Love Me In 100 Days

The downpour over the city showed no signs of stopping. Sheets of cold rain slammed against the tinted glass of the taxi, blurring the glowing neon signs of downtown Manila into long, smeared streaks of crimson and amber. ​Inside the cab, Sienna Thorne sat with her back straight, her hands clasped tightly over the cheap leather clutch resting on her lap. Her knuckles were white. Beneath the thick fabric of her emerald-green dress, her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. ​She checked her wristwatch for the fifth time in ten minutes. 7:57 PM. ​"Traffic’s backed up all the way to the avenue, miss," the driver muttered, wiping a line of condensation from his windshield with a rag. "We’re still two blocks from the Grand Regency." ​"It’s fine. I’ll walk," Sienna said, her voice strained. ​She didn't wait for his response. She tossed a couple of wet bills onto the front seat, shoved the door open, and stepped out into the freezing deluge. ​The rain hit her instantly, plastering strands of her dark hair to her neck and soaking the hem of her gown. She didn't care. She couldn't afford to be late. Not tonight. Tonight was the boundary line between the survival of her family’s legacy and complete, irreversible ruin. ​Twenty-four hours ago, Thorne Architecture—a firm established by her grandfather three decades ago—had received a formal notice of foreclosure. Fifty million dollars in defaulted loans, toxic investments, and sudden, aggressive buyouts by anonymous shell companies had gutted the company overnight. Worse yet, the shadowy loan sharks her father had foolishly turned to in a desperate attempt to cover the losses were no longer sending warning letters. They were sending men to their house. Her father was currently locked in a safe house in Tagaytay, trembling, while her mother was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. ​And then, at 4:00 PM today, a single black envelope had arrived at Sienna’s office. Inside was a keycard, a reservation number for the penthouse suite of the Grand Regency Hotel, and a handwritten note consisting of six words: ​Come alone. 8:00 PM. I hold the debt. ​Sienna picked up her pace, her high heels clicking loudly against the wet pavement. She pushed through the heavy glass revolving doors of the hotel, ignoring the startled looks from the concierge as water dripped from her hair onto the polished marble floor. ​She rode the private elevator up to the 50th floor in total silence. The digital display chimed soft tones as it climbed: 40... 45... 50. ​When the doors slid open, she was greeted by a private foyer lined with dark walnut paneling and soft, recessed warm lighting. At the far end stood double mahogany doors, slightly ajar. ​Sienna took a deep breath, smoothing down her wet dress, and pushed the doors open. ​The penthouse suite was vast, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass panels that offered an panoramic view of the storm-drenched city below. The interior was dimly lit, smelling faintly of cedarwood, rain, and the bitter edge of expensive scotch. ​Standing by the glass wall, looking out at the city lights, was a man. ​He was tall—easily six-foot-two—with broad shoulders that filled out a dark, bespoke charcoal suit. He held a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid in his right hand. He didn't turn around immediately when she entered, but the shift in his posture made it clear he knew she was there. ​"You are three minutes late, Miss Thorne," a voice deep, gravelly, and undeniably authoritative echoed through the quiet room. ​"The traffic was blocked," Sienna replied, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage. She stepped further into the room, refusing to show the tremble in her knees. "I assume I’m speaking to the man who bought out my father’s promissory notes?" ​The man slowly turned around. ​Sienna’s breath hitched in her throat. ​He was striking in a way that felt almost dangerous. He possessed razor-sharp cheekbones, a strong, square jaw lined with dark stubble, and thick black hair styled back. But it was his eyes that froze her in place—piercing, icy gray eyes that caught the ambient light like polished steel. There was no warmth in them, no humor, only a cold, calculating intensity that seemed to strip away her defenses in a single glance. ​"Alexander Vance," he said softly, taking a slow sip from his glass. ​The name hit Sienna like a physical blow. Her mind raced back to four years ago—the news headlines, the scandal, the sudden collapse of one of the country's most powerful investment houses. ​"Alexander Vance..." she whispered, her brow furrowing. "You... you were convicted of corporate fraud and manslaughter four years ago." ​"Framed," Alexander corrected calmly, stepping away from the glass window. His boots made no sound against the thick Persian rug. "And subsequently cleared of all charges six months ago. But I see my reputation precedes me." ​"What does a former convict turned shadow investor want with a struggling architectural firm?" Sienna demanded, her eyes narrowing. "Why buy fifty million dollars worth of bad debt?" ​Alexander set his glass down on a side table with a soft clink. He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps, stopping just two feet away. The sheer presence of him was overwhelming; he radiated a dark, suffocating heat that made the spacious room feel instantly smaller. ​"I didn't buy bad debt, Sienna," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked down at her. "I bought leverage." ​"Leverage for what?" ​"For you." ​Sienna let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "If you think you can intimidate me into selling our firm's remaining assets for pennies—" ​"I don't want your firm's assets," Alexander interrupted smoothly. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick, leather-bound folder, and tossed it onto the coffee table between them. "I want a contract." ​Sienna glanced at the folder, then back at his face. "What kind of contract?" ​Alexander leaned against the edge of the mahogany desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His gray eyes locked onto hers with relentless focus. ​"The terms are simple," Alexander stated. "One hundred days. You will move into my estate at Blackwood Manor tomorrow morning. You will accompany me to public events as my partner. You will live under my roof, follow my rules, and grant me your absolute presence whenever I require it." ​Sienna stared at him, stunned into silence. "Are you out of your mind? You're asking me to sell myself to you for a hundred days?!" ​"I am offering a transaction," Alexander corrected, his voice unbothered. "On the hundredth day, the moment the clock strikes midnight, I will personally sign the deed of release. Your family’s fifty-million-dollar debt will be erased permanently. The loan sharks chasing your father will be paid off in full, and I will inject ten million dollars of fresh capital into Thorne Architecture." ​He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the air. ​"Or," Alexander continued, his lips curving into a ghost of a cold smile, "you can walk out that door right now. And by 9:00 AM tomorrow, your father will be arrested for bank fraud, your family's assets will be seized, and the men waiting outside your father's hideout will finally catch up to him." ​Sienna felt the air leave her lungs. "You... you set this up. You backed my father into a corner!" ​"Your father backed himself into a corner years ago through his own greed and cowardice," Alexander said, his tone suddenly hardening like iron. "I am simply the man who bought the cage." ​"Why me?" Sienna’s voice cracked, a mixture of rage and terror burning in her chest. "If you hate my father, take his house! Take his land! Why demand me?" ​Alexander didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer—so close that Sienna could smell the subtle scent of cedarwood and tobacco clinging to his skin. He reached out his hand. Sienna flinched, but she didn't step back. ​His long, warm fingers gently brushed against the side of her jaw, tracing the curve down to her chin. His touch was feather-light, yet it sent a sudden, involuntary shockwave of heat straight through her veins. His thumb rested on the lower curve of her lip. ​"Because taking his money won't hurt him, Sienna," Alexander whispered, leaning down until his lips were barely an inch from her ear. His hot breath fanned across her sensitive skin, making her breath hitch. "Taking his most prized possession... taking you... will ruin him." ​Sienna’s chest heaved as she stared into his steel-gray eyes. She wanted to slap his hand away. She wanted to scream at him, to spit in his face and walk out into the storm. But behind his cold words lay the terrifying reality: he held every single thread of her family's existence in his hands. ​"You're a monster," she whispered, her hands clenching into tight fists at her sides. ​"I am a man who gets what he pays for," Alexander replied softly. ​He pulled his hand back and picked up a gold fountain pen from the table, holding it out toward her. ​"The clock is ticking, Miss Thorne. Do we have a deal... or do I call the sheriff?" ​Sienna looked at the pen, then at the thick leather folder resting on the table. Her mind screamed at her to run, but the faces of her terrified mother and desperate father flashed before her eyes. ​Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached out and took the pen from his grip. ​"Day One starts tomorrow," she said, her voice shaking with suppressed fury as she flipped open the folder to the signature page. ​Alexander watched her sign her name across the bottom line, a dark, unreadable emotion passing through his eyes. ​"Day One starts now, Sienna," Alexander murmured softly as she capped the pen. "Welcome to Blackwood Manor."