Bought by the Ruthless Billionaire

CHAPTER 3: HIS RULES, HER FEARS

The room Mrs. Boma showed her was bigger than her whole house in Peter Odili Road.

The bed was huge. The mattress was so soft that when Amara sat on it, she sank inside. The wardrobe was already filled with new clothes — gowns that looked expensive, designer bags she had only seen on i********:, shoes still in their boxes. There was a big mirror that showed her whole body.

"You be Amara? Welcome, my dear," Mrs. Boma said. She was a Yoruba woman, maybe 50 years old, plump, with a kind face. Unlike the cold mansion, her voice was warm. "Oga said I should take care of you. He bought all these clothes for you since last week. He said your size is small."

"Last week? But he only called me yesterday," Amara asked, confused.

Mrs. Boma smiled and did not answer. "Make you bath. Oga said dinner is 7pm. No African time. If you make Oga vex, na wahala. He no dey beat person, but his mouth fit kill person. Make you come downstairs before 7pm."

After Mrs. Boma left, Amara locked the door and cried. She cried for her mother. She cried for herself. She cried because the bathroom was bigger than her room in Port Harcourt and it had hot and cold water and she didn't even know how to use it.

She finally bathed and wore one of the simple gowns — a short blue gown that hugged her body. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a different person. But her eyes were still sad.

By 6:55pm, she went downstairs. Her heart was beating fast. Her legs were shaking.

The dining room was massive. A long table that could seat 20 people. But only two plates were set. At opposite ends.

Damian was already seated. He had changed into a white shirt. He was pressing his phone. He did not look up when she entered.

"Sit," he said.

Amara sat at the other end, far from him. The distance between them was like three houses.

Two maids in uniform came and served food — jollof rice, grilled chicken, salad, and expensive wine. Food that Amara had never eaten before.

"Eat," he said, still pressing his phone.

Amara picked her spoon with shaking hands. She could not eat. The fear in her stomach was bigger than hunger.

"You are not eating," he said, finally looking up. His grey eyes studied her. "You don't like the food?"

"No... no sir. I like it. I am just... not hungry," she whispered.

He dropped his phone and stared at her.

"Amara, let me make something clear to you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't like skinny women. And I don't like women who say one thing when they mean another. If you are hungry, eat. If you are scared, say you are scared. I hate pretenders."

Amara's tears came again.

"I am scared, sir," she said, her voice breaking. "I am scared of you. I don't know what you want me to do. I have never... I have never been with a man before. I am... I am still a virgin."

The dining room went silent.

Damian's eyes widened small, then became even colder. He stood up slowly and walked towards her. Each step made the marble floor echo.

He reached her chair and pulled it back, forcing her to stand. He was so close she could feel his heat.

"A virgin?" he said, almost laughing, but there was no laughter in his eyes. "Your father stole 50 million and you are telling me you are a virgin? Do you think I care?"

He grabbed her waist suddenly, pulling her body against his hard chest. Amara gasped.

"Listen, little girl from Port Harcourt," he whispered into her ear, his lips almost touching her ear. "For 90 days, you are not a virgin, you are not a church girl, you are not Amara Peters. You are Mrs. Blackwood. My woman. And my woman does what I say."

His hand moved from her waist to her back, pressing her more.

"You will sleep in my bed tonight," he said.

Amara's whole body froze. "Tonight? But you said whenever you want... I thought..."

"And I want tonight," he said. "That is Rule number four. When I say something, you don't question it. You do it."

He released her so suddenly that she almost fell.

"Finish your food. By 9pm, be in my room. Second floor, last door. Don't make me come and carry you like a baby. I don't like to repeat myself."

He walked away, leaving her shaking in the dining room, her food untouched.

Amara looked at the big clock on the wall. 7:15pm.

She had less than two hours before she had to give herself to a man she did not love, a man who bought her for 50 million naira.

She ran upstairs to her room and locked the door and cried on that soft bed.

Her phone rang. It was the hospital in Lagos.

"Hello, is this Miss Amara? Good news oh! Your mother just woke up! Her transplant is scheduled for next week Monday! Oga Blackwood has paid everything!"

Amara cried more.

Her mother would live.

But what would she have to sell to keep her mother alive?

At 8:59pm, she stood in front of Damian's door, wearing only the blue gown, her body shaking like a leaf in the rain, her heart beating so loud she thought he could hear it from inside.

She knocked small.

"Come in," his deep voice said.

She opened the door.

The room was dark, with only small light. Damian was sitting on his huge bed, shirtless, his tattooed chest showing, looking at her like a lion looking at a lamb.

"Close the door," he said.

Amara closed the door behind her.

And her 90 days of being bought by the ruthless billionaire truly began.