The Billionaire's Muse

Chapter One: The Fall from Grace The night tasted like desperation. Lena Marquez had walked hundreds of runways in her life, flown in private jets, kissed men she didn’t know for perfume ads, smiled on red carpets in dresses worth more than her mother’s house—and yet, nothing had ever made her feel this naked. Not until now. Not until the screams. “Lena! Over here!” “Did you sleep with the designer to get that deal?” “Smile, baby! Show us that famous pout!” The camera flashes turned the darkness into a storm of white fire. People swarmed outside the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, drunk on fashion, power, and scandal. And she was the scandal tonight. Lena yanked the silk wrap tighter around her body. Her heels clicked like gunshots against the stone as she tried to flee, only to stumble, nearly falling. Her face—always her face—had to stay intact. She pushed past a photographer, ducked under a velvet rope, and broke into a sprint. Her heart thundered against her ribcage, not from exertion but panic. Pure, animal panic. Her bare feet slapped the cobblestones as she tore through the back alley of the centuries-old plaza, the hem of her midnight-black dress tangling around her knees. They were calling her a homewrecker. A diva. A fraud. The same media that once called her “the face of modern beauty” now wanted to devour her. One leaked photo of her screaming at her agent during Milan Fashion Week, one badly timed whisper about a married designer, and her perfect career had begun to implode. All lies. But in this world, lies moved faster than truth. And she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to escape. She ducked into an alley so narrow it felt like a vein in the city’s throat. The night air was thick with the scent of old stone and rain. Her chest heaved. Her hair clung to her face. The silver necklace gifted by Dior slid sideways on her collarbone as she pressed herself into the shadows. Silence. Finally. But not for long. “You’re bleeding.” She startled so hard her shoulder hit the wall behind her. A man stood a few paces away, half-shrouded in shadow, the voice that had spoken low and unreadable. His hands were in his pockets, his body relaxed in a way that made her heart race for entirely different reasons. Lena stepped back. “Who are you?” He tilted his head. The golden glow of a nearby antique streetlamp caught his face. She froze. Not because he was handsome—though he was, painfully so—but because she knew him. Nikolai Duran. The billionaire. The enigma. The man who had built an empire off algorithms, vanished from the press five years ago, and reappeared in whispers, always cloaked in rumors: secret art collections, private islands, a fascination with beauty. And now he was looking at her like she was the masterpiece. He took a step forward, still utterly calm. “You're hurt,” he repeated, eyes flicking to the cut on her ankle. Lena looked down. A thin stream of blood was sliding over her foot. She hadn’t felt it until he pointed it out. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said breathlessly. “I own the villa this alley backs into,” he replied. “You are the one trespassing.” She raised her chin. “Fine. I’ll leave.” He didn’t stop her. But his voice followed her like silk over steel. “You can, of course. But I imagine the vultures are circling.” She paused. The distant buzz of shouting, clicking, and chaos still echoed beyond the alley. “They’ll find you in five minutes,” he said. “Less, if someone posts your location.” She turned toward him again. “Why are you helping me?” He met her gaze. “Because I’ve been watching you for a long time, Lena.” A chill slid down her spine. “Excuse me?” He didn’t blink. “Not the way you think. Not in person. Through the screen. Through art. Through everything you’ve allowed the world to see. And everything you haven’t.” She swallowed. “That’s… still a little terrifying.” His expression didn’t shift. “It should be.” He stepped into the light now, fully. He wore a suit so sharply cut it could’ve been part of his body. Midnight black, just like her dress. His presence was a gravity well, cold and magnetic, pulling her even as her instincts screamed at her to run. But he wasn’t wrong. If she walked back out, she’d be hunted. Shamed. Possibly arrested if any of the paparazzi claimed she attacked them in her panic. The press would eat it up. “You have a car?” she asked warily. He nodded. “Yes.” “Somewhere to hide?” Another nod. “Private. Secure. And no one will find you unless I want them to.” It should’ve scared her. But she was already walking toward him. --- The car was a sleek black thing that looked like it didn’t belong on public roads. She slid into the back seat, unsure whether to feel like a refugee or a criminal. Nikolai took the seat beside her. The driver said nothing. As they pulled away, Lena curled into the leather, hugging herself. She could feel his eyes on her but refused to meet them. “You didn’t ask where I’m taking you,” he said quietly. She glanced at him. “Do I get a choice?” A faint smirk. “You always get a choice. But let me guess—right now, you’d rather disappear than go back.” “You’re not wrong.” Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he said, “Do you know what they call you in the art world?” She blinked. “What?” He turned toward her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The Last Living Muse.” “That’s ridiculous,” she muttered. “Is it?” he murmured. “You’re the only model in the last decade who’s inspired paintings, not just photoshoots. They don’t sell perfume with your face. They immortalize it.” She looked at him, wary. “How do you know so much about the art world?” He leaned back. “Because I buy the pieces.” Lena’s heart skipped. The anonymous collector. The one who had reportedly purchased three portraits that looked unmistakably like her for over six million euros combined. The media had speculated. But no one had ever confirmed. “You’re the one who bought them,” she whispered. He said nothing. “You’re the one who’s been painting me,” she added, barely audible. Still nothing. But his eyes burned. Her voice shook. “Why?” Nikolai turned his gaze to the window now, voice like velvet and smoke. “Because you remind me of something I lost. And something I never had.” --- The villa was perched on a cliff outside the city, hidden behind wrought iron gates and surrounded by ancient cypress trees. It looked like it had been there since the Renaissance. Inside, it smelled of paint and old wood and something earthy. Real. He showed her to a guest suite with a balcony overlooking the sea. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until she saw the bed. “Stay,” he said quietly as she turned to him. “For how long?” “As long as you want,” he replied. “Or until the world forgets your name.” “That’ll never happen,” she said, bitterness lacing her voice. He stepped closer, so close she had to tilt her head to look at him. “I’ll make them,” he said simply. “I have more power than you think.” She stared at him, trembling. “Why are you doing this?” Nikolai reached up—not to touch her, but to tug gently at the torn fabric on her shoulder, inspecting it like a surgeon. “Because,” he said slowly, “you were born to be worshipped, Lena. And they only ever wanted to use you.” She closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, she whispered, “And what do you want to do with me?” Nikolai leaned closer, his voice barely above a breath. “Keep you.”