The Billionaire

Chapter 2: A Deal with the Devil

The rain comes down in fat, icy drops that slap against my face like nature’s way of mocking me. My leather jacket does nothing to block the cold. By the time I step onto the massive porch of this godforsaken estate, my hair is soaked and clinging to my forehead, and my boots are leaving muddy prints on the marble.

Perfect.

A whole month in the middle of nowhere. No phone. No car. No staff. No damn distractions. Victor Langley must be somewhere right now, sipping a 30-year-old scotch, laughing his smug ass off.

I let out a breath and shake the rain off my sleeves. I should’ve known better. Victor never plays fair. When he makes a bet, he doesn’t just want to win—he wants the winner to suffer a little on the way. And thanks to my own cocky need to prove a point, here I am—stranded in the middle of the woods like some spoiled prince exiled from his kingdom.

I push open the double doors and step inside.

The place is huge. Old money. Stone walls, high ceilings, and furniture that probably hasn’t moved since Roosevelt was president. It smells like books, polish, and something faintly floral. Like someone had been here recently.

Which doesn’t make sense. This place was supposed to be empty.

I drop my duffel bag with a thud by the entrance and run a hand through my wet hair. “Alright,” I mutter to the silence. “Let’s see what fresh hell Victor’s dragged me into.”

Then I hear it.

A soft creak. Movement.

I freeze.

Someone else is here.

That’s not paranoia. That’s instinct.

I scan the space. My eyes land on a flickering candle resting on a narrow hallway table. Shadows dance along the walls, long and twitchy. There’s a door at the end of the hallway—partially open. I step closer, slow, quiet, listening for another sound.

And then I see her.

Standing by the tall window, back turned to me, framed by lightning and the soft blue haze of the storm.

She’s… small, at first glance. But the way she stands—shoulders squared, spine straight—there’s nothing fragile about her. She hasn’t moved. She knows I’m here. She's not surprised.

Interesting.

I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “You know,” I say, my voice calm, a little amused, “I was told this place was empty. Either I was lied to… or you’re a very stylish ghost.”

She turns.

And damn.

She’s not the kind of beautiful I’m used to—the red carpet, high-gloss magazine cover kind. No, she’s something else. Real. Raw. A face you could stare at too long without realizing. Dark eyes that cut straight through me. Full mouth. Long sleeves of a slouchy sweater covering her hands like armor.

She looks at me like she already hates me. Like she’s met my type before and wants no part of the rerun.

“You need to leave,” she says, tone flat and unwelcoming.

I arch a brow. “I just got here.”

“Then turn around and go back.”

I smirk. “Can’t. Lost a bet.”

“That’s your problem. Not mine.”

I step closer, slowly, watching her grip the windowsill like she’s debating throwing me out herself. “You live here?”

A pause. “I take care of the place.”

“So… you do live here,” I say, tilting my head.

She exhales sharply. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re in my house. And I don’t like surprises.”

I chuckle. “Lucky for you, I’m full of them.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re a billionaire who thinks rules don’t apply to him.”

I flash a grin. “So you do know who I am.”

“The whole world knows who you are. Damien Blackwood. Spoiled, cocky, irresponsible business god—or whatever Forbes is calling you this year.”

I have to admit… that hits a little.

But I grin anyway. “So you have been paying attention.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re kind of fun to mess with.” I let my eyes wander over her again, not in a way that undresses her—but in the way a puzzle fascinates. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates. Like giving it to me is some kind of power exchange.

“Elara.”

“Elara,” I repeat, letting the name roll on my tongue. “Pretty.”

She presses her lips into a tight line. “You can stay in the east wing. Don’t get in my way, and I won’t get in yours.”

Oh, sweetheart. That’s cute.

I take a step closer, just to see if she flinches. She doesn’t.

“You really think we’re going to stay out of each other’s way for a whole month?”

She doesn’t answer.

Just turns on her heel and walks off like I’m not worth the argument.

Which, of course, only makes me want to argue more.

Later That Night

The storm hasn’t let up. Wind howls through the trees like it’s warning me to leave while I still can. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m standing in front of the fireplace, watching the embers flicker and fade, my glass half full of something expensive I found in the cabinet.

Elara hasn’t said a word to me since she walked off. Which, I’ll admit, only makes her more intriguing.

She’s… different.

Not the kind of different that’s trying to be. The kind that doesn’t give a damn if I’m Damien Blackwood or Damien Nobody.

I wonder what her deal is. Why she’s holed up here in this stone mansion like some kind of moody caretaker with a vendetta against the world.

She looks at me like I’m not just unwanted, but dangerous.

And I’ve been called a lot of things—but dangerous, I usually reserve for the boardroom.

I swirl the drink in my hand, trying not to overthink it. Which, of course, means I am.

Then I hear it—soft steps behind me.

I turn.

She’s standing in the doorway. Barefoot. Hair damp from a shower, falling loose over her shoulder. She’s wearing a long cardigan and leggings, but somehow it’s more disarming than any silk slip.

“You’re drinking,” she says.

I lift my glass. “That a problem?”

“Just don’t leave your glasses everywhere,” she replies coolly, stepping into the room.

“So you do care.”

“I care about not cleaning up after you.”

I laugh quietly and give her a nod. “Fair enough.”

She glances at the fireplace. “You should add another log before it dies.”

I arch a brow. “You’re worried I’ll get cold?”

“I’m worried it’ll stink up the house.”

Again with the backhanded concern.

I crouch down to add a log, the warmth of the fire licking at my skin. I can feel her watching me.

This silence between us… it isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Unpredictable.

“You always live out here in the middle of nowhere?” I ask, not looking at her.

“I like the quiet,” she replies.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I smile to myself.

One month.

That’s all I need.

One month to figure her out.

To understand what she’s hiding in this old house behind all that cold.

I’ve played bigger games than this.

But somehow, I already know—

Elara is the most dangerous bet I’ve ever made.