Sold to the CEO, Loved by the Devil

Everyone in New York feared Dominic Blackwood.

Sienna Hart had never even heard his name, until the night her father sold her to him.

It began with a phone call at 11:48 p.m.

Sienna was on the night shift at St. Mary's Hospital, holding a cup of cold coffee, with a stranger's blood still drying on her sleeve, when her phone lit up.

Dad.

She almost let it ring. Her father, Harold Langford, had not called her in four months. The last time he did, he asked to borrow money from a nurse who was already drowning in her little brother's medical bills.

Noah was ten years old, and he was asleep in a hospital bed two floors above her. He was the only person in the world Sienna would burn herself down for.

"Dad?"

"Come home." Harold's voice sounded thin and wrong. "Right now, Sienna."

"I'm at work. Noah's ward needs me, I can't just..."

"Please."

She froze. Her father had never said "please" to her in twenty-four years.

Three black cars waited outside the Langford house like a funeral procession. No licence plates. Engines off.

Sienna's heartbeat quickened as she pushed open the front door.

The living room looked like a courtroom. Two men in black suits stood by the entrance, faces blank. A thin man in a grey suit sat on the sofa with a silver briefcase on his knees.

In the armchair sat Diane, her stepmother. Harold had married her barely a year after Sienna's mother died, and in the nine years since, Diane had never once pretended to be kind. Tonight she wore a silk robe, her back perfectly straight, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

On the staircase lounged Camille, Diane's daughter and Sienna's stepsister. She was twenty-three, beautiful, spoiled, and obsessed with marrying a rich man. She was painting her nails, with the look of someone settling in to enjoy a show.

And in the middle of the room stood Harold himself, gripping a glass of whiskey so hard that the ice rattled.

"Somebody tell me what is going on," Sienna said.

Nobody answered. Then Harold's knees gave way, and he dropped onto the carpet in front of her.

"Sienna... I have done something terrible."

It came out in pieces, each one worse than the last.

For three years, Harold had been quietly stealing from Blackwood Group, the billion-dollar empire that was the biggest client of his small logistics company. A little at first. Then a lot. Gambling debts, hidden losses, lies stacked on top of lies.

"How much?" Sienna asked.

Her father could not say it. The man in grey said it for him.

"Forty million dollars."

The air left her lungs.

"I am Mr. Grant, legal counsel to Mr. Dominic Blackwood," he went on, in a voice as smooth as glass. "By nine tomorrow morning, your father will be arrested. He will spend the rest of his life in prison."

"Good," Camille murmured, blowing on her nails. "Oh, wait. That affects us too."

"Camille," Diane warned.

Sienna ignored them both. "Then why are you in this house at midnight, instead of a police station?"

Mr. Grant opened his briefcase and slid a thick folder across the table. "Because Mr. Blackwood is willing to make a deal."

"One year," he said. "You marry Mr. Blackwood for one year. In return, your father's debt disappears. Your brother's treatment, every cent, at the best clinic in the country, will be paid in full."

The silence was so heavy it hurt.

Then Sienna laughed.

It was not a happy laugh. It cracked in the middle. "My father steals forty million dollars, and the punishment is a husband?"

"Mr. Blackwood needs a wife within thirty days," said Mr. Grant. "That is all I am permitted to say."

Harold dragged himself closer and caught her hands. "Sienna, please. Noah needs that treatment. Your mother would have wanted..."

She ripped her hands away so hard that he nearly fell.

"Do not," she said, her voice low and shaking with something far more dangerous than tears, "say my mother's name."

Camille jumped to her feet, and her nail polish bottle hit the floor. "This is insane! I am the one who goes to galas. I know how to talk to men like that. Why would he want her?"

Diane's eyes flicked to the lawyer. For once, she wanted to know the answer too.

Mr. Grant did not even blink. "Mr. Blackwood's instructions were very clear. He asked for Sienna Hart. By name."

Something cold slid down Sienna's spine.

By name?

She had never met Dominic Blackwood. She had never even seen his face. A man like that could have any woman in the world. Why would he choose a night-shift nurse with a sick brother and a thief for a father?

She thought of Noah, his small cough, his bright smile even when he was too tired to speak. She thought of the number the doctor had written on a scrap of paper, a number she could not earn in a hundred lifetimes.

"I want to read every word," she said.

Mr. Grant stared at her. Clearly, nobody had ever said that to him.

She was only on page six when the whole house seemed to hold its breath.

Outside, a car door closed. It was not slammed. It was closed, slowly, heavily, like the end of a sentence.

The two men by the door straightened. Harold stopped breathing. Even Camille's smirk vanished.

"He is here," Mr. Grant whispered, and for the first time that night, he looked afraid.

Footsteps crossed the hall, unhurried, each one echoing like a gavel.

The door opened.

The man who walked in wore a black coat dusted with rain. He did not look at anyone, and he did not need to. Every person in the room had already lowered their eyes: her father, her stepmother, even the bodyguards.

Everyone except Sienna.

She looked straight at him.

Dominic Blackwood was taller than she had imagined, with a face that might have been beautiful if it had held any warmth at all. His eyes were dark and cold, sharp enough to cut glass. They landed on her, and they stayed.

"So," he said quietly. "This is the girl they are selling me."

Then his gaze moved slowly around the room, and the temperature seemed to drop.

"Someone in this house," said the Devil of Wall Street, "has been lying to me. And I will find out who."

Nobody in the room dared to breathe.

Dominic Blackwood took off his wet coat and dropped it into a bodyguard's arms without even looking at him. Then he walked to the centre of the living room, and the whole space seemed to bend around him.

Sienna had heard stories about men like this, whispered in the hospital corridors. A patient's husband once said that Dominic Blackwood had destroyed a rival company in a single night, then sent the owner a bottle of wine to celebrate. A nurse swore he had fired two hundred people with one email and gone to dinner afterwards. They called him the Devil of Wall Street, and for the first time in her life, Sienna understood that it was not a joke.

He had not even raised his voice yet.

"Sit," he said.

It was a single word, and every person in the room obeyed.

Every person except Sienna.

She stayed on her feet, the folder pressed against her chest, and she saw it: a flicker in his dark eyes. It was so small that she might have imagined it, but she did not think she had.

Camille rose instead, smoothing her dress, tilting her head the way she always did in front of rich men. "Mr. Blackwood, I am Camille Langford. I have wanted to meet you for so long. If you needed a wife from this family, I think you will find that I am much more..."

He turned his head and looked at her.

That was all. He did not say a word.

Camille's mouth closed. She sat back down like a child who had touched a hot stove.

"Anyone else?" Dominic asked softly.

Diane lifted her chin. "Mr. Blackwood, my husband has made a terrible mistake, but we are a respectable family, and..."

"Mrs. Langford," he said, "your husband stole forty million dollars from me. Do not use the word respectable in my presence again."

Diane's face went white. She said nothing more.

Dominic walked slowly around the sofa and stopped in front of Harold, who was still sitting on the carpet like a broken puppet.

"Mr. Langford. A simple question." His voice was calm, which made it so much worse. "Whose idea was it to offer me your daughter?"

Harold's eyes darted left. Then right. Then, for one fraction of a second, they flicked towards Diane.

Sienna noticed. And she was almost certain that Dominic noticed too.

"Mine," Harold said hoarsely. "It was mine. I was desperate. I thought..."

"You are lying."

The words fell like a stone.

"You are a gambler and a thief, Mr. Langford. You are not clever enough to have designed this on your own. Somebody put the idea in your head." He crouched until his eyes were level with Harold's. "Who?"

"No one! I swear on my life..."

"He did say that..." Camille began, then stopped, as Diane's hand clamped around her wrist.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Dominic turned his head very slowly. "He did say what, Miss Langford?"

Camille's face lost all its colour. "N-nothing. I was confused. It has been such a long night..."

Dominic studied her for three long seconds. Then he straightened, and Sienna could not tell whether he believed her or had simply decided to wait.

He is not angry, she realised. He is collecting.

Every lie in this room was being filed away: every flinch, every glance, every stammer. And somewhere in this house, someone was hiding something far bigger than a stolen fortune.

"Mr. Grant," said Dominic, without turning. "The contract."

The lawyer hurried forward. "Miss Hart has been reading it, sir."

"Has she?"

For the first time since he had entered, Dominic Blackwood looked directly at Sienna.

Up close, he was even more unsettling. There were faint shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept properly in years. His jaw was hard, his stare steady, his black shirt perfectly pressed. There was not a single wasted movement in him, and not one ounce of warmth.

"You work at St. Mary's," he said, glancing at the badge still clipped to her uniform. "Night shift."

"Yes."

"You walked out of a ward at midnight, drove across the city, and found your father on the floor, your family lying to my face, and a stranger offering to marry you. Yet you are not crying." His head tilted slightly. "Why?"

"Because crying will not pay for my brother's treatment," Sienna said.

Something moved behind his eyes again. Interest, perhaps. Or suspicion.

"And why me?" she asked, before she could stop herself. "Your lawyer says you asked for me by name. I have never met you. So why me?"

The room held its breath.

Dominic stepped closer. Only a few inches separated them now, close enough that she could smell the rain on him, and something sharper underneath, like cedar and cold steel.

"Ask me again," he said quietly, "after you sign."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one you will get tonight."

Sienna's pulse thudded in her ears, but she held his gaze. She would not look away first. Not for him. Not for anyone.

A phone buzzed.

It was not hers. It was Dominic's.

He took it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, and for the first time that night, his face changed. It was subtle: a slight tightening around the mouth, a stillness that had not been there before.

"Mr. Grant," he said, very calmly. "Who knew I was coming to this house tonight?"

Mr. Grant blinked. "Only your security team, sir. And me."

"Then explain this."

He turned the screen towards the lawyer. Sienna caught only two words, in bold black letters, from a number saved as Unknown:

"Look outside."

Every head turned towards the window.

The curtains were open just a few inches. Beyond the glass lay the dark garden, the falling rain, the black shapes of the hedges.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then, between two trees, a figure stepped back into the shadows. It was slow, too slow to be an accident, as if whoever it was wanted to be seen.

Camille screamed. Diane clutched her chest. Harold dropped his glass, and whiskey spread across the carpet like blood.

"Lock every door," Dominic said. He did not raise his voice. One bodyguard was already at the front door, and the other was running towards the garden.

Mr. Grant's hands trembled. "Sir, how did they know you were here? Nobody..."

"Somebody did." Dominic's eyes moved slowly across the room, from face to face: Harold, Diane, Camille, Mr. Grant. Then they stopped on Sienna, and for a moment, she could not read them at all.

"Miss Hart," he said quietly. "Did you tell anyone I was coming?"

"I did not even know your name an hour ago," she snapped.

"Then someone in this room did." He picked up a pen from the table and held it out to her. "Sign, Miss Hart. Tonight. Whoever is out there is no longer content to watch."

Sienna looked at the pen. Then at the dark window. Then at the man she had never met, who was asking her to become his wife.

Her hand was shaking, but her voice was not.

"I am not signing anything I have not finished reading."

Dominic Blackwood went completely still.

And outside, in the garden, a bodyguard shouted a single, sharp sentence that made every person in the room freeze:

"Sir! There is someone out here!"

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then everything happened at once.

Dominic Blackwood was across the room before Sienna could blink. The front door slammed open, cold rain blew into the hall, and the first bodyguard, a broad man named Reed, thundered out into the garden with his hand inside his jacket.

"Nobody leaves this house," Dominic said, without turning. "Mr. Grant, keep them here."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

Sienna stood perfectly still in the middle of the Langford living room, the contract still clutched in her fist. Behind her, Camille was sobbing into her mother's shoulder. Diane was whispering something sharp and furious. Harold had crawled to the sofa and was staring at the carpet as if he wanted it to swallow him.

And Sienna's mind was running very fast.

Someone knew he would be here tonight. Someone texted him at the exact moment the figure appeared. Whoever it is wanted him to see them.

Why?

Fifteen minutes later, the front door opened again.

Dominic walked in, rain dripping from his black hair, his jaw hard as stone. Reed followed behind him, breathing heavily.

"Gone," Reed said quietly. "Over the back wall. We found footprints, but the rain washed out the rest."

"Cameras?"

"Dead. All six. Cut from the inside."

From the inside.

The words dropped into the room like a stone into deep water. Every person in the living room went silent, and nobody dared to look at anybody else.

Dominic's gaze slid slowly across the faces: Harold, Diane, Camille, Mr. Grant. Then it settled on Sienna, still holding the folder.

"You have not finished reading," he said.

"No."

"You have ten minutes."

Mr. Grant stepped forward in alarm. "Sir, with respect, considering what just happened, it may be safer to..."

"Let her read."

The lawyer stopped.

Dominic sat down in the armchair opposite her, crossed one leg over the other, and waited as if he had all the time in the world.

The contract was thirty-one pages long.

Sienna read every line. Her father's breathing was loud in the silence. Camille kept sighing dramatically. Diane watched her like a cat watching a bird.

Page four. Page five. Dates, payments, penalties.

Then she reached page seven, and she stopped.

Clause 7. The Wife shall have no contact with any member of her family, including siblings, without the prior written approval of the Husband.

She read it once. Twice. A third time.

Then she looked up.

"Clause seven," she said.

"What about it?" Dominic asked.

"It says I cannot see my brother without your permission."

Camille actually smirked. "Oh, just sign it, Sienna. Do you think anyone in this room is going to feel sorry for you?"

"The clause protects the arrangement," Dominic said evenly. "Your family has already shown that it cannot be trusted."

"My brother is ten years old," Sienna said. "He is lying in a hospital bed with a sickness that could kill him. He has no one but me. Do you really think I will sign away the right to hold his hand?"

"You will be paid. Your brother's treatment will be..."

"Strike it out."

The room froze.

Mr. Grant made a small choking noise. Diane's eyes widened. Even Harold lifted his head.

Dominic did not move. "I beg your pardon?"

"Strike it out." Sienna's voice trembled, but she did not stop. "I see Noah every single day. No approval, no permission, no one watching, no one reporting back to you. That is my condition. If you refuse, find another wife."

"You are in no position to negotiate, Miss Hart."

"Then I will walk out of this door, and you can arrest my father in the morning. Prison for him, a hunt for a new bride for you. I have already lost everything else. What exactly can you take?"

Silence.

It lasted so long that she heard the rain tapping at the windows, the clock in the hall, and her own heart pounding against her ribs.

Then something astonishing happened.

The corner of Dominic Blackwood's mouth moved. It was not quite a smile. It was far too small for that. But for a single second, the Devil of Wall Street looked at her as if she were the first interesting thing he had seen in years.

"Nobody has spoken to me like that," he said slowly, "in eleven years."

"Then you are overdue."

Mr. Grant looked as if he might faint.

Dominic held out his hand. "Pen."

Mr. Grant fumbled and handed him one. Dominic took the contract, found page seven, and drew a single hard black line through Clause 7. He initialled the margin, then wrote below it in his sharp, slanted handwriting:

Miss Hart may visit her brother daily, without restriction. One security officer will remain outside the door. Not negotiable.

He pushed it back across the table.

"Your brother's safety is not something I will gamble with," he said. "Whoever was in that garden tonight was not here for me alone."

Sienna read the new line twice. It was a compromise, but it was real. She could live with it.

She took the pen.

Her signature looked small beside his.

Sienna Hart.

Her hand did not shake. It was only afterwards, when she set the pen down, that she realised she was holding her breath.

"It is done," said Mr. Grant, almost in relief.

"Is it?" Camille murmured, to no one in particular.

Dominic rose to his feet. For a moment, he simply looked at the signed contract, and Sienna could not read his expression at all.

"You belong to my name now," he said quietly. "Which means you also belong to my enemies. Remember that."

"Is that a warning?"

"It is a fact."

Before she could answer, the front door opened again. Reed came in alone, rain streaming from his shoulders, and in his hand he held a small black envelope.

"Sir," he said. "This was on the front step. It was not there when we arrived."

Dominic took the envelope. The paper was thick and expensive. There was no stamp, no address, just two words written across the front in elegant black ink:

Mrs. Blackwood.

Sienna's stomach dropped.

"That is impossible," she whispered. "I signed less than a minute ago."

"Yes," Dominic said, very softly. "That is what worries me."

He tore the envelope open. A single photograph slid out and landed on the table.

It was a hospital window, lit from behind in the dark. Through the glass, small and clear, lay the outline of a child sleeping in a bed.

Noah.

Sienna's knees nearly gave way. Dominic caught her elbow without looking at her, his eyes still locked on the note folded behind the picture. He unfolded it and read it in silence.

Then she saw his face change.

All the cold control drained out of it. His jaw tightened, and his fingers closed slowly around the paper.

"What does it say?" Sienna's voice cracked. "Dominic. What does it say?"

He did not answer. He was staring at the handwriting as if he had seen a ghost.

For the first time that night, the Devil of Wall Street looked afraid.