C13 Thirteen

~Damien's POV~

I haven't felt this alive in years.

Not even when Herman shipped me off to Europe, convinced that military-grade discipline could burn the fire out of me. The cold showers, the brutal drills, and the endless boardroom simulations. All of it meant to scrub away the rage and shape me into something useful.

It worked for a while until I saw Bianca Calloway again, and every buried ember roared back to life. First, at the cemetery, where she started rambling—regret, wrong choices, sorrow pouring out like a confession no one asked for. I dropped her off and drove away. I should've left it at that, buried the past, like everyone always says.

But then she walked into my meeting.

Begging.

Asking for help to bring down her husband using my company—my resources. She said Nathan was responsible for her father's death. That he'd ruined everything.

That's when it stopped being coincidence.

This was opportunity.

What were the odds that I'd come back to New York and run into the woman who helped destroy me—twice—within two days?

There was desperation in her eyes now. And suddenly, it all felt… poetic.

Why not make her mine?

Why not reduce her to what she once mocked others for being?

Six months. That's what the contract demands. It's all there in a language only a fool would skim past. And Nathan? He practically sprinted to sign.

From what I've been told, the man's been sniffing around Sinclair Industries for years. One handshake, and he puffed up like we were best friends from high school. He didn't even bother asking for legal counsel. His arrogance made my job laughably easy.

I added one clause, buried in Subsection 3, Page 9. A binding agreement placing Bianca directly under my authority for the duration of the deal.

Elena Martins was the cherry on top. Nathan's not-so-secret secret. Her father's been circling Bianca's family company for years. And when I discovered she and Nathan were having an affair, everything fell into place.

Maybe Bianca's not wrong about her father's death, but if she has proof, she's not sharing it—not yet. Still, this isn't about justice; it's about control, and Bianca's the perfect pawn.

Now, the dining hall had gone still. Forks hovered mid-air, eyes were locked on her, and wine was forgotten. All attention was on her.

Nathan grabbed the file, flipping through it quickly. His face drained when he hit the page—Subsection 3. There it was. Bold and final.

He dropped back into his seat as if the ground had disappeared beneath him.

I didn't even bother to smirk.

This part—this part was always predictable: panic, blame, performance.

Bianca stood then, fury shaking her petite frame. "You tricked me. I never agreed to this!"

Cameras flashed as murmurs rippled across the table like aftershocks. The vultures were already circling. I dropped into my seat, calm and collected.

"I didn't trick you, Mrs. Hayes. I asked your husband if he read the terms. He said yes. And you?" I raised an eyebrow. "You had the contract in your hands. I didn't stop you from reading. I didn't force either of you to sign."

She opened her mouth, but Nathan gripped her arm.

"We need a moment," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Excuse us."

I nodded mildly. "You've got thirty minutes."

He pulled her away, both of them pale and rattled. I didn't follow. I didn't need to.

She'd come back.

They always did when I won.

Rising from my seat, I buttoned my jacket as I glanced toward Elena. She was still sitting there, frozen in place, blinking like someone had just flipped on the lights.

Poor thing. By morning, she'd be nothing but yesterday's news.

I tossed one last look over the table. "Enjoy your dessert," I murmured, before striding toward the exit.

Behind me, the room hummed with chaos. Voices rose, and reputations fractured at the revelation.

And yet, I felt nothing but calm because, for the first time in years, Bianca Calloway was exactly where I wanted her.

And this game?

It had only just begun.

~. ~. ~.

~Bianca's POV~

~. ~. ~.

The heavy door slammed behind me.

Nathan's grip loosened just enough for me to rip my arm free, but not before he nudged me into the guest room at the bottom of the stairs. It was a room reserved for distant relatives or emergencies, not for wives being traded like commodities.

Pacing the small space, each step in my heels struck the tiled floor with a sting, my breath uneven. The echo of laughter and glass clinks from the dinner party above rang distant and cruel.

"I can't believe this," I whispered. "I cannot believe this is happening."

Nathan lowered himself onto the edge of the bed like he was settling into a meeting—calm, crisp, and perfectly composed. He adjusted his cufflinks before looking up at me, his voice smooth.

"What if we… agreed to it?"

I froze, turned, and stared at him like he'd just asked me to walk barefoot into a fire.

"Agreed?" I repeated slowly, with each syllable carved from disbelief.

Standing, palms up like I were a rabid animal in need of coaxing, he said, "Bianca, listen. This doesn't have to be a bad thing. Think about it, this could actually better the company. Sinclair Industries backing us? It's everything we need. And it's only six months."

My mouth parted, but no words came. Not because I was speechless, but because everything suddenly fell into brutal focus.

Of course, he didn't care.

He wasn't shocked. Wasn't outraged. Hell, he wasn't even curious about how the deal had been struck or what I'd be forced to do.

No, Nathan was busy calculating profit margins.

This wasn't a tragedy to him. It was a merger. A convenient exit.

And Elena, his darling little plaything, was already waiting in the wings.

Damien's move hadn't sabotaged Nathan; it had liberated him.

A low, bitter laugh curled in my chest—not loud, but buried deep, leaving me hollow.

Damien had known—he had counted on Nathan's cowardice, his ambition, his spine made of gleaming glass. And me? I had actually dared to believe, even for a moment, that Nathan might fight for me. That he might choose me.

What a fool I was.

But now I understood exactly where I stood.

If Damien wanted me in his house, in his bed—fine.

Because in his world, I still had something left: leverage, a name, a history, and a plan—and with that came a path back to my father's legacy, to the life that had been stolen from me.

All it would cost me was six months.

Just six months of pretending.

Nathan stepped closer, hand brushing my arm like I hadn't just been sold. "You love me, right? Then do this, for the company. For us."

He smiled as if he were asking me to pose for a fundraiser, not barter my body for corporate salvation.

"He's powerful," he added. "But he's not stupid. I'm sure he'll treat you well. And I'll be around. I'll check on you. If he does anything... call me."

I blinked, then again. Was this real?

He kissed my forehead like a father would a child. "I love you."

Tears pricked my eyes, crafted and deliberate, not for him anymore.

"I love you too," I whispered, my voice trembling just right, and his smile deepened, triumphant.

As we stepped back into the hallway, a murmur of laughter and classical music floated from above. I peeled away and headed for the stairs while he went back to center stage. And then, I heard him say it.

"She told me herself. She didn't want me to miss this opportunity. She said she's willing."

Willing?

The word punched me in the face.

Reaching my room in seconds, I slammed the door behind me so hard the frames rattled.

I wasn't willing.

I was cornered.

Yanking open drawers, I tore clothes off hangers—every bland outfit tailored to Nathan's tastes, to the image he curated: polished wife, obedient trophy. I didn't fold a thing, just stuffed them into a suitcase. No more perfection. No more rules.

If I was going to walk into Damien Sinclair's world, I'd do it on my own terms. And I'd wear war paint, not pearls.

Each zip of my suitcase was a vow.

Six months to rise from the ashes and take back what was mine.

By the time I descended the staircase again, the party had seamlessly resumed. Laughter, soft music, champagne flutes. Carefully arranged normalcy. Nathan was already seated beside Elena, slipping effortlessly into his next chapter.

I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a headache.

As I approached, he stood as though overcome with emotion, choking on air and dabbing at imaginary tears.

"She's the best woman I know," he announced, voice thick with performance. "And I love her so much."

I nearly gagged.

Leaning in, he whispered against my temple, "Did you take your medicine?"

My stomach twisted.

"It's packed in my bag," I said sweetly.

"Don't forget. It's for your health."

I smiled and nodded.

Liar.

Turning, I walked toward the door, the car, Damien, and whatever came next. Camera flashes lit up behind me like tiny explosions, but I didn't look back.

I inhaled the cold night air, feeling it burn in my lungs.

In six months, I was getting everything back.

My father's name.

My life.

My power.

And Nathan Calloway?

He'd pay.

In full.