Taming the Billionaire Beast

Three Years Ago The rain wasn’t gentle that night. It fell like war—angry, brutal, and without mercy. New York City blurred behind the downpour, its glittering skyline swallowed by clouds that boiled with thunder and lightning. Every flash illuminated a world teetering on the edge of destruction. But inside the backseat of a sleek black Rolls Royce, a man sat unmoved. Like stone. Like fate. Damien Blackwood didn’t flinch from the storm. He welcomed it. He had spent years learning how to survive chaos, how to manipulate it, how to become it. Now, as the car slowed to a crawl before a gated estate in the suburbs—elegant, tired, fading in grandeur—his expression didn’t change. Not even when he saw the nameplate at the iron gates. The Valencia Estate. A name once full of legacy. Now reduced to whispers, rumors, and unpaid debts. Damien’s gaze narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Stop the car.” The driver obeyed instantly. The tires crunched against wet gravel as the vehicle eased to a stop. The wipers hissed in rhythmic defiance of the rain, trying to clear the fog from the windshield—but nothing could clear what Damien saw in his mind. The past never washed away. Not with time. Not with water. Not with blood. “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?” the driver asked quietly, not daring to look at his employer through the rearview mirror. Even seasoned men feared Damien’s silence more than his words. Damien didn’t respond. He reached into his coat pocket instead and pulled out a weathered photograph, the edges curled, the ink slightly faded. A girl. No more than nineteen. Eyes like starlight—bright, warm, defiant. Aria Valencia. His hand tightened around the image, crumpling it slightly. That girl… that smile. So innocent. So unaware of the empire of lies she’d been born into. Of the man her father really was. Of the price he had paid for trusting him. He exhaled through his nose. Tonight wasn’t about revenge. Not yet. It was about power. About collecting the debt that was owed. And she—Aria—was the final payment. The gates creaked open ahead of them, responding to his signal like a well-trained soldier. As the Rolls Royce slid into the estate, Damien straightened his cuffs, then smoothed his tailored coat. Every inch of him was deliberate. Controlled. Cold. The rain continued to hammer the windows. It sounded like a warning. Or maybe... a prophecy. Inside the estate, Aria Valencia was drowning—and not because of the storm. She stood frozen in her father’s study, her white summer dress clinging to her soaked skin after running in from the rain. Her hair dripped onto the carpet, but she didn’t notice. All she saw were the three lines of ink on the paper in her trembling hands. THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF FERNANDO VALENCIA Beneficiaries: Aria Valencia Marital Executor: Damien Blackwood Her knees gave out. She stumbled backward, gripping the edge of the desk before her legs could completely fail. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. Her father—who’d always told her he would never force her into a life she didn’t choose—had written this? Damien Blackwood. That name was a death sentence. A man the media called a monster in a tailored suit. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Billionaire CEO of Blackwood International, known for hostile takeovers and bloodless boardroom executions. Whispers of affairs, scandals, blackmail. The man was ice in human form. And now—her husband? “No…” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “No. No. No.” But the paper didn’t disappear. The notary seal was real. The date was recent. And worst of all, her father’s signature was at the bottom—clear and undeniable. She wanted to scream, but her throat locked. She wanted to run, but the walls of the house closed in around her. The fire in the hearth hissed, the windows rattled with thunder, and the air inside the study thickened with the scent of cigars and secrets. The floor beneath her seemed to tilt. Was this her punishment for loving a man she could never have? For falling for someone who abandoned her two weeks ago without a word? Or was this her father's way of protecting her in a world she didn't understand? Suddenly, the butler rushed into the room, out of breath, his voice low but sharp. “Miss Aria… he’s here.” Her blood froze. “Who?” The butler hesitated. He didn’t need to answer. Because outside the wide glass doors, the sleek black car had stopped in the driveway. Its headlights beamed into the storm like eyes. He’d come. Damien Blackwood. Damien stepped out into the storm like he owned it. Rain soaked through his coat immediately, but he didn’t care. He climbed the stone steps of the estate without an umbrella, without a pause, without a soul brave enough to stop him. A maid tried to greet him at the door but faltered under his gaze. “Where is she?” he asked, voice like velvet scraped across steel. “Th-the study,” she stammered, backing away. He walked in as if he still owned the place. The scent of aged brandy, books, and betrayal clung to the walls. He remembered this house. Remembered the Christmases when Fernando Valencia used to invite him as if they were family. Remembered sitting on that leather couch while Aria peeked at him from the stairs like a curious child. She wasn’t a child anymore. She was a pawn. His pawn. The door to the study was ajar. And there she stood. Fragile in the stormlight. Beautiful. Dangerous. Breakable. Aria turned when she heard the door creak open. And there he was. Tall. Dark. More lethal in person than in every headline she’d ever read. His black coat clung to his powerful frame, rain still dripping from his hair. His jaw was locked, his eyes twin blades of steel. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside raged. But the real storm was here. Between them. Finally, Damien’s voice cut the silence. “I assume you’ve read the will.” She swallowed hard, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “You’re supposed to be my—my…” “Fiancé,” he said with cold precision. “By law. Soon to be husband.” Her knees nearly buckled again. She clutched the desk for support. “Why? Why would he—why would my father do this?” He stepped closer, slow and measured. “Because he owed me everything.” “And I have to pay?” His silence was her answer. She stared at him with fury burning beneath her shock. “I’m not some token you can use to settle a deal, Mr. Blackwood. I’m not for sale.” “You weren’t bought,” he said flatly. “You were promised.” Her hand trembled at her side, the paper crumpling in her palm. “Why me? You could have anyone. You could destroy companies with a signature, silence presidents with a phone call. Why me?” He didn’t blink. “I don’t want anyone, Aria. I want you.” Those words shouldn’t have scared her. But they did. Because he didn’t say it like a man declaring love. He said it like a man claiming property. She clenched her jaw. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.” He took one step closer. “I don’t need to love you.” Another step. “You just need to say ‘I do.’” She slapped him. Hard. The sound echoed like thunder. He didn’t flinch. He merely looked at her with a glimmer of something strange—admiration? amusement? hunger? “I’m not yours,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You will be,” he murmured, his voice like silk and poison. “One way or another.” Outside, lightning split the sky. Inside, Damien turned and left the study without another word. He had delivered the message. Aria was his now. And the wedding? Was already being planned. As the door closed behind him, Aria collapsed onto her knees, gripping the edges of the will like it was a lifeline. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t afford to. Because across the room, in her father’s locked drawer, something glinted—a hidden envelope she hadn’t seen before. Her name was scrawled on it. Inside was a photograph. Of her father. Standing beside Damien Blackwood… …and a body covered in blood.