The rain hammered against the glass walls of the high-rise office. Inside, the silence was heavy.

I stood in the middle of the room, shivering. My hands were shaking so badly I had to hide them behind my back.

Across the massive black desk, he sat.

Damien Blackwood.

They called him the Devil. Looking at him now, I believed it. He was staring at me like a wolf stares at a trapped rabbit.

"Please, Mr. Blackwood," I whispered. My voice cracked. "My father… he didn't mean to lose the money. He just needs more time."

Damien didn't blink. He just tapped his pen against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Time is expensive, Elara," he said. His voice was low and smooth, like dark velvet. "And your father is broke."

He stood up. He was huge—tall, broad-shouldered, and terrifyingly handsome in a sharp black suit. He walked around the desk, moving slowly toward me.

I wanted to run, but my feet felt glued to the expensive rug.

"He owes me five million dollars," Damien said, stopping just inches from me. I could smell his cologne—expensive whiskey and danger. "He goes to prison today. Unless…"

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Unless what?"

Damien smirked. It wasn't a nice smile. It was cold. Possessive.

"Unless you pay the debt."

"I don't have five million dollars!" I cried out, tears stinging my eyes. "You know I don't!"

"I know," he replied calmly. He reached out, his cold fingers tilting my chin up so I had to look into his dark eyes. "But you have something else I want."

My breath hitched. "What?"

"You."

The word hung in the air, suffocating me.

"Be my wife," he said. He wasn't asking. He was telling me. "Sign the contract. Belong to me. Do that, and your father’s debt is gone. He walks free."

I stared at him in horror. "You… you want to buy me? Like I’m an object?"

"I want to keep you," he corrected, his thumb brushing against my bottom lip. His eyes darkened. "There is a difference."

He turned and picked up a black folder from his desk. He held it out to me.

"Read it. The terms are simple. You wear my ring. You live in my house. You never leave without my permission. And in exchange, I protect your family."

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. "But be warned, Elara. Once you put these chains on... I never take them off."

I looked at the contract. Then I thought of my father, rotting in a jail cell.

I had no choice.

I took the pen. My hand trembled as I hovered over the paper.

"Good girl," Damien murmured. The sound vibrated through my bones.

I signed my name. Elara Vance.

The moment the ink hit the paper, the air in the room changed. It felt heavier.

Damien snatched the paper away, satisfied. He looked at me with a hunger that made my knees weak.

"Welcome to hell, my sweet wife," he said.

And then, he kissed me.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was rough. Demanding. It was a promise that my life was no longer my own.

I hadn't just made a deal with the Devil. I had married him.

The car ride was silent. Deadly silent.

I sat pressed against the cold leather door of the limousine, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. But the car wasn't big enough.

Damien sat relaxed, scrolling through his phone. He looked like he was just coming home from a normal day at work. Not like he had just blackmailed a woman into marriage.

"Stop shaking," he said, not looking up.

"I can't," I whispered.

He reached out and placed his large, warm hand on my thigh. His grip was firm. Possessive. "You’ll get used to it."

The car slowed down. I looked out the tinted window and gasped.

We were driving through massive iron gates. Ahead of us, on top of a lonely hill, stood Blackwood Manor. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a fortress. Dark stone, tall towers, and surrounded by thick, dark woods.

"It’s… isolated," I said, my voice trembling.

"Private," Damien corrected. "I don't like visitors."

The car stopped. The driver opened the door, but Damien got out first. He extended a hand to me.

I hesitated.

"Take it, Elara," he warned. His tone was sharp.

I took his hand. He pulled me out, pulling me close to his hard chest for a second before leading me up the massive stone steps.

The front doors groaned as they opened. Inside, the house was beautiful, but cold. Black marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and shadows everywhere.

"Where are the servants?" I asked. The house felt empty.

" dismissed them for the night," Damien said, locking the heavy front door behind us. Click.

The sound of the lock echoed in the empty hall. It sounded final.

"I want privacy with my new wife," he added, turning to face me.

I took a step back. "Where… where will I stay? Which room is mine?"

Damien chuckled. It was a dark, low sound. He stepped closer, backing me up until my back hit the cold wall.

"You really don't understand, do you?"

He placed his hands on the wall on either side of my head, trapping me.

"There is no your room, Elara. There is only our room."

My eyes widened. "But—"

"You belong to me now," he interrupted, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. "You eat with me. You go where I go. And you sleep in my bed."

Panic rose in my chest. "I can't… I barely know you!"

"You have a lifetime to learn," he whispered.

He grabbed my wrist—not painful, but firm enough that I couldn't pull away—and started dragging me toward the grand staircase.

"Come. Let me show you your new cage."

I looked at the locked front door, then at the man dragging me up the stairs.

The contract wasn't just paper . It was a life sentence.

S E E. U . S O O N. N E X T . C H A P T E R 3

Damien pushed the heavy double doors open.

The master bedroom was massive. One wall was made entirely of glass, overlooking the dark, twisted forest below. In the center of the room sat a gigantic bed with black silk sheets.

It didn't look like a bed. It looked like an altar. And I was the sacrifice.

Damien let go of my wrist. I stumbled back, rubbing the red mark his fingers had left on my skin.

"It’s... too big," I stammered, looking anywhere but at the bed.

"It’s perfect," Damien said. He walked over to a small table and poured himself a glass of amber liquid. He didn't offer me any.

He turned to face me, taking a slow sip. Then, he set the glass down and started unbuttoning his suit jacket.

My heart stopped. "What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He tossed the expensive jacket onto a chair. Then, his fingers went to his tie. He loosened it and pulled it from his neck in one smooth motion.

He looked wilder now. Less like a CEO, and more like a predator.

I backed up until I hit a dresser. "I can sleep on the couch. Or the floor. I don't mind."

Damien laughed. He crossed the room in three long strides, trapping me against the dresser. He placed his hands on either side of my waist, his thumbs pressing into my skin through my thin dress.

"My wife does not sleep on the floor," he growled. "She sleeps in my arms."

He reached into a drawer behind me and pulled out a slip of red silk. He held it up. It was a nightgown. Short. Lace. Scandalous.

"Put this on," he commanded, shoving the silk into my trembling hands.

"I... I can't wear this," I whispered, my face burning.

His eyes narrowed. The playful look vanished. "Elara. I bought this specifically for you. Do not insult me."

He leaned down, his lips grazing my jawline. "You have five minutes to change in the bathroom. If you aren't out by then... I'm coming in to dress you myself."

I gasped. I knew he wasn't joking.

I grabbed the nightgown and ran into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door shut. I reached for the lock.

"Don't even think about it," his voice boomed from the other side of the door. "There are no locks in this house, Elara. I removed them all."

I froze, my hand hovering over the empty space where the lock should be.

Tears pricked my eyes. He had thought of everything. There was no privacy. No safety.

I looked at the red silk in my hands. I had five minutes.

I stripped off my clothes and pulled on the nightgown. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly. It clung to every curve. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself. I looked like a doll. His doll.

I took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

Damien was waiting. He was sitting on the edge of the black bed, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his chest.

When he saw me, his eyes went dark. He stood up slowly.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

He held out his hand. "Come here."

I walked toward him, my legs shaking. When I reached him, he pulled me down onto the bed. The silk sheets were cold, but his body was burning hot.

He pulled the covers over us. The lights dimmed automatically.

I lay stiff as a board on the edge of the mattress, facing away from him.

"Closer," he ordered.

"I'm close enough," I whispered into the pillow.

Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me backward. My back slammed against his hard chest. He wrapped his arms around me, trapping me like a steel cage.

"You are never close enough," he whispered into my hair.

He buried his face in my neck, breathing in my scent. I lay there, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to the rain and the steady beat of the Devil's heart against my back.

I was trapped.