The Billionaire's Reluctant Bride

Chapter Two

Chapter Two – His Rules, My Cage

The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the silence.

Not the kind of silence you get at home—muted by the sound of cars in the street or the distant hum of neighbors’ televisions—but the heavy, pristine quiet of a place that was too perfect, too controlled.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. The bed beneath me was massive, draped in Egyptian cotton sheets, the kind you saw in hotel brochures. A faint scent of cedar and something darker—his cologne—lingered in the air.

Then it hit me.

I was in his penthouse.

I was Mrs. Alexander Cross.

And my life no longer belonged to me.

I pushed myself up slowly, my head still cloudy from the restless sleep. A digital clock on the nightstand read 7:02 a.m. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in gold from the rising sun.

I glanced around the room. Everything was immaculate, like it had been arranged by an interior designer who hated personality. Cream walls, dark wood furniture, sleek silver fixtures. No photographs. No clutter. No signs of a life actually lived here.

It felt like stepping into a stranger’s showroom.

A knock at the door made me jump.

“Come in,” I said, my voice rough from sleep.

The door opened to reveal a tall woman in a fitted black dress, her hair in a perfect chignon. She carried a tablet in one hand and wore the faintest, most polite smile I’d ever seen.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cross,” she said smoothly. “I’m Clara, Mr. Cross’s personal assistant. He asked me to go over the household arrangements with you.”

Mrs. Cross.

Hearing it aloud made my stomach twist.

I nodded faintly. “Alright.”

Clara stepped inside, tapping something on her tablet. “First, breakfast is served at eight sharp in the dining room. Mr. Cross prefers punctuality. Your wardrobe has been stocked with appropriate attire—dresses, evening wear, and casual pieces suitable for public appearances. Mr. Cross has also provided a list of designers you may work with for custom orders, should you need them.”

I blinked. “Appropriate attire?”

She met my gaze without flinching. “Mr. Cross believes his wife should reflect his image at all times. The guidelines are in your closet.”

Of course there were guidelines.

She continued, “You’ll have a driver available 24/7, but all outings must be cleared with Mr. Cross in advance. He prefers to know where you are at all times.”

The words made my chest tighten. “Sounds like a prison schedule.”

Clara’s polite smile didn’t falter. “Mr. Cross runs his home the way he runs his company—with structure. He finds it avoids… misunderstandings.”

I bit back a sarcastic reply. This wasn’t her fault.

She handed me a slim black folder. “This contains your access cards for the building, a list of emergency contacts, and the household rules. I recommend you read it before the day ends.”

I took it reluctantly.

“One more thing,” she added. “Mr. Cross will expect you to attend a business dinner tonight. Formal dress code. I’ll send the details to your phone.”

Before I could ask what business dinner, she inclined her head politely and left.

---

By eight o’clock, I was dressed in a pale silk blouse and tailored trousers from the closet—his choice, not mine. My hair was down, makeup minimal. I’d considered rebelling and showing up in pajamas, but something told me Alexander wouldn’t find that amusing.

The dining room was as sleek and cold as the rest of the penthouse—black marble table, silver place settings, a chandelier like frozen raindrops.

He was already there.

Alexander sat at the head of the table, a newspaper folded beside his coffee cup, wearing a navy suit that made him look every inch the man who could buy and sell lives without blinking.

His eyes lifted to me as I approached. “Punctual. Good.”

I sat at the other end of the table, feeling the absurd distance between us.

“Sleep well?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he didn’t actually care.

“As well as someone can when they’ve been sold into marriage,” I replied dryly.

The corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like a reaction he couldn’t hide fast enough. “You agreed to the terms.”

“I agreed to save my family,” I said sharply. “Don’t mistake that for willingness.”

“Willing or not,” he said, stirring his coffee slowly, “you’re here. Which means you’ll follow my rules.”

The words were calm, but they landed with the weight of a locked door.

I looked at the immaculate spread in front of me—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon, and a cup of tea that was exactly the way I liked it. The detail unsettled me. How did he know?

We ate in silence for several minutes, the sound of cutlery almost deafening in the quiet. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why me?” I asked, my voice softer now.

He didn’t look up. “I told you. Revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

This time, his eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw something raw flicker beneath the surface—anger, tightly controlled but still burning.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he said, then returned to his paper like the subject was closed.

---

The rest of the day felt like I was wandering through a museum where I didn’t belong. The penthouse was huge, with multiple living areas, a private gym, a library filled with leather-bound books, and a rooftop terrace with a view that could steal your breath.

But no matter how beautiful it was, it wasn’t mine. None of it was.

Around six in the evening, Clara returned with a garment bag. “Your dress for tonight,” she said. “Mr. Cross is already in the car. He’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

Inside the bag was a black gown that clung to every curve, with a slit up the side and a neckline that dipped lower than I’d ever dared to wear. It screamed power and danger.

When I stepped into the car, Alexander’s gaze swept over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.

“You clean up well,” he said simply, before turning his attention to his phone.

The dinner was at a hotel ballroom, filled with some of the most powerful people in the city. I realized quickly that my role wasn’t to speak, but to stand beside him, smile when necessary, and make him look like the kind of man who had everything.

Every time someone addressed me as “Mrs. Cross,” I felt like I was wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit.

At one point, while shaking hands with a politician, Alexander’s hand slid to the small of my back—a firm, possessive touch that sent a confusing shiver through me.

When the night finally ended and we were back in the car, I stared out the window, too tired to speak.

“You did well,” he said quietly.

I turned to him. “Is that all this is to you? A performance?”

His eyes met mine in the reflection of the glass. “For now.”