The billionaire's stubborn mouse

Episode 9: The Crimson Thread

The drive back to the Novak estate was dead silent, but it was a completely different kind of quiet than before. The suffocating weight of Liyora’s past had been violently lifted, replaced by the reality of the man sitting right next to her. Her family’s empire was gone, erased in a matter of minutes on live television.

Liyora stared down at her hands, her mind swirling. For years, her parents’ expectations had been a suffocating weight around her neck, forcing her into a business management diploma she despised until she secretly completed her design course instead. Now, with a few cold words into a microphone, Eron had cut those toxic strings forever.

She turned her head slowly, looking at his sharp, unyielding profile. "Why did you do it?" she asked, her voice dropping into a quiet, vulnerable whisper that surprised even herself. "You could have easily absorbed their company. You could have made millions off that merger. Why destroy them completely?"

Eron didn’t take his eyes off the road, his large hands guiding the steering wheel with absolute, calm precision. "I told you, Liyo. I don't keep things my wife rejects. They tried to use you as a bargaining chip. In my world, that is a capital offense."

"But they were my family," she murmured, a complex wave of emotion hitting her chest.

"They were your wardens," Eron corrected, his gravelly baritone smooth and unyielding. He shifted gears, the Ferrari slowing down as it approached the massive iron gates of his fortress-like estate. "A family doesn't burn a girl's sketches in the fireplace just to watch her cry. They don't try to slap the defiance out of her face. They are no longer your concern, sweetheart. Your only concern is building your brand. And me."

The car groaned to a halt in the grand courtyard. Before Liyora could even reach for the door handle, Eron was already on her side, yanking the door open himself. He didn't give her a chance to climb out on her own; he bent down, smoothly sweeping his arm behind her knees and lifting her back into a seamless bridal carry.

"Eron! Stop it!" Liyora hissed, her face instantly burning a furious crimson as she almost punched him right in his hard jaw. "There are absolutely no reporters here! Let me walk!"

"My house, my rules, wife," Eron murmured, a slow, wicked smirk playing on his handsome face as his dark eyes danced with unholy amusement. He tightened his iron grip, pulling her body flush against his chest so she could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart. "Besides, you’ve had a very stressful morning. I am simply taking care of my pregnant bride."

Liyora let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes aggressively as he marched up the grand marble steps and through the front doors. The rows of uniformed servants bowed in perfect synchronization, completely ignoring their master carrying his new bride like a piece of precious cargo.

Instead of taking her toward the master suite, Eron carried her down the western wing of the mansion, stopping in front of a pair of heavy, double oak doors. He kicked them open effortlessly and walked inside, finally setting her down on her feet.

Liyora stumbled back a step, her jaw dropping open in absolute shock as she took in the room.

It was the stunning, sunlit room she had chosen the night before—but it had been completely transformed. The large, sweeping windows now illuminated a state-of-the-art fashion design sanctuary. Three professional-grade industrial sewing machines stood lined against the wall, their sleek surfaces gleaming. Massive cutting tables made of smooth, polished wood occupied the center of the room, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with endless bolts of premium fabric—everything from heavy raw denim to flowing, pastel pink silks.

In the corner, a massive mood board hung from the wall, completely blank and waiting for her imagination.

"What... what is all this?" Liyora stammered, her fingers trembling as she walked over to touch a bolt of pure, unrefined lace.

"Your workspace," Eron said, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His ink-black sleeves were rolled up, his dark tattoos visible under the bright sunlight pouring through the glass. "Derek had the logistics team clear out the top suppliers in the city this morning while you were at your interview. If you are going to work for *Vanguard Styles*, you will need a proper studio at home to draft your lines."

Liyora turned around to face him, her bright eyes wide with a mix of fierce pride and deep suspicion. "I told you before, Eron. I don't need your charity. I will buy my own equipment one day."

"This isn't charity, Liyo. It’s an investment," Eron countered smoothly, taking a slow, predatory step toward her. The casual amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a suffocating, intense aura that completely filled the space between them. "You belong to me now. Your talent belongs to this house. I expect you to create masterpieces that make the world realize exactly who Mrs. Novak is."

He stopped just inches away from her, his towering frame completely eclipsing her light. He reached out, his long fingers gently grabbing a stray lock of her long, blonde hair and tucking it behind her ear. His knuckles brushed against her flushed skin, sending an electric wave of heat straight down her spine.

"Tomorrow morning, Derek will drive you to your first official day at *Vanguard Styles*," Eron whispered, his low, gravelly baritone carrying a dark promise. "My guards will remain in the lobby. You will work, you will design, and you will build your empire. But the moment the clock strikes 5:00 PM, you return to this house. To me."

Liyora’s breath hitched, her stubbornness flaring through her racing heartbeat. She lifted her chin, looking directly into his dark, unyielding eyes. "And if I decide to stay late at the studio? If I decide to ignore your timeline?"

A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile spread across Eron’s face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Then I will personally walk into Chloe’s studio, pick you up in front of your new colleagues, and carry you out myself. Choose wisely, my stubborn little mouse."

With a final, lingering look that left her completely paralyzed, Eron released her hair, turned on his heel, and walked out of the studio, closing the heavy doors behind him.

Liyora stood alone in the center of her dream workspace, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the sewing machines, then at the blank mood board, a defiant, stubborn smirk slowly tugging at the corner of her lips. Eron Novak thought he had her completely cornered with his rules and his wealth. But as she grabbed a sharp fabric marker from the table, she knew one thing for certain: she was going to use this cage to build a weapon of absolute success, and the devil wouldn't know what hit him.