The Billionaire

Chapter 3: Rules Were Made to Be Broken

I wake to birdsong. Not the honking, mechanical sounds of traffic or the distant hum of city life, but actual birds—chirping, singing, whatever the hell birds do when they’re annoyingly cheerful before eight in the morning.

The golden light bleeds through sheer curtains, soft and warm. For a split second, I expect to see the sharp angles of the city skyline through a wall of glass. Maybe my penthouse view, maybe the stretch of buildings I can usually count like trophies.

But instead?

Trees. Tall oaks swaying in the breeze like something out of a painting. Peaceful. Natural.

Unsettling.

Right. The bet. The isolation. The very intriguing, maddening woman who looks at me like I’m a walking infection.

A slow smile tugs at my lips as I stretch beneath the linen sheets, my muscles pulling tight after a surprisingly good night’s sleep. There’s no five-star mattress, no soundproof walls, no luxury sheets spun from gold or whatever my assistant swears she orders.

And still—I feel good.

Elara.

She’s going to be a problem. A stubborn, untouchable, fascinating problem wrapped in oversized sweaters and sharp glares.

Not that I mind.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rake a hand through my hair, still messy from sleep. This place is too quiet, too untouched. I should hate it. The absence of noise, the distance from the world, the lack of instant gratification.

I live for chaos. Deals. Deadlines. Danger.

And yet, all I can think about is her.

What she’s doing. Where she is right now. If she’s already mentally cursing the day I stepped into her world.

With a scoff at myself, I head for the shower, stripping off yesterday’s city-boy arrogance. A quick rinse in the lukewarm water, and I towel off, throwing on a black T-shirt and jeans. Simple. Effortless. Still looks good, if I’m being honest—and I usually am, especially about myself.

I run the towel once more through my hair before heading downstairs, drawn by the scent of coffee. Real coffee, not the flavorless crap my boardroom minions drink.

The house is still. Echoing. The kind of quiet that would make most people uncomfortable.

But then I hear it—the faint clatter of dishes.

I round the corner, and there she is.

Elara.

Standing in the kitchen, staring at a toaster like it just personally betrayed her entire bloodline.

I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms. “You planning to murder that toaster, or should I intervene?”

She jumps slightly, then sighs when she sees me. No good morning. No smile. Just pure, exhausted irritation.

“It’s broken,” she mutters.

“Or maybe,” I say, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering over, “you don’t know how to use it.”

That earns me a death glare. Sharp and unwavering. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Didn’t say you were.” I reach past her, just brushing her arm. She’s warm. Soft. Still smells like something vaguely sweet—vanilla and something I can’t place.

I fiddle with the buttons. Adjust the dial. It clicks on, humming softly.

The toaster accepts its fate.

Elara crosses her arms, unimpressed. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

I grin. “Not think, sweetheart. Know.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. She grabs her coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her from snapping. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“In the kitchen?” I raise an eyebrow. “What is this—territorial domestic warfare?”

“This is my space,” she says, rubbing her temple like I’m giving her an early migraine. “You stay in yours.”

I glance around. “You mean the other twelve rooms in this museum you call a house?”

She exhales sharply. “Fine. Then we need ground rules.”

Now this is interesting. I lean back against the counter. “Alright. Let’s hear ‘em.”

She lifts a finger. All business. “One—you don’t bother me.”

“Bit late for that.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t stop. “Two—you don’t touch my things.”

I smirk. “Define ‘things.’”

Her jaw tightens like she wants to launch the toaster at my head. “Three—no flirting.”

That one makes me laugh. I can’t help it. “You realize you just made this way more fun, right?”

Elara groans like the universe is testing her. “I don’t have time to babysit a billionaire who thinks rules don’t apply to him.”

I sip her tension like wine. Delicious. “You say that like you’re not dying to see what I’ll do next.”

That stops her for a moment. Just a flicker.

It’s there.

A spark.

Buried deep behind the shields she’s built, but I see it. She’s not as immune as she wants to be. The curiosity’s already digging at her.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, snatching her coffee again.

She brushes past me—close enough that I catch the scent of her again. Vanilla and something a little darker. Something warm. Earthy.

It lingers as she walks away.

And I let her.

Could’ve said something else. Could’ve teased her. Pushed harder. That’s usually my play.

But this isn’t a sprint.

This is a slow burn.

A long game.

And I always win.

I pull open one of the ancient cabinets and grab a skillet. It’s dusty, but it’ll do.

“One month,” I murmur, watching the hallway where she disappeared.

She thinks she can resist me.

She has no idea.

“I’ll break down her walls.”

And I’ll enjoy every second of it.