Owned by the Heir

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Calystria's POV

The contract was gone. Snatched from the table by Mr. Morales with a speed that suggested he was eager to lock it away in a vault before I could change my mind. I sat there for a second, my hands flat on the cool mahogany, half-expecting lightning to strike the building or for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I expected something to change. A shift in the atmosphere, a trumpet blast from the heavens, or at least for the room to stop spinning. But everything stayed the same—the hum of the air conditioner, the distant sound of traffic below, the smell of expensive leather. Everything was identical.

Except me.

I felt lighter, somehow, as if the weight of my debts had been physically lifted, but heavier too, like an invisible chain had snapped around my ankle.

Valerian stood up. He didn't offer a hand to help me up. He didn't nod. He didn't even look at me to acknowledge the monumental thing I had just done. He simply buttoned his jacket, checked his cuffs, and turned toward the door.

"Mr. Morales will handle the logistics," he said to the room, not to me. And then he walked out.

Just like that. No goodbye. No 'welcome aboard.' No 'thanks for selling your soul, enjoy the swag bag'. He left as if I were a piece of furniture he had just purchased and arranged to be delivered later. I felt dismissed, but the strange part was the lingering sensation that he was still watching me, even through the solid wood of the door he had just closed.

The room felt different without him. Emptier, yes, but heavier, too. It was like his presence had left a residue, a kind of atmospheric pressure that pressed against my eardrums. I stood up slowly, my knees popping in the silence. I felt like an intruder in my own transaction.

The door opened again, and the man in the suit—Morales—stepped back in. "Ms. Santelario, the car is waiting."

Right. The car. My carriage to take the peasant back to her hovel.

I walked out, my sneakers squeaking faintly on the marble floor. The hallway stretched endlessly, a long, sterile tunnel of glass and expensive art. Staff moved along the edges—cleaners, security, people in headsets. Every single one of them avoided eye contact. It was practiced, precise. They looked through me, past me, or at the floor. It was a unified message: You don't belong here. You never will.

I got into the back of the black sedan. The door closed with a heavy, vault-like thud, sealing me inside. The driver didn't look back. He was a solid block of a man, neck thick, posture rigid. He didn't ask for an address. He already knew where I lived. Of course he did.

We pulled out into the city traffic. The silence inside the car was thick, soundproofed against the chaos of Manila outside. I watched the city lights blur past the tinted windows—neon signs for fast food, the headlights of jeepneys, the flickering lamps of street vendors. It was my world, loud and messy, but it felt distant now. Like I was watching it through a television screen.

I looked at my reflection in the window. The glass was dark, turning my image into a shadow. I looked... unfamiliar. The fear was there, lingering in the tightness around my eyes, but there was something else. A brittle kind of determination.

"How long has he known about me?" I asked suddenly. The question just fell out, bypassing my brain's filter.

The driver didn't jump. He didn't even blink. He watched the road, his hands at the perfect ten-and-two position. There was a long pause, the kind that makes you regret speaking.

"Mr. Iskorel is thorough," he said finally.

That was it. No explanation. No timeline. Just that word. Thorough.

It lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of leather. Thorough. It didn't comfort me. It sounded surgical. Clinical. It implied that he hadn't just found me; he had dissected my life before I even stepped into his office.

We passed through the business district and into the older part of the city. The roads got bumpier, the potholes more frequent. We passed my neighborhood. It looked smaller tonight. The buildings were shorter, the paint was peeling, the tangled wires overhead looked messier. The luxury of the last hour had made my reality look like a bad Polaroid.

The car stopped right in front of my apartment building. The contrast was jarring. The sleek black machine looked like a spaceship that had crash-landed in a junkyard. Neighbors were peering out from their windows, curious. I sank lower in my seat for a second, dreading the walk of shame.

I reached for the door handle but hesitated. It felt like stepping out of a lifeboat back into the freezing ocean.

"You will be contacted with further instructions," the driver said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror for the first time. His gaze was calm, final. "Good evening, Ms. Santelario."

I stepped out. The humidity hit me instantly—a thick, sticky blanket that smelled of exhaust and frying oil. The car pulled away the second the door clicked shut, leaving me standing on the cracked sidewalk.

I walked up the stairs to my apartment, the familiar creak of the wooden steps usually a comfort, now sounding like the bones of a dying beast. I unlocked my door and stepped inside.

Silence.

It hit harder than before. The eviction notice was still on the table. The half-empty water bottle was still in the fridge. Nothing had changed. But everything felt off. The space felt smaller, like the walls were inching closer, boxing me in.

I dumped my bag on the floor and sat heavily on my bed. The contract. My mind kept replaying it like a broken record. One year. No questions. No interference. No emotional attachment. I had signed away a year of my life to a man who looked at me like I was a line item in a budget report.

"Valerian Iskorel," I whispered the name out loud.

It felt wrong on my tongue. Too heavy. Too powerful. It tasted like metal and cold cash.

I needed to know. I needed to see exactly what I had just married into.

I grabbed my laptop from my bag, an ancient thing that whirred loudly whenever I opened more than three tabs. I balanced it on my lap, the screen casting a pale blue light over my face. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

If I typed his name, there was no going back. Not that I had much of a choice anymore, but typing it felt like summoning a demon.

Just do it, Calys.

I typed: Valerian Iskorel.

I hit enter.

The results flooded the screen. Instantly. Thousands upon thousands of hits. News articles, financial reports, Forbes lists, gossip blogs. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of information crashing over my tiny, slow-loading screen.

I started scrolling.

ISKOREL INDUSTRIES FINALIZES HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF ASIA-PACIFIC SHIPPING.

THE BILLIONAIRE HEIR: A RECLUSE IN A GLASS TOWER.

VALERIAN ISKOREL DOUBLES REVENUE IN THREE YEARS—BUT AT WHAT COST?

The headlines blurred together. Words like acquisition, merger, monopoly, and power jumped out at me. It was impressive, sure, if you liked your men made of stone and spreadsheets. But then I saw another word. Repeated in different fonts, different sources.

Ruthless.

Valerian Iskorel: The Most Ruthless CEO of the Decade.

Ruthless Tactics: How Iskorel Crushed the Competition.

I clicked on an article titled The King of Cold. It read like a warning label. It spoke of competitors who went bankrupt overnight, partners who were bought out and fired the next day, and lawsuits that vanished into thin air.

"Okay," I muttered, scrolling down. "So he's a shark. A very successful, very well-dressed shark. I knew that. I saw the suit."

But the comments... the comments were a different beast. I clicked on a business forum link.

User123: "Guy's a genius. I'd sell my soul to work for him."

FinanceGuru: "He’s a monster. Stay away. Heard he buried a guy who owed him money." (Likely a joke, but still.)

QueenBee: "Ruthless? Please. He's just efficient. Men hate when a guy doesn't play games."

I switched to the images tab.

Photo after photo filled the screen. Valerian at galas. Valerian at ground-breaking ceremonies. Valerian in boardrooms. He looked the same in every single one. Impeccable suit. Posture rigid. Face unreadable.

I clicked on a high-resolution shot from a charity gala. He was standing next to a stunning woman in a red dress—a model, probably, or a socialite. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking past her, at something off-camera.

I zoomed in on his face.

His expression was polite, a faint, practiced smile on his lips. But his eyes... his eyes were the problem. They were grey, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. It wasn't just that he wasn't happy. It was that he looked like he was calculating the structural integrity of the building, or perhaps figuring out how much the woman's jewelry was worth per karat.

"There’s nothing warm in them," I thought, a shiver tracing a line down my spine. It wasn't just a "resting businessman face." It was a void.

I kept scrolling, a compulsion taking over. I knew I should stop. I knew I should close the laptop, drink my water, and try to sleep. But I couldn't.

I clicked on a video link. An interview from a few years ago. The thumbnail showed him sitting opposite a nervous-looking reporter.

I hit play.

"Mr. Iskorel," the reporter stammered, "critics call your methods... aggressive. Some say you have no heart."

The camera panned to Valerian. He didn't flinch. He didn't get defensive. He leaned forward slightly.

"Heart is a biological necessity for pumping blood," Valerian said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "It has no place in business strategy. If my methods are aggressive, it is only because I refuse to lose. I don't play to participate, Ms. Chavez. I play to own the board."

The video ended. The screen went black for a second before the next autoplay video started.

I don't play to participate. I play to own the board.

I stared at the screen. My chest felt tight. My breathing was shallow. This wasn't just a boss. This was a man who viewed the entire world as a game of chess, and everyone in it as pawns. And me? I wasn't even a knight or a rook. I was a pawn he had just picked up and moved two squares forward.

I scrolled deeper. I found a rumor thread on a gossip site.

Anonymous: "I heard he destroyed his own uncle to take over the company. Locked him out of his own house."

GossipGirl: "He dates models, but never for more than a month. He gets bored easily. Or they get scared."

TruthSeeker: "The Iskorel family isn't just rich. They're old power. The kind that doesn't answer to the law. You don't cross a Iskorel. Ever."

My throat went dry. The air in my apartment felt stale, recycled. I suddenly felt watched. I snapped my head toward the window. The curtain was drawn, but I had the sudden, paranoid sensation of eyes on me.

I stood up and walked to the window, peeling the curtain back just an inch. The street was dark. A stray cat knocked over a trash can. Nothing else.

But the feeling didn't leave.

I sat back down on the bed. The laptop was hot against my legs. The light from the screen illuminated my face in the darkness of the room.

I looked at his face one last time. That frozen, perfect mask.

I had sold myself to a ghost. A powerful, ruthless, untouchable ghost who knew my secrets and had "protocols" he wouldn't let me read.

My phone buzzed on the mattress beside me. I jumped, my heart slamming against my ribs.

I picked it up. A text message from an unknown number. No name. Just a string of digits.

The transfer is complete. Check your bank.

I stared at the message. Then, with trembling hands, I opened my banking app. I typed in my credentials, my fingers slipping on the screen.

The app loaded. The little circle spun.

And then, the number appeared.

My balance wasn't zero. It wasn't negative. It was a number with enough zeros to make my eyes water. It was the signing bonus. It was real. The money was there.

I looked back at the laptop screen. Valerian Iskorel stared back at me, frozen in digital perfection.

"I should stop," I told myself. I should close the laptop and pretend I’m just a lucky girl.

But something tells me it’s already too late. The money was in my account. The contract was signed. The game had started, and I wasn't the one holding the controller. I was just another piece on his board.