Bound to the billionaire

The contract

Damien’s pov

The ride up in the elevator was quiet, almost too quiet. I could hear the faint click of her heels against the marble floor as she followed behind me. She hadn’t looked at me since we left the reception . She kept her eyes lowered, shoulders tense, clutching her bag like it was a shield.

When the elevator doors slid open to my office floor, I didn’t bother to slow down for her. If she wanted this arrangement, then she would have to get used to my pace, my world, my rules.

Inside my office, the door closed behind us with a soft thud. I turned, leaning against the edge of my desk, and finally allowed myself a closer look at her.

Her face was calm, but too calm. The kind of calm that cracks with one wrong word.

“So,” I said, my voice deliberately smooth, “you finally changed your mind.”

No answer. She stood still, her eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet.

I arched a brow. “Silent treatment already? You’ll have to get better at this if you’re going to play my wife.”

Still nothing. Only the faint rise and fall of her chest, like she was forcing herself to breathe.

I tapped the intercom. “John, bring in the contract.”

Minutes later, John appeared, his usual efficient self. He placed the thick folder on my desk, gave a respectful nod, and quietly left us alone.

I pushed the folder toward her. “Read.”

Her fingers hesitated before touching it, as though the leather cover might burn her. Slowly, she opened it.

I said nothing, letting the silence stretch as she began reading. I wanted her to feel the weight of every word, every clause, every condition.

Her eyes moved across the lines, her lips tightening as the reality of it unfolded. No emotional attachment. No involvement beyond what was necessary. She would attend all social functions by my side. She would move into my villa. Our marriage would be registered once she signed.

She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw the crack in her composure.

“Do I… have to move into your villa?” Her voice was quiet, almost pleading. “Can’t I stay in my apartment?”

“No.”

Just that. One word. Firm. Final.

Her shoulders fell slightly, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. But she didn’t. She pressed her lips together and returned to the document.

I watched her. The slight tremor in her hand as she turned each page. The way her brows pulled together when she reached certain clauses. The way she lingered on the last page, the one with the line awaiting her signature.

Time stretched. I didn’t rush her. I wanted her to feel the decision settle in her bones.

Finally, she picked up the pen. Her hand shook, but she steadied it against the desk. With a slow, deliberate motion, she signed her name.

The sound of the pen scratching across the paper was louder than it should have been in the silence.

When she pushed the folder back toward me, I closed it without expression.

“You’ll receive your payment soon.”

She gave the faintest nod, then stood. She didn’t look back at me as she walked out.

I remained where I was, fingers tapping lightly against the closed folder. Contract signed. Game set. And yet, the sight of her trembling hand lingered in my mind longer than I expected.

Amira’s pov

By the time I left Demian’s office, my legs felt like they didn’t belong to me. My body moved, but my mind was somewhere else floating, heavy, numb.

I don’t remember the ride home. I don’t even remember unlocking my apartment door. But when I finally shut myself inside, the weight of it hit me all at once.

The papers. The clauses. My name in bold ink at the bottom of the page.

I slid down against the door, my bag slipping from my shoulder. And then the tears came. Hot, unstoppable, blurring everything.

I cried until my chest hurt, until my breaths came out in shudders. It wasn’t just today it was everything. The slow unraveling of my life. My mother’s sickness. The endless bills. The nights I lay awake wondering how much longer I could keep us afloat. And now… this.

Marrying a man who saw me as nothing more than an arrangement. Signing away my freedom for security.

I curled on the floor, my knees to my chest, letting the sobs shake me until there was nothing left but exhaustion.

After a while, I pulled myself up and stumbled to the couch. My apartment felt colder than usual, emptier, though it was filled with the same things I’d always had. The same walls. The same cushions. But everything felt… different.

I closed my eyes, trying to remind myself why I had done this. For Mom. For her medicine. For the hospital bills. For the chance to keep her alive.

I repeated it over and over in my head, like a mantra. Like it would keep me from falling apart completely.

My phone buzzed on the table. I reached for it, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

A notification.

Deposit Alert: $100,000.00

I froze, staring at the glowing numbers. My breath caught.

There it was. The reason. The price. The proof that I had traded myself for something tangible.

I should have felt relief. I should have felt victory. But instead, a hollow ache spread through my chest. Was this what my life had come to? Selling myself into a contract for money?

I pressed the phone against my chest, my eyes closing as fresh tears slipped down.

Later, I forced myself into the bathroom. I let the hot water run over me, steam filling the space, the sound drowning out my thoughts. I wanted to scrub away the day, the pen in my hand, the weight in my heart.

When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in my softest robe, clutching it tight.

I needed a distraction, something familiar. I curled up on the couch with my favorite movie playing in the background. I barely watched it, but the voices, the music, the predictability gave me comfort.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed me. I slipped into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, my body heavy.

But even as I drifted toward sleep, one thought refused to leave me.

I wasn’t just Amira Blake anymore.

I was now tied by ink, by paper, by money to Demian Cole .

And nothing would ever be the same again.