Blood dripped from her fingers, leaving crimson smears on the hotel room wall. Elena's breath came in ragged gasps as she backed away from the lifeless body on the floor.
She didn't remember grabbing the knife. She didn't remember the scream.
Only the voice — low, smooth, dangerous — still echoed in her ears.
"You never should have signed that contract."
Two weeks earlier.
Elena Cruz stood outside the ICU, staring at the pale outline of her brother through the glass. Machines beeped. Monitors blinked. Time was running out — and so was her hope.
"Miss Cruz," the nurse said gently. "If we don't proceed with the surgery tonight…"
"I know." Her voice cracked.
The cost? $80,000.Her bank account? $42.77.Her options? None.
Except one.
Her phone buzzed with a single message.
Come to Voss Tower. 10 p.m. One night. One offer. Don't be late. — D
Damien Voss.The city's most untouchable man. Billionaire. Cold-blooded negotiator.And the reason her father disappeared five years ago.
She had vowed never to speak his name again.Now she was about to become his wife.
(Part 2: The Offer She Can't Refuse)
Two hours later — Voss Tower, 47th Floor
Elena Cruz had never felt so small.
The elevator chimed softly as its doors slid open into a penthouse floor draped in silence and shadows. Dim lights glowed along the marble walls like embers in a dying fireplace. Everything smelled faintly of spice and danger — leather, cedarwood, and something darker.
She stepped out, heels echoing across the polished floor, heart threatening to crack her ribs with each beat.
He was already there.
Damien Voss.
Standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with the skyline behind him like a crown of glass and power, he looked like something carved from ice and arrogance. Six-foot-three. Tailored black suit. Sharp jaw. Not a single crease in his sleeve — not a single trace of mercy in his eyes.
Elena had read the rumors.She had ignored the warnings.But now, face to face with him, she felt the raw, suffocating weight of his presence.
Like gravity itself bowed to him.
"Miss Cruz," he said without turning. "You're five minutes late."
His voice was calm. Precise. No accent, no warmth — just cold silk.
"Traffic," she lied.
"I own the street," he said. "Try again."
She straightened her spine. "I had doubts."
Now he turned. Slowly.
His eyes met hers — cold gray, glinting like silver under a storm. He studied her the way a hunter studies something that bled too easily.
"And yet," he murmured, "here you are."
Her throat dried. "I need the money. My brother—"
"I know."
Of course he did. Damien Voss knew everything. Bank accounts. Medical reports. The fact that she'd sold her last gold earrings to pay for her brother's oxygen tank.
"I'll do it," she said, steeling her nerves. "Whatever it is. Just—help him. Please."
He walked toward her slowly, hands behind his back like a king in a court he didn't respect. She hated how steady he looked — how he smelled of clean smoke and something older. Dangerous.
"I don't give charity, Miss Cruz."
"I'm not asking for charity," she snapped. "I'm offering myself in return."
That made him pause. A flicker of amusement touched his mouth.
"You think I want you?"
The sting of those words hit harder than expected.
"You said—"
"I said I had an offer. I didn't say it would be fair."
Silence cracked between them like a whip.
Then he reached into his blazer and pulled out a folded document. He handed it to her, and when her fingers brushed his, it felt like touching fire laced with frost.
She opened the file. Her eyes scanned the heading:
MARRIAGE CONTRACT AGREEMENT
Her pulse tripped. "You want me to marry you?"
"For one year. Public. Legal. No emotions. No expectations."
She blinked. "Why?"
He stepped closer. She could smell danger in his breath.
"I need a wife. You need a miracle."
His eyes pinned her. "We both get what we want."
But at what cost?
Elena backed away a step, voice trembling. "Why me?"
"I want someone I can control," he said simply. "Someone not tied to my world. Someone with nothing to lose."
The words felt like a slap.
"And when the year ends?" she asked.
"You walk away. Rich. Free. If you're still alive."
She stared. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, "that being the wife of a man like me comes with risks. Real ones. People will watch you. Want you. Use you."
"Are you threatening me?"
"No." He smiled, sharp and cold. "I'm warning you."
Her hands shook as she closed the file. "You're insane."
He didn't blink. "Possibly."
"I should go."
"Your brother has six hours," he said casually, looking at his watch. "Without the surgery, he dies."
Her feet froze.
"I'll cover it. Fully. Right now. All you have to do is sign."
Elena looked down at the contract, then back at the man offering her salvation — and damnation.
"No touching. No sex. No… expectations?"
"You'll live here. Play the part. Attend events. Be silent. Be smart. That's all."
"And if I fall in love with you?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Don't."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "What if you fall in love with me?"
That made him laugh — once, low and cold. "I don't fall, Miss Cruz. I break things."
Five minutes later, she signed.
She didn't look at him as she scrawled her name, only at the clause that would buy her brother's life.
When she finally lifted the pen, Damien Voss picked up the contract and slid it into a folder.
"You belong to me now," he said.
Her jaw clenched. "Only on paper."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"We'll see."
(Part 3: The Penthouse Cage)
Later That Night – Damien Voss's Penthouse
The black car pulled into the underground garage beneath the Voss Tower. Elena stared out the tinted window in stunned silence, still trying to understand what she had just done.
She was no longer Elena Cruz, the desperate sister.
She was Mrs. Elena Voss — by contract, if not by heart.
Her brother would live. That was all that mattered.
But somewhere inside her, something whispered:
You've just signed a deal with the devil.
A tall man in a charcoal suit opened her door. "Mrs. Voss. Welcome."
The title made her chest tighten.
She stepped out, heels clacking against the marble floor. The security guard bowed slightly and led her to a private elevator. No buttons. No panel. Just a fingerprint scanner.
The guard pressed his thumb to the glass and the elevator rose.
"Is this really necessary?" Elena asked.
He didn't answer. Just stared straight ahead like a soldier trained not to speak.
The doors opened directly into Damien's private residence.
And it was nothing like she expected.
The penthouse was vast and minimalist — more fortress than home. Chrome. Steel. Clean black surfaces. Not a single photo or personal object in sight.
Two things stood out:
A grand piano in the corner, covered in dust.
A wall of surveillance monitors showing multiple angles of the building — and beyond.
She stepped forward, drawn to the glass wall that revealed the city skyline. Rain fell softly against the windows like quiet applause.
She was still admiring the view when she heard his voice behind her.
"Do you like it?"
She turned sharply. Damien stood in the doorway, jacket removed, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar slightly undone. He looked almost human.
Almost.
"It's… cold," she said honestly.
A shadow passed through his eyes. "That's the point."
He strode past her, straight to a liquor cabinet. He poured himself a glass of something amber and expensive.
"Your room is at the end of the hall," he said. "You'll find the wardrobe pre-stocked in your size. If you need anything, speak to Julian. He's your shadow now."
"My what?"
"Security," he said. "You don't go anywhere without him. Not the store. Not the bathroom."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're the wife of Damien Voss now," he said without turning. "That makes you a target."
"Of who?"
He sipped his drink. "Everyone."
That Night – Elena's Bedroom
She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, cocooned in silk sheets, unable to sleep.
This place wasn't a home. It was a prison in luxury skin.
No photos. No softness. No warmth. Just walls that whispered, You don't belong here.
The closet was filled with designer dresses, heels, bags — things she could never afford in her real life. But none of them had tags. None had brands she recognized.
Everything felt… curated.
Like she was being dressed for display.
Was she just a prop?
A beautiful wife for headlines?
A distraction for enemies?
A lie to the world?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She sat up, heartbeat spiking.
She opened it a crack.
A man in a dark suit stood outside — not Damien. This man was older, thinner, with tired eyes and a silver earpiece.
He looked both ways before leaning in.
"Mrs. Voss. My name is Leon. I work… in silence."
She frowned. "What do you want?"
His voice was low. "You don't know what you've walked into. But you need to listen carefully. You have three days."
"Three days?"
He nodded grimly. "Three days before the men who killed your father find out you're here."
Her blood turned to ice.
"My father died in a car accident."
"That's what they told you. But Voss knows the truth. Hell, he may even be involved."
She shook her head. "No. You're lying—"
Leon grabbed her arm, desperate now. "Don't trust him. Don't trust anyone. And whatever you do—don't fall for him."
The door at the end of the hall opened.
Leon vanished into the shadows like smoke.
Damien's silhouette filled the hallway. "Everything alright?"
Elena nodded stiffly. "Just… adjusting."
He tilted his head, studying her too closely.
"Sweet dreams, Mrs. Voss."
The Next Morning – Breakfast
The dining room could seat twenty, but only one place was set.
Fresh croissants. Sliced fruit. Eggs and truffle. Not that Elena had the appetite to touch any of it.
Damien entered in a navy suit, phone in one hand, espresso in the other.
"You didn't sleep."
She didn't respond.
He sat across from her and gestured at the food. "Eat. You'll need strength."
"For what?"
He didn't look up. "We have a gala tonight. Public appearance."
She stared at him. "You make me your wife, drag me into your world, and expect me to smile on a red carpet while people try to kill us?"
His eyes finally met hers.
"You want out?" he asked. "Break the contract. I'll let your brother die by noon."
She flinched. His voice was too calm.
"You're a monster."
"I'm a businessman," he corrected. "And I never hide what I am."
"Why me, Damien? Why not some actress or model? Why drag me into this?"
He stood and walked toward her — slow, predatory, intense.
When he spoke, his voice was a whisper:
"Because you're not weak. Because you don't flinch. Because the first time you looked at me, you didn't see a billionaire."
"What did I see?" she whispered back.
"A killer."
He brushed past her, leaving the scent of war and woodsmoke.
"And yet," he murmured at the door, "you still came back."