90 DAYS OF BEING HIS WIFE

CHAPTER THREE

"How had he known?"

I felt the hallway shrinking as he stared at me with that annoying grin of his—the one that also made my stomach burst with butterflies.

"How did you know? And are you even sure about what you’re saying, Mr. Daimon?" I asked, my voice filled with a mix of forced courage and an urgency to win the argument.

He chuckled softly and placed a finger on my cheek. I could feel my skin burning where he touched me. "Don't worry, I won't report you to the police," he whispered, winking at me. He still had my ID tucked between his fingers, and he didn't look like he was going to give it back.

Bastard. What was he going to do now? I needed to get away from that place, and fast.

As I turned to leave, he began to speak gently, yet passionately, in that deep voice. "Marry me for ninety days, and I'll make sure you don't go to jail. But if you refuse... I will immediately ensure that your life is ruined and you are locked away forever."

He spoke in such an intimidating, powerful way that the room began to feel like it belonged to him. The scent of his expensive cologne drifted toward me, filling my lungs. My eyes widened in a delayed reaction as I processed the words that had just left his lips.

Marry him for ninety days? And he’d put me in jail if I didn't? No way. I wasn't going to do that.

"No, I will not be doing that!" I responded, stepping back. My shadow elongated against the floor as he stepped forward, closing the distance between us.

"Well, well. Then you go to jail. I have all the CCTV footage from this area," he said. His voice was genuine and deep, and his facial expression was so handsome it made me flush despite myself.

"No. I already told you, sir. I will not be doing that. There is no valid reason for me to marry you! I’m only twenty-three years old!" I shouted as I planned my run toward the exit door again.

"If that's what you want, then you go to jail. Sorry—actually, not sorry," he said. He turned around in what looked like slow motion, stepping back toward the gallery. His footsteps echoed like a nightmare in my ears.

"Wait! Wait!" I yelled after him.

I paused. If I married this guy, there would be benefits, right? My father was in the hospital right then, fighting for his life against cancer—a fight he didn't deserve. He needed surgery next week, but we needed money. Without it, the surgery wouldn't happen. There would be money if I married this man, wouldn't there? What did I have to lose? We wouldn't even have to do anything.

He stopped walking and turned back to me. "Well? Have you considered?" he asked, his hands tucked into his pockets. He stepped closer. "Now, tell me the decision you’ve made, dear."

I tapped my foot for twenty seconds as I weighed the options. I needed five thousand dollars to get my father into that surgery. I turned my head up to look at him.

"One condition," I told him.

"Name your price."

He scoffed, likely because he already knew I needed money—it was the whole point of me being a thief, after all. If my father died, I’d have nothing. He was all I had.

"Five thousand dollars," I said. "Every week."

He smirked and closed his eyes. The hallway fell into a frantic silence. Was he going to criticize my offer?

"Fine. You've got yourself a deal. Five thousand dollars a week. The wedding must be done tomorrow night. Now, go back to your place, rest, and do whatever you want for the next twenty-four hours. After that, you are going to be married to me. You are going to have my last name. You are going to be mine... and you are going to be following my orders. Understood?"

He spoke with such power that it hit me like an atomic wave, vibrating through my joints and bones.

"Sure," I said without hesitation. Five thousand dollars a week was a hell of a deal.

He waved a hand dismissively at the two hot security guards who were still hovering near the exit, signaling them to let me go.

But as I watched him walk away, I couldn't help but wonder: why did he want to marry me? There had to be a specific reason—or a problem—that he was facing. The fact that I was getting married to a billionaire made my chest hammer.

I found my way out of the building. He had handed me his business card earlier, but my legs were still trembling as I processed the offer I had accepted without even knowing his rules. I waited for a cab at the waiting shed on the street. I wondered what would happen once I married him. Would my life change in an instant because he was a billionaire? From what I had read, billionaire and millionaire men were cold and cold-blooded. Guess that proved it.

And why had I only told him five thousand? I could have just asked for ten thousand! He was practically a billionaire, after all. I felt really dumb for making that stupid condition. Maybe I could tell him tomorrow? Once the wedding was settled?

I stripped my clothes off as I entered the shower. Water dripped down my body like raindrops filling a glass. I scrubbed my body with the soap I usually used.

After washing myself, I put on my pajamas, but the fabric was starting to suffocate me. Well, not physically, but mentally. My apartment wasn't really my biggest financial priority because my beautiful Aunt Mabel owned the building. There was a problem with her, though; she might have had a beautiful, youthful look, but her personality didn't match her face.

I put on my skincare. I had a certain level of beauty to maintain, which meant making sure pores and pimples didn't materialize on my clean skin. Beauty was pain.

It was already 10:00 PM, and I was lying on my not-so-comfortable bed with my blankets covering me from my feet to my chest. My eyelids were shut, and I was starting to fall asleep as my mind began to spin.

A notification sound vibrated from the nightstand beside my bed. I opened my eyes and reached for the phone. I grabbed it and saw the notification was from an unknown number. I realized he must have pulled my number from the guest list registration I’d used to get inside.

I recalled the last digits of the number on the business card Daimon had given me earlier. And the last number of this contact was 36.

09#######36: Sleep well. Remember we are getting married tomorrow.

It was Daimon. Annoyance built up in my chest. This man had the nerve to message me in the middle of the night. Why was he acting so caring? Or like a gentleman? I told myself to stop thinking about him that way.

I long-pressed his message until the emojis appeared on the screen. I selected the thumbs-up. With that, I turned my phone off, placed it back on the nightstand, and finally drifted off to sleep.