House Of Fire: The Billionaire Game

. - The scent of orange blossoms mingled with chlorine and ambition. Aria stepped out of the limo like she’d rehearsed it in a dream: slow, deliberate, hips leading, chin tilted with defiance. A gust of dry heat swept her bare legs and caught the hem of her crimson wrap dress, which clung to her in all the right places. She paused at the edge of the marble steps, letting her eyes take in the sprawling estate—gleaming white walls, curved architecture, windows so tall they mirrored the sky. The House of Fire. Twenty strangers. One winner. A game soaked in lust, lies, and something that smelled suspiciously like tequila. She took a breath, licked her bottom lip, and walked inside. Music thudded faintly from somewhere deeper in the house—low, seductive. The entryway opened into an opulent living space with glass walls and plush seating that looked too expensive to spill anything on. A few contestants were already there, lounging with the stiff posture of people pretending to relax. A girl with purple hair shot her a once-over. “Damn, mama. You didn’t come to play.” Aria smiled, stepping in. “Play’s for children. I came to win.” “Better keep that same energy when your top’s off and someone’s stealing your man.” “I don’t share. Not food. Not men. Not airtime.” A few heads turned. Someone laughed nervously. She claimed the biggest couch in the center of the room, stretching out like a queen who already owned the throne. The cushions sank under her curves, silk brushing against her thighs. She could feel their eyes. Good. Let them stare. Let them guess what kind of threat she was. The door opened again. And the temperature dropped. He walked in wearing black. Just black. A button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, slim-fit jeans, boots that looked like they’d stepped out of a better life. His jaw was clean but unshaven, the kind of stubble that said I’m not trying to impress you—but I already did. His eyes swept the room once, briefly, casually. When they landed on her, they didn’t move. Not right away. Aria met his gaze. Held it. A flick of heat lit in her belly, and she immediately hated it. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink. Just nodded slightly, like she was another piece of furniture. “Reid,” he said, then turned to grab a drink from the side table without asking who it belonged to. Aria blinked. A guy with short dreads leaned toward her. “He’s hot. But he’s got a ‘your opinion doesn’t matter’ vibe.” “Or maybe just a big stick up his ass,” Aria muttered. Laughter again. But Reid didn’t flinch. He poured whiskey—neat. Then walked to a corner chair like the king he never asked permission to be. She hated that his presence shifted the gravity of the room. A girl in a crop top giggled, inching toward him. “You one of those dark and mysterious types?” “No,” he replied without looking at her. “I’m the quiet and observant type.” Aria watched him sip the drink—slowly, deliberately, eyes scanning. Judging. She recognized it. That calm control. That unreadable stillness. People like him didn’t show their cards because they were the damn dealer. She stood. Walked straight over. Stopped two feet from his chair and crossed her arms. “You always crash rooms like a thundercloud, or is that just your thing today?” Reid looked up at her, his gaze cutting through the smile she wore like he didn’t buy the packaging. “Depends who’s in the room.” The air between them sharpened. He didn’t blink. Neither did she. Someone cleared their throat in the background. Another person asked where the bedrooms were. A brunette in heels tripped over her suitcase. None of it mattered. Aria dropped into the chair opposite him and crossed one leg over the other. “So, Reid. What’s your game?” “Survive.” “Cute,” she said. “But basic. We’re not here to just survive.” “Maybe you’re not.” Aria tilted her head, studying him. “You look like someone who gets what he wants.” “I do,” he said, pausing just long enough. “Eventually.” She leaned forward just a touch, voice low. “Careful. You say that to the wrong girl and you’ll end up handcuffed to a headboard with no safe word.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite. “I don’t mind a little restraint.” She arched an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?” His eyes finally softened, just slightly. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” They stared at each other in silence. Not awkward. Electric. Then he stood, taller than she expected, and walked past her toward the open sliding doors that led to the backyard. The scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, too expensive—trailed behind him. She didn’t turn to watch him leave. But she wanted to. God, she wanted to. Instead, she stood, exhaled slowly, and murmured, “Cocky bastard.” Behind her, the other contestants were making themselves at home—unpacking in shared rooms, rifling through the fridge, already clashing over beds and claiming bathroom slots. Someone was arguing about who had showered first. Two others were doing body shots in the kitchen. The chaos was starting. But in the middle of it, Aria felt centered. Focused. She had her eye on one man. And even if he didn’t know it yet—he’d be hers. Or he’d regret ever walking through that door. ---