Chapter 2— HOUSE RULES
1068 Words
His penthouse didn’t feel like a home.
It felt like a cage with a view.
Glass walls. Steel floors. Black furniture that looked expensive and dead.
No photos. No books. No sign that a human lived here.
Just power. And silence that pressed on your chest until you remembered to breathe.
Lena Morrow walked me through it like a prison warden doing intake.
Heels clicking. Face blank.
“This,” she said, stopping at a hallway with 3 doors, “is the guest wing.
Bedroom. Bathroom. Living area. Mr. Cole puts people here he doesn’t want in the main house.
Staff. Mistresses. Problems.”
Her eyes cut to me. “That’s you.”
She kept walking.
“Rule 1: You attend every event he tells you to. You smile. You don’t speak unless spoken to.”
“Rule 2: You do not ask questions about Vantrex. About his business. About his family.”
“Rule 3: You sleep in the guest wing. Not the main bedroom. Not his bed. Ever.”
“Rule 4: You do not touch Mr. Cole.”
She paused at the last door.
“Rule 5: You do not let him touch you.”
Her voice dropped. “Because he will. And when he does, you won’t walk away the same.”
She left me there.
With a keycard and a contract that said I was property for 180 days.
I hated it immediately.
--- 11:47PM. Night One._
I couldn’t sleep.
The bed was too big. The silence was too loud.
So I did what any sane person wouldn’t do.
I broke Rule 4.
His office door was cracked. Light spilling out.
Inside: Damian.
Tie gone. Top two buttons undone. Sleeves rolled up.
Whiskey sweating on his desk. A gun in the drawer. Open.
He didn’t look up.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You’re not supposed to own people,” I shot back.
That got his attention.
He stood. 6’3. Shoulders that could carry a company and crush it.
“Careful, little debt.”
“Or what? You’ll add interest? You already own me.”
The word _own_ broke something in him.
He was across the room in two steps.
Back slammed against the bookshelf. His hand fisted in my hair. Not gentle. Not kind.
Tilting my head back until my throat was bare and my eyes watered.
“This is not an invitation, Elena,” he growled. His breath smelled like whiskey and control.
“Then why are you hard?” The words left me before I could bite them back. Hatred and stupidity.
His jaw ticked.
He slammed his mouth on mine.
Not a kiss. A punishment. Teeth. Anger. Dominance.
His other hand at my throat. Not squeezing. Claiming.
Like he was reminding both of us who had the power here.
When he pulled back we were both breathing wrong.
“Guest. Wing. Now.”
“Before I decide you’re worth less than the paper you signed.”
I ran.
Because staying would have meant begging. And I don’t beg.
--- 3:14AM.
My door opened.
No knock.
Damian.
Sweatpants. Bare chest. Hair damp like he’d showered and still couldn’t get me off his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. Like it was my fault.
“Neither could I.”
He didn’t touch me.
He dragged the chair from my desk and sat. In the dark. Watching me.
Like I was a security feed he needed to monitor.
Like I was an asset that might depreciate overnight.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“I go where I want in my house,” he said. “You’re in it.”
He stayed until 5AM.
Didn’t say another word.
Just watched.
Obsessed. Not with me. With control.
---11:30PM. Two nights later. VELVET. VVIP.
He dragged me out.
No warning. No “get ready”.
Just: “Dress. Now. We’re leaving.”
Black dress. Heels. No jewelry.
Because he didn’t want me decorated. He wanted me claimed.
The club was underground. Red lights. Bass that shook your ribs.
VELVET.
Where billionaires went to forget and destroy.
And there they were.
His wolves.
Kade Westhaven -28 leaned against the booth. 6’4. Suit jacket open. Scar over his eyebrow.
Eyes scanning the room like everyone was a threat.
He ran *Westhaven Security & Acquisitions*. He fixed problems with blood.
His father: General Richard Westhaven.
His mother: Isolde Westhaven, ex-UN diplomat.
He lived in Manhattan. In a penthouse full of guns.
Liam Carter - 28
was the opposite.
Blonde. Smiling. Champagne in hand.
CEO of *Carter Global Capital*. His dad was a Senator. His mom was Victoria’s best friend.
He lived in The Hamptons. Parties. Yachts. Lies.
And he looked at me like I was a new toy.
“Cole,” Kade said, nodding. No smile. “Didn’t know you were bringing baggage.”
Liam stood. Kissed my hand. “And you must be the famous Mrs. Cole.
God, Damian. You bought the prettiest liability I’ve ever seen.”
Damian didn’t sit.
He pulled me into the booth. Caged me between his arm and the leather.
“Mouth,” he told Liam. One word. Warning.
Girls came and went.
Blondes. Brunettes. Models. Assistants. All of them looking at Damian like he was god.
All of them touching his arm. His shoulder. His glass.
“Mr. Cole, can I—”
“Later,” he cut them off. Without looking.
Because his hand was on my thigh. Under the table.
Possessive. Claiming.
Like he was telling the whole club: _Mine._
Liam laughed. “Damn. You’re actually marking territory.
Didn’t think you had it in you, Cole.”
Kade just watched me. Cold.
“Careful,” he said to me. Low. “The last girl he got attached to ended up in a contract.
Don’t get comfortable.”
I met his eyes. “I’m not here to get comfortable.
I’m here because I was bought.”
Damian’s hand tightened on my leg.
“Enough.”
The music got louder.
Girls kept circling.
But Damian didn’t look at any of them.
His eyes were on me.
Furious. Obsessed.
Like I was the only problem in the room he couldn’t solve.
And I realized something:
He brought me here on purpose.
To show me. To show them.
That I wasn’t staff.
I wasn’t a mistress.
I was his.
Even if I hated him for it.
---☆TBC☆
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