C3 The Ruthless Billionaire

The car ride ended in front of a steel and glass building that looked like it could cut through the sky. Elena went outside, and her heels clicked on the polished marble steps that shone like blades in the morning sun. Blackwood Tower loomed over her, a building that gave off an air of luxury and danger.

Two guards dressed in dark suits stood in front of the big glass doors. Their faces were like stone, but when their eyes flickered over her—this fallen heiress in a borrowed dress—there was something else: sympathy, mixed with dread.

"Miss Marlowe," one said, his voice deep yet cautious. "This way."

Elena raised her chin. "I know the way to a cage when I see one."

The second guard moved and his lips twitched as if he was holding back a comment. "Be careful with that tongue." "He does not tolerate arrogance."

"Then I guess he and I will fight a lot," she said as she stepped forward. Her heart raced, but she wouldn't give in.

The doors of the lift opened, and she was surrounded by mirrored walls. Her mirror gazed back at her. She had strong cheekbones and determination in her eyes, but there were shadows under them. The journey was quiet save for the sound of machines. The climb made her head spin as the floors below her became blurry.

When the doors opened, she saw a quiet hallway lined with art that was worth more than her family's ruined land. The soldiers took her to double doors that were taller than any she had ever seen. The doors were made of black wood and had patterns of fire and iron etched into them.

"Stay here," one said, voice tight.

She turned and looked him in the eye. There it was again, that flash of pity, even terror.

"What is he?" Elena asked in a low voice.

The guard didn't say anything. He unlocked the doors and stepped back as if letting a beast out.

The office was as big as a cathedral, with glass walls that looked out over the city. The skyscraper seemed to bend the weather to its will, since even though the sun was shining outside, rain streaked down the windows. There was a desk made of black stone at the far end that shone in the mild light.

The air changed. A person stepped out of the shadows behind the desk. Damian Blackwood.

He was taller than she thought, and his shoulders were square in a fitted suit that was as dark as midnight. His face was sharp and nearly attractive, but his mouth was nasty. His harsh, ruthless grey gaze held her in place like a hunter's prey.

"Elena Marlowe," he replied finally, his voice deep and silky, tinged with contempt. "So Gregory gave him his prize."

She made herself talk. "I'm not here to trade."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" His lips turned up a little, but it wasn't a smile. "You seem weaker than I thought."

Her hands were clasped at her sides. "And you look just like they claim you do. A vulture dressed in a suit.

He got closer, taking each step carefully and like a predator. He smelt like cedar and smoke, which was both enticing and dangerous. He stopped just a few inches away and tilted his head to look at her.

"Insults won't change your fate," he said softly. "But they do make me laugh."

The statements made her feel worse than being angry would have.

Damian pointed to the desk, where a stack of documents was nicely stacked. It felt like their weight was pulling on the air.

"This," he said, "is not a marriage. It is an arrangement. In public, you will act like a loyal wife. You are nothing more than a figurehead behind closed doors. There won't be any love, trust, or freedom. "Only looks."

Elena's throat got constricted. "You think you can make me an ornament?"

"I already have," he replied bluntly. "Sign, and your family will be safe." If you say no, they will disappear from this city as if they never existed.

She looked down at the paper. The name of her family jumped out at her in big letters: MARLOWE. It was there, stamped like property, and she had to use it as a bargaining chip in a game she didn't want to play.

Even though she didn't want to, her fingers stroked the edge of the paper. She looked up at his face and saw neither mercy or empathy. Only iron will.

In that quiet, Elena realised she was looking at the man who had no mercy on her family.

Elena's eyes narrowed as she pushed the papers back across the desk. Her voice broke, not because she was weak but because she was angry.

"Why me, Damian? Why do you want to pull me into your messed-up empire when there are so many other ladies in this city? You could have bought loyalty from anyone, but you chose me. "Why?"

Damian crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. His eyes swept over her face as if they were taking note of every sign of disobedience.

He said, "You already know why," in a tone that was almost funny.

"I want to hear it from you," she said sharply as she moved closer. Even though she gripped her hands tightly enough to leave crescent markings on her palms, they shook. "I want to know what game you're really playing." Is it me that you want? Your doll? Or is this just a way for you to see me beg?

His face tightened, and the small smile disappeared. "You think you're more important than you are. It's not about you; it's about your blood. Your name."

She raised her chin. "Then say it." "Be honest with me."

He rushed quickly, throwing his hand down on the stone desk. The sound echoed off the glass walls and shook the big office. Elena flinched even though she didn't want to.

"Because revenge tastes better cold," he growled, his voice full of hate.

His angry looks made her stop talking. For one brief moment, she didn't see the billionaire; she saw the hurt boy buried beneath him. The youngster had learnt how to use his pain as a weapon.

She couldn't breathe because his obsession was pressing against her chest and stealing the air.

Damian stood up carefully, moving with purpose and precision, like a creature stalking its prey. He moved slowly across the space between them, pausing so near that she could feel the heat of his body and the slight brush of his breath on her cheek.

"You want answers?" His voice got lower, and each syllable was a mix of ice and fire. "Here they are. Your family ruined my. And now I'm going to kill you.

Elena's heart raced in her throat, but she made herself speak calmly. "You've underestimated me if you think I'll let you break me."

His lips turned up slightly, but the smile didn't feel warm. "You'll bend." They all do. It won't be because I made you do it, though. You opted to live instead of being proud. Just like your dad.

Her defiance faded and was replaced by rage. "Don't you dare talk about him."

He leaned in closer, and the smell of cedar and steel was too much. His hand raised, neither rough nor soft, and touched her chin with the back of his fingers. The touch was icy and planned, as if it were testing the limits of her strength.

Elena shivered and couldn't stop herself, even though she hated herself for it. He looked at her trembling lips for a long time before turning away and going back to the darkness of his office, as if she were already gone.

The sound of his promise still hung in the air, burning into her bones.