Bound to the Ruthless Billionaire

Chapter 7: The Gilded Label

The sunlight that spilled across the charcoal silk sheets the next morning was unforgiving. Claire stirred, her body aching from the tension of a night spent pinned against Dominic’s heat. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cold, but the scent of him, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and expensive success, clung to her skin like a brand.

She had barely sat up before the bedroom door swung open. Dominic walked in, already fully dressed in a three-piece navy suit that made him look like he was ready to dismantle a rival corporation before breakfast. He didn't knock. He didn't ask. He simply occupied the space.

"Get up," he commanded, his eyes raking over her in the white silk slip. The hunger from the night before hadn't faded; it had simply been sharpened by the morning light. "We’re leaving in twenty minutes."

Claire pulled the duvet up to her chest, her Sterling pride flickering. "Leaving? To go where? I don't even have my own shoes, Dominic."

"Exactly," he said, walking to the foot of the bed. He tossed a small, velvet-lined box onto the mattress. Inside was a pair of sky-high, red-soled heels. "You’re dressed in rags from a dying estate, Claire. Today, we fix that. You are a Thorne now. You will look like one."

"I am not a Thorne," she snapped, her voice trembling. "The contract is for a year."

Dominic leaned over the bed, his hands flat on the mattress, caging her in once again. "For the next three hundred and sixty-four days, the world will see you as mine. And I don't let my possessions look anything less than perfect. Twenty minutes, Claire. If you aren't ready, I’ll take you out in that slip and nothing else. I’m sure the paparazzi would love the view."

The boutique on Bond Street had been cleared of other customers. The "Closed for Private Event" sign on the door was a silent testament to Dominic’s reach. Claire felt like a doll as she was ushered into the center of the plush, cream-carpeted room.

Dominic sat in a velvet armchair, a glass of vintage champagne in his hand, looking every bit the king on his throne. He didn't look at the prices. He didn't look at the designers. He looked at Claire.

"Bring out the signature collection," Dominic told the hovering manager. "Nothing in tweed. Nothing that looks like it belongs in a drafty manor in Cornwall. I want her in silk, leather, and lace."

For the next two hours, Claire was a blur of fabric and frustration. Each time she emerged from the fitting room in something she found elegant and modest, Dominic would simply shake his head without looking away from her eyes.

"Too loose," he’d say. "Too high-necked. I want to see the Sterling grace, Claire, but I want to see why I paid fifty thousand pounds for it."

Finally, the manager brought out a dress that made Claire’s breath catch. It was emerald green, the exact color of her eyes, made of a silk so heavy it draped like liquid metal. It had a plunging back that ended at the base of her spine and a slit that reached dangerously high up her thigh.

"No," Claire whispered as the attendants began to zip her into it. "This is... it’s too much."

"It’s perfect," Dominic’s voice came from right behind her.

She hadn't heard him move. He stood behind her in the three-way mirror, his large, tanned hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders. The contrast of his dark suit against her pale skin and the green silk was striking. He looked like a shadow claiming the light.

"Dominic, I can’t wear this in public," she pleaded, her reflection looking small and overwhelmed by his presence. "Everyone will look at me."

"That’s the point," he whispered, his hands sliding down her arms, his thumbs grazing the sensitive skin of her inner elbows. "I want them to look. I want every man in London to see what I have, and then I want them to see the ring on your finger and realize they can never touch."

His touch wasn't accidental. As he adjusted the fall of the silk over her hips, his fingers lingered, pressing into the curve of her waist with a possessive force that made her knees weak. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the column of her neck.

"You look like a queen," he murmured. "My queen. Now, turn around."

Claire turned, her heart hammering against the silk of the bodice. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body. He reached out, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head back so she had to look at him.

"Does it bother you, Claire?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The fact that you like the way I look at you? The fact that you feel more alive in this cage than you ever did in your manor?"

"I hate you," she breathed, though the way her pulse was jumping in her throat told a different story.

Dominic’s smile was slow and cruel. He leaned in, his scent of bergamot and power overwhelming her senses. "Good. Hate is a very passionate emotion. I can work with hate."

Dominic signalled to the manager, his eyes never leaving Claire’s. "We’ll take everything I selected. Have it delivered to the penthouse within the hour. Especially the black lace sets."

He turned back to Claire, his hand sliding down to rest heavily on the small of her back, his fingers dipping just below the low-cut line of the emerald silk. "Keep the green one on. We’re going to lunch. I want to see how many men I have to ruin today for staring at what belongs to me."

Claire tried to pull away, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I’m not a mannequin, Dominic. You can't just"

He didn't let her finish. He caught her by the waist and hauled her flush against his chest right there in the middle of the boutique. The heat of him was a physical shock, melting the last of her "Old Money" icy reserve.

"You aren't a mannequin," he rasped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly depth. "You’re my wife. And I suggest you start acting like one before I decide to show you exactly how much I own you right here in this dressing room."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He led her out onto the rain-slicked pavement of Bond Street, his hand a permanent, bruising weight on her hip. As they reached the waiting Bentley, a flash went off, a paparazzo hiding behind a nearby pillar.

Claire flinched, instinctively trying to hide her face, but Dominic did the opposite.

Dominic stepped into the camera’s path, but he didn't move away. Instead, he wound his hand into Claire’s hair, forcing her head back until she had no choice but to look up at him. In one swift, brutal movement, he caught her lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it down just enough to expose the pulse jumping in her throat.

"Look at the camera, Claire," he commanded, his eyes gleaming with a dark, triumphant territorialism. "I want the whole world to see the exact moment you realised you’re never going back to your old life."

Before she could gasp, he leaned down and pressed a hard, punishing kiss to the corner of her mouth, not of love, but of absolute victory. He pulled back just an inch, his breath hot against her lips as the camera clicked again.

"Smile for the press, Mrs. Thorne," he whispered, his grip tightening until she gasped. "You’re officially off the market."