Stolen By The Billionaire

ISABELLA'S POV "Sign the papers, Isabella." Marcus didn't even look up from his phone when he said it. We were sitting at opposite ends of our dining table, a table that could seat twelve but only ever held two strangers pretending to be married. I set down my coffee cup slowly, watching the dark liquid settle. "No." "This is ridiculous." He finally met my eyes, and I searched for any trace of the man who'd courted me eight months ago. The man who brought me flowers and laughed at my jokes and made me believe this arrangement might become something real. That man was gone. Maybe he'd never existed at all. "We had a deal, Marcus." "The deal was marriage. We're married. I held up my end." "For two years," I reminded him. "The will specifies two years." He slammed his phone on the table hard enough to make me flinch. "I'm not spending another eighteen months in this farce. Vanessa is….." He stopped himself, but we both knew what he was going to say. "Vanessa is what?" I kept my voice steady even though my hands were shaking. "Waiting for you? Missing you? Wondering why her boyfriend had to marry someone else?" "Don't act like you care about my relationship with her." "You're right. I don't." The lie tasted bitter. I'd cared more than I should have, more than was smart for a marriage that was supposed to be just business. "But I do care about my inheritance. Two years, Marcus. That's all I'm asking." "Your father's money isn't worth this." "It's not about the money." Another lie, but also not entirely untrue. My father had built an empire from nothing, and my stepmother Helena had been systematically destroying it from the inside since his death. The inheritance was all I had left of him, all I could use to rebuild what he'd created. "It's about honoring his wishes." Marcus laughed, cold and sharp. "Your father's wishes? He's dead, Isabella. He doesn't care anymore." I stood up, my chair scraping against the marble floor. "This conversation is over." "We're not done….." "Yes, we are." I walked toward the door, then paused. "You'll get your divorce, Marcus. In eighteen months. Until then, try to be a little less obvious about where you spend your nights." I didn't wait for his response. I grabbed my purse and keys and left the mansion that had never felt like home. The hotel bar was nearly empty when I walked in forty minutes later. I'd driven aimlessly for a while, not wanting to go back to that house, not ready to call my cousin Maya and admit how badly this marriage was failing. The bartender nodded at me as I slid onto a stool. "Whiskey sour," I said. "Rough day?" I glanced over at the voice. The man sitting two stools down was watching me with dark eyes that seemed genuinely curious rather than predatory. He was handsome in an understated way, strong jaw, dark hair slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it, wearing jeans and a simple black sweater that probably cost more than it looked. "Rough six months," I admitted before I could stop myself. He smiled, and something in my chest loosened. "I know that feeling." The bartender set my drink down, and the stranger raised his glass, something amber, probably scotch. "To rough patches." I clinked my glass against his. "To surviving them." We drank in companionable silence for a moment. Then he spoke again. "I'm Damien." "Isabella." I didn't give him my last name. For once, I wanted to be just Isabella, not Isabella Chen, not Marcus Sterling's wife, not the heiress fighting for her inheritance. "It's nice to meet you, Isabella." The way he said my name made it sound important, like he was actually seeing me. "Are you here alone?" "Is that a pickup line?" "It's a genuine question. But I can see how it might sound like a pickup line." He shifted to the stool directly next to mine. Up close, I could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Let me try again. Would you like some company, or would you prefer to drink alone?" I should have said it alone. I should have finished my drink and gone home, not to Marcus's mansion, but to my father's old apartment that I still kept, the one place that felt like mine. Instead, I heard myself say, "Company would be nice." "Good." He signaled the bartender for another round. "So, Isabella who's having a rough six months, what do you do when you're not drowning your sorrows in hotel bars?" "I manage a company." Technically true. I was on the board of my father's company, though Helena fought me on every decision. "You?" "Consultant," he said easily. "Boring corporate stuff. I'd rather hear about you." And somehow, impossibly, I started talking. Not about Marcus or the inheritance or the tangled mess my life had become, but about other things. My favorite books. The trip to Italy I'd always wanted to take. How I missed my father every single day but especially on Sundays when we used to have breakfast together. Damien listened like listening was an art form he'd perfected. He asked questions that showed he was actually paying attention. He told me about his own life in careful, measured details, a job that required too much travel, a family situation that was complicated, a city he'd grown to love and hate in equal measure. "You're easy to talk to," I said after my third whiskey sour. The alcohol was making me warm and loose, and Damien's proximity was doing things to my pulse that I hadn't felt in months. "So are you." His voice dropped lower. "I'm glad I came here tonight." "Why did you? Come here, I mean." "Honestly? I was avoiding going home to an empty apartment." He smiled ruefully. "It seemed less depressing to drink in a hotel bar." "I get that." I traced the rim of my glass with one finger. "Empty houses are the worst." "Is yours empty?" The question was innocent enough, but the way he asked it, careful, like he was testing boundaries, made it clear he was asking about more than just physical space. "It's full of people," I said quietly. "But yes. It's empty." Damien's hand moved to cover mine on the bar. His skin was warm, his touch gentle but somehow electric. "I'm sorry." "Don't be." I turned my hand over so our palms touched. "Tonight is better." We stayed until the bartender announced last call. Three hours had passed without me noticing. When we stood to leave, Damien walked me to my car even though his was parked on the other side of the lot. "Can I see you again?" he asked. I should have said no. I was married, even if it was a sham. I was fighting for my inheritance, and the last thing I needed was complications. But when I looked at Damien, standing close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, I couldn't remember why any of that mattered. "Yes." He smiled, slow and devastating, and leaned in. The kiss was soft at first, questioning, and when I kissed him back, it deepened into something that made me forget where we were. When we finally broke apart, I was breathless. "Tomorrow?" he asked. "Tomorrow." I drove home in a daze, my lips still tingling. The mansion was dark when I arrived. Marcus was probably with Vanessa, and for the first time, I didn't care. I was climbing the stairs to my bedroom when my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “Already counting the hours until I see you again. -D” I was smiling as I typed back a response. I was still smiling when I opened my bedroom door and found Marcus standing there, his face pale and his hands shaking. "We need to talk," he said. "Right now." My smile faded. "What's wrong?" Marcus held up his phone, and even from across the room, I could see the photos on the screen. Photos of me and Damien at the bar. Photos of us kissing in the parking lot. "Who the hell is he, Isabella?”