Bride for revenge

The reason for revenge

Damien’s POV

She didn’t remember me.

Not that I expected her to. People like Layla Carter don’t remember people like me — not until we make them.

But I remembered everything.

Ten years ago, she was the only person at her father’s charity gala who looked at me like I wasn’t a shadow. She smiled, I smiled back — and that stupid gesture burned itself into my mind like a scar.

Back then, I had nothing. My family was collapsing, our company stolen from us by the man whose daughter was now pacing around the room upstairs. Her father. Charles Carter. A parasite in a tailored suit.

He destroyed my family’s name with a single contract. Bankrupted us. Buried my father in court fees and drove my mother to her deathbed with a bottle of sleeping pills.

The world called it a “business acquisition.” I called it murder.

And the moment I watched my mother’s coffin disappear into the ground, I made a promise: I would take everything from the Carters.

Starting with her.

It took years to get close enough. Carter’s empire was protected by blood money and lawyers. But like all arrogant men, he made mistakes. Got sloppy. Started laundering through his daughter’s name without her knowing.

I waited.

And when the time came, I made him an offer:

Your silence. In exchange for your daughter.

At first, I thought he’d fight me. But the man didn’t blink. Didn’t even hesitate. He signed her away like she was office furniture.

Layla became mine in ink before I ever touched her skin.

But paper wasn’t enough.

So I planned every detail. I made sure it was clean — no fingerprints, no clues, no loose ends. My men did exactly what I paid them to do. And now, Layla was in the room above me, curled in Egyptian cotton, probably still deciding whether to scream or stab me.

Let her.

Her anger only confirmed what I needed to know — she still had fire.

And I didn’t want her broken. Not yet.

What I didn’t plan for was the boyfriend.

Ethan Matthews. Architect. Predictable. Safe. The kind of man women like Layla settle for when they’re trying to feel stable.

He was in the background of her social media — tagged in sunsets, half-cropped in dinner photos. She rarely posted about him directly. I hadn’t paid attention. I thought he was a colleague.

But then I saw the texts. The way she whispered his name in the SUV as she blacked out. The panic in her voice when she said “I have a boyfriend.”

Something inside me flared.

Jealousy was beneath me. I told myself that. I had no right to feel possessive over a woman I took. But still — the idea of her wrapped in someone else’s arms made me see red.

I shouldn’t have checked her phone. But I did.

Dozens of texts.

Ethan: “Are you home yet?”

Ethan: “Why aren’t you answering?”

Ethan: “I’m calling the police.”

Of course he was looking for her.

I crushed the phone in my palm and threw the pieces into the fireplace.

She wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

Later that morning, I watched the security footage as she wandered the hallway. Her hands were balled into fists, her posture defensive. But her eyes — her eyes were sharp, calculating. She was already looking for weaknesses.

Good. I wanted her to.

Because when she failed to escape, when she realized I had anticipated her every move — it would break something inside her. Not her spirit. Just her belief that anyone could ever protect her again.

Not Ethan.

Not her father.

Not the law.

Only me.

I decided to face her. Let her scream. Let her curse. She needed to direct her rage somewhere, and I was more than happy to be her villain.

She opened the door like she was ready to run. But she stopped when she saw me.

“Good. You’re awake,” I said.

Her first question was predictable. “Who the hell are you?”

I told her. Damien Blackwood. The name meant nothing to her, and that cut deeper than I expected.

Then I said the words I’d been waiting to say for years: “You’re going to marry me.”

She laughed in disbelief. And then she tried to fight me with words — like that could stop anything. She mentioned Ethan again, her voice trembling but firm.

“I have a boyfriend.”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t care. At least, I told myself I didn’t.

She threw the contract at me when she saw her father’s signature. Tore it up like that would undo it.

“I’m not yours.”

But she was.

And every part of me screamed to make her understand it.

Not through violence. Never that. I would never hurt her.

But through control.

Through inevitability.

Through the slow, irreversible pull that came with being bound — not just by paper, but by fate.

When I told her the wedding was in three days, she glared at me with so much venom I almost admired her.

She said I could chain her body, but never her will.

What she didn’t know was that I didn’t need chains.

I was patient.

And obsession, when dressed in silk and kindness, often looks like love.

She would hate me. She would try to escape. She would fail.

And eventually… she’d understand.

This wasn’t about marriage.

This was about belonging.

And Layla Carter belonged to me.