Bought by the Billionaire

Chapter 10: Three Days

Three days felt like a cruel joke.

The moment Elena stepped out of the elevator and into the cold hallway of her building, her phone buzzed. She didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Her landlord had been hounding her like a debt collector in a noir film—persistent, impersonal, and completely unforgiving. But this time, the message wasn’t a warning. It was final.

Final Notice. Eviction proceedings begin Monday.

Her breath caught in her throat. There wasn’t even the usual fake apology or corporate sign-off. Just the words, bold and brutal.

She didn’t respond. What was the point?

The contract Damien had given her felt like it weighed fifty pounds in her bag. She hadn’t dared open it again during the train ride home, hadn’t even looked at it. But it was there, burning through the fabric, taunting her with every bump and jolt of the subway. A deal with the devil. A golden collar.

By the time she got back to the tiny apartment she shared with Jules, she was exhausted. Not just physically, but spiritually, mentally. She collapsed onto the couch, the familiar dip in the cushions catching her like an old friend, and finally pulled the contract from her bag.

Black ink. Creamy pages. Damien’s signature right at the bottom in precise, powerful strokes, like he’d signed a million such deals before.

Her name was missing.

Elena ran her fingers along the paper as she read through the clauses for the third time. It wasn’t just a fake relationship contract—it was a blueprint for an entirely different life. Monthly payments that could cover more than rent. A luxury condo downtown. A clothing stipend. Scheduled public appearances. A clause about maintaining discretion. Another about behavior in public spaces. No mention of s*x, but it hung in the air between the lines.

She closed her eyes.

What was her pride worth, really? Rent was overdue. Tips at the café barely covered groceries. Her student loan grace period was over. The world didn’t care that she was a good person trying her best.

The next day, she tried to pretend none of it existed. She buried herself in work at the café, where she fumbled her way through lattes and pastries, splashing steamed milk on her apron and smiling too wide at regulars. Her hands shook. Her heart raced. She was so inside her own head that when a customer called her name twice, she blinked at them like they'd spoken in a foreign language.

By the time she trudged home that night, Jules was already curled up on the couch, a blanket over her knees and a concerned look on her face.

“You look like you walked through a tornado,” Jules said softly.

Elena kicked off her shoes and flopped into the armchair with a sigh. “More like I’m the tornado.”

There was a beat of silence before Jules asked the question she'd clearly been holding in all evening. “Did you see him again? Damien?”

Elena didn’t respond immediately. She stared at the ceiling like it held answers.

“He offered me a deal,” she said finally. Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it more real.

Jules tilted her head. “Like a dirty deal or a business deal?”

Elena cracked a weak smile. “Both.”

“Oof,” Jules exhaled, dragging out the word like it physically hurt.

“There’s a contract,” Elena continued. “Monthly payments. Housing. Appearances. No... you know, no intimacy clause. But let’s not kid ourselves.”

Jules sat up straighter. “Are you thinking about it?”

“I don’t have the luxury not to.”

Silence fell between them again. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Honest.

Jules leaned forward. “Look, I know you don’t want this. But surviving isn’t weakness, Lena. It’s survival. Screw what people would think. Damien Blackwood might be scary rich, but he didn’t come off like a total monster. And you’re not selling yourself—you’re making a choice. One that keeps a roof over your head.”

Her words helped. Not a lot. But enough to keep Elena from falling apart.

That night, she laid in bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn. Sleep didn’t come. Just questions. Regrets. What-ifs. She remembered the feel of Damien’s eyes on her, the way he saw right through her armor like it was tissue paper. There was danger in him, yes, but also control. Precision. He didn’t make offers without purpose.

On the third morning, Elena stood in front of the mirror with a pair of jeans in one hand and a pencil skirt in the other. It felt like a metaphor—comfort versus ambition. Survival versus surrender. She eventually went with the skirt. If she was going to sign away her autonomy, she might as well look the part.

She stared at herself a long while. Trying to figure out if she looked more desperate than determined. Wondering which one Damien would see first.

Then she picked up the contract and her phone. Her fingers hovered for a second over the contact, then tapped.

A man answered on the second ring. Polished, professional. “Blackwood Enterprises.”

“It’s Elena Rivera,” she said, the words slow and clear. “Tell Mr. Blackwood… I’m ready.”

There was the faintest pause. Then, “He’s expecting you.”

Two hours later, she stood in front of the building again—sleek, steel, and far too tall. She took the elevator all the way to the top without stopping. No lobby. No waiting. Just a direct shot to the penthouse that reeked of opulence and power.

The doors opened to reveal Damien at the bar, pouring himself a glass of scotch like he’d been doing it for centuries. The city lights behind him shimmered through the glass windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor.

“You signed?” he asked without turning.

Elena stepped forward, her heels clicking against the polished stone. She set the folder on the counter with more force than necessary. “I did.”

Damien turned, his expression unreadable at first. But something flickered—brief, sharp, almost vulnerable. Satisfaction? Relief? Whatever it was, it vanished behind the smooth mask he always wore.

“Then welcome to your new life,” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. “You’re officially mine.”

The words sent a jolt through her. The way he said it—low, velvety, with a dangerous edge—made her heart stutter.

“Temporarily,” she shot back, her chin lifting defiantly.

His smile curled slowly, wicked and knowing. “We’ll see.”

And just like that, the game had begun.