Elena didn't remember agreeing to leave the office immediately.
Yet here she was, seated in the back of a sleek black car that smelled of leather and power, watching the city blur past her window. The folder Victor Hale had closed moments earlier felt heavier than iron, even though it now rested on his desk instead of her hands.
Her phone vibrated.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: We're ten minutes away.
She swallowed.
Ten minutes away from what, exactly? Her new prison? Her new life?
The car slowed and turned through tall iron gates that slid open silently. Elena's breath caught as the mansion came into view—massive, modern, cold. Glass walls reflected the evening sky like unfeeling eyes.
This wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
The car stopped. The driver stepped out and opened her door.
"This way, Miss Moore."
Miss Moore.
The title felt strange now, as if it no longer belonged to her.
Inside, the mansion was quiet—too quiet. Marble floors gleamed beneath soft lighting, every surface flawless, untouched. Elena's footsteps echoed as she followed the driver inside.
Victor was already there.
He stood near the staircase, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket discarded, revealing forearms that made her heart stumble traitorously. He looked at her the same way he had in his office—calm, assessing, unreadable.
"You're punctual," he said. "Good."
She tightened her grip on her bag. "Where is everyone?"
"I don't like noise." His gaze flicked over her dress, her shoes, the tension in her posture. "You'll learn that."
A woman appeared from a side corridor. Older. Sharp-eyed.
"This is Mrs. Carter," Victor said. "She runs the house."
Mrs. Carter nodded politely. "Your room is ready."
Elena froze. "My room?"
Victor's lips curved slightly. "You didn't think I'd make you sleep in the guest wing, did you?"
Heat rushed to her face. "That wasn't part of—"
"I decide what's part of this arrangement." His voice was calm, but final. "Come."
He turned and walked upstairs without waiting.
Elena followed, every step heavier than the last.
The bedroom was enormous. Dark walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed so large it felt obscene. Elena stopped just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of how small she was in this space.
Victor gestured lazily. "Bathroom. Closet. Balcony."
Her heart raced. "You said I would live here. Not—"
"Not share a room?" He stepped closer, stopping just short of her. "Appearances matter, Elena."
Her name on his lips sent an unwanted shiver through her.
"You don't touch me unless I allow it," she said quickly, lifting her chin. "That should be clear."
For a moment, something dark flickered in his eyes.
Then he smiled.
"I like that you think you're still negotiating."
Her pulse pounded.
He moved closer—too close. She could smell him now. Clean. Male. Dangerous.
"Rule one," he said quietly. "You don't argue with me in public or private."
She opened her mouth.
"Rule two," he continued. "You do exactly what I ask when I ask it."
Her fingers curled.
"Rule three," he finished, his voice lowering, "you do not fall in love with me."
Her breath caught.
She laughed softly, nervously. "Trust me. That won't be a problem."
Victor leaned down, his lips close to her ear.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I don't forgive emotional attachments."
He straightened and stepped away as if nothing had happened.
"You'll attend a charity dinner with me tomorrow night," he said. "You'll smile. You'll stay by my side. And you'll remember who you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone," Elena snapped.
Victor paused at the door and looked back at her.
"You signed the contract," he said calmly. "You belong to the role I give you."
The door closed behind him.
Elena stood alone in the room, her heart racing, her skin tingling where he had stood too close.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling.
She hated him.
She hated this house.
And she hated the traitorous heat pooling in her stomach when she remembered the way his voice had softened when he said her name.
This was dangerous.
And she had a terrible feeling it was only the beginning.