Chapter 2
I woke in silk sheets that weren't mine.
The room was enormous — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city skyline I didn't recognize. Everything was black and gold. Expensive. Cold.
I shot upright, my wedding dress still clinging to my body, now wrinkled and torn at the hem.
"You're awake."
I spun toward the voice. Damien Blackwell sat in an armchair across the room, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He watched me with those dead-calm eyes like I was a painting he'd just hung on his wall.
"Where am I?" My voice cracked.
"My home."
"Take me back. Now."
Damien took a sip. Unhurried. "No."
I threw the sheets off and stood, ignoring how my legs trembled. "You can't just — you can't buy a person! This isn't legal. I'll call the police, I'll—"
"Go ahead." He gestured lazily to a phone on the nightstand. "Tell them your father sold you to cover a forty-million-dollar debt. Tell them you're in the penthouse of Blackwell Tower. See who they believe — the bankrupt Richard Sinclair, or me."
Forty million.
My mind reeled. Dad's business had been struggling, but forty million?
"You're insane," I whispered.
"Possibly." Damien stood, and the room felt smaller. He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps. "But you are here, in my home, wearing that ruined dress. And here you will stay."
"I have a fiancé—"
"Ethan Cole?" Damien's lip curled. Not quite a smile. "The man who ran the moment my men walked in?"
The memory hit me like a slap. Ethan. He hadn't tried to protect me. Hadn't even looked back.
"He was scared—"
"He was prepared." Damien stopped inches from me, looking down with an expression I couldn't read. "Did you never wonder how your fiancé afforded that ring on your finger? Ethan Cole is broke, Vivian. More broke than your father."
"You're lying."
"I don't need to lie. I own the truth. I own everything." He paused. "Including you."
My hand swung before I could think. The slap connected with his jaw, the sound cracking through the silence.
Damien's head barely moved. His eyes darkened.
In one swift motion, he caught my wrist, pulling me flush against him. I gasped at the contact — his chest was like stone, his grip unbreakable.
"Hit me again," he murmured, his breath warm against my temple, "and I'll remind you what happens to people who challenge me."
My heart hammered. Not entirely from fear.
He released me just as suddenly, stepping back and straightening his cuff. "Clothes are in the closet. Dinner is at eight. Don't make me come find you."
He walked out without another glance.
When the door clicked shut, my legs gave out and I sank to the floor, shaking.
I had to get out of here.
The room was enormous — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city skyline I didn't recognize. Everything was black and gold. Expensive. Cold.
I shot upright, my wedding dress still clinging to my body, now wrinkled and torn at the hem.
"You're awake."
I spun toward the voice. Damien Blackwell sat in an armchair across the room, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He watched me with those dead-calm eyes like I was a painting he'd just hung on his wall.
"Where am I?" My voice cracked.
"My home."
"Take me back. Now."
Damien took a sip. Unhurried. "No."
I threw the sheets off and stood, ignoring how my legs trembled. "You can't just — you can't buy a person! This isn't legal. I'll call the police, I'll—"
"Go ahead." He gestured lazily to a phone on the nightstand. "Tell them your father sold you to cover a forty-million-dollar debt. Tell them you're in the penthouse of Blackwell Tower. See who they believe — the bankrupt Richard Sinclair, or me."
Forty million.
My mind reeled. Dad's business had been struggling, but forty million?
"You're insane," I whispered.
"Possibly." Damien stood, and the room felt smaller. He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps. "But you are here, in my home, wearing that ruined dress. And here you will stay."
"I have a fiancé—"
"Ethan Cole?" Damien's lip curled. Not quite a smile. "The man who ran the moment my men walked in?"
The memory hit me like a slap. Ethan. He hadn't tried to protect me. Hadn't even looked back.
"He was scared—"
"He was prepared." Damien stopped inches from me, looking down with an expression I couldn't read. "Did you never wonder how your fiancé afforded that ring on your finger? Ethan Cole is broke, Vivian. More broke than your father."
"You're lying."
"I don't need to lie. I own the truth. I own everything." He paused. "Including you."
My hand swung before I could think. The slap connected with his jaw, the sound cracking through the silence.
Damien's head barely moved. His eyes darkened.
In one swift motion, he caught my wrist, pulling me flush against him. I gasped at the contact — his chest was like stone, his grip unbreakable.
"Hit me again," he murmured, his breath warm against my temple, "and I'll remind you what happens to people who challenge me."
My heart hammered. Not entirely from fear.
He released me just as suddenly, stepping back and straightening his cuff. "Clothes are in the closet. Dinner is at eight. Don't make me come find you."
He walked out without another glance.
When the door clicked shut, my legs gave out and I sank to the floor, shaking.
I had to get out of here.