C14 Fourteen

~Bianca's POV~

The silence in the car had teeth.

For five whole minutes, Damien sat across from me, legs crossed, phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen like I wasn't even there. Like he hadn't just detonated my entire life and walked away without a scratch.

The air felt thick, not just with tension but with velvet-wrapped control. Power hummed from the leather seats, the dark panels, and the unopened champagne nestled in the console. Every inch of the vehicle whispered: Obey.

I didn't move, my jaw locked and shoulders squared, as my gaze lingered on the details, but all I could feel was the pressure building inside me.

Then finally, I broke the silence.

"So now that you've gotten what you wanted… do I get what I asked for?"

His thumb paused mid-scroll, and he slowly lowered the phone, eyes lifting to meet mine. A flicker of amusement danced at the corner of his mouth. "Which is?"

I clenched my fists. "What I said this morning. At your company. Don't pretend you don't remember."

He tilted his head. "Ah. That."

A beat.

"Not yet."

He tapped the tinted glass before I could snap. It lowered noiselessly, revealing a suited man who handed him a sleek black folder and pen. Damien passed them to me without comment.

"Take it," he said.

My fingers hesitated, then closed around the folder.

"It's the contract," he continued in a smooth voice. "Your role, my terms, and your revenge."

Opening it, I flipped through quickly. Legal jargon, yes, but the meaning was crystal clear.

I was his. Entirely.

No room for argument, no escape clause. If he called, I answered. If he wanted, I gave. On the other hand, his promise to help destroy Nathan was detailed, signed, enforceable—ironclad.

Six months. That was all.

And I had asked for this.

With a breath I didn't realize I was holding, I signed.

Our fingers brushed as I handed it back. The contact lit something beneath my skin I didn't want to name.

He passed the folder through the window with a casual flick. "Good."

The car rolled to a stop.

The door opened, and he stepped out, the night air kissing his sharp profile as he turned back.

"You coming?"

I stared for a second and then followed.

The mansion towered in front of me—ancient stone, wrought iron, lanterns glowing like embers.

This wasn't the Damien I remembered. In high school, he was brilliant but broke and weak. And then, two years after prom, the unthinkable happened.

Herman Sinclair—the billionaire devil with a kingdom of blood and silence—announced he had a son.

This son.

Damien.

How? And why him?

I didn't know, but I intended to find out.

He was already at the top step when I reached the door. It opened before I could knock, revealing a golden glow and a woman standing tall, her gray hair in a neat twist.

"Martha," Damien greeted, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Welcome home, sir," she replied warmly.

There was an unexpected and jarring softness in his tone with her.

He turned to me. "This is Martha, the head maid. She'll show you to your room and explain the house."

Then he vanished down the hall like I was nothing more than a checkmark on his to-do list.

Martha smiled at me gently. "Come, dear. Let's get you settled."

me, pointing out the breakfast nook, the pool, the gym, and the endless wings of power disguised as comfort.

My room made me stop in my tracks: sprawling, with cream walls, a chandelier like a crown, and a balcony with a garden view—designed to remind you that money doesn't just talk, it silences.

"I'll let you unpack," Martha said kindly. "Someone will come for you later. Rest up. And welcome."

"Thank you," I whispered.

The door closed, and twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I said.

A young maid entered, carrying a black box. "Master Damien asked me to bring this. He said you're to freshen up and wait. I'll return in an hour."

I nodded numbly. She left, and I slowly walked over to the box, curiosity threading through my thoughts.

Lifting the lid, I froze at the sight—delicate red lace lingerie, so intricate and sensual, with a pair of black stilettos beside it. Heat flared in my cheeks, and my pride cracked, but his voice echoed in my mind: No complaints. No refusals.

My dress slid to the floor in silence. I stepped into the bathroom, turned on the water, and watched the steam rise like smoke off a battlefield.

Six months. Just six.

*****

An hour later, I was ready.

The red lace clung to my skin perfectly, and the heels made me taller, bolder—or maybe just easier to shatter.

I sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded, back straight. The antique clock ticked like a countdown.

Then there was the knock.

"Come in."

The same maid entered with a soft smile. "Master Damien asked me to do your makeup. He wants you perfect."

A flicker of emotion stirred—anger? embarrassment? I didn't know but I nodded anyway.

At the vanity, I met my reflection: a stranger in red.

The maid worked quickly. Foundation. Liner. Lashes. Lips the color of blood and secrets. Then she moved to my hair—curling, pinning, sculpting until it framed my face.

Another hour passed before she stepped back, and I stared at my reflection.

Who was this woman?

She was stunning, cold, composed, a weapon dressed to kill.

"You look beautiful," the maid said softly.

"Thank you."

"It's time."

We walked in silence down golden corridors that whispered wealth in every corner. I tried to memorize the route, but my mind pulsed with nerves.

Then we stopped in front of a tall, polished wooden door.

"This is as far as I go," she said, and I nodded once, too tight to speak, before she stepped back.

Facing the door, my heart pounded, my skin tingled, and my hands were cold. Then I opened it, and what I saw inside made my breath catch and my mouth fall open.