounded , rippled beneath his words. Like there was more to it. Like he'd been burned before.

But Isla didn't care.

"Then why this?" she demanded. "Why trap me here like some... plaything?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then he said, quietly, "Because your father ruined something I can't get back. And you're what he had left to lose."

Her breath caught.

There it was.

Revenge.

Her life had become currency in a war she hadn't started.

---

He handed her a folder.

"Read it. It outlines your restrictions. No visitors. No phones. No outside communication unless approved. You'll attend events when I say. Smile when I say. Leave when I say."

"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice a whisper of defiance.

He stepped close again.

"I make your life very, very difficult."

Their eyes locked. Fire and ice. No words between them.

Then he stepped back.

"I suggest you rest. You have a fitting tomorrow. I expect you to look like someone worth ten million dollars."

He left the room without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She stood in the center of the room for what felt like hours.

The silence was louder than anything he'd said.

On the bed, folded neatly, was a pale silk nightgown. Next to it, a note in perfect handwriting.

"Be ready by seven. Red dress. Hair up. Speak only when asked."

-D.B.

Isla stared at the words, then tore the note in half.

She didn't cry.

She wouldn't give him that.

Instead, she walked to the window and stared down at the glittering city far below.

They called her his wife.

But she wasn't a bride.

She was a prisoner in lipstick and heels.

And somewhere deep inside, a vow began to form:

If I can't escape him... I'll outplay him.