"Be My Toy"
Introduction ~
Author
I'm back, this is my 4th story I hope you all gonna like it."
Introduction
Elena Vance
The CEO of her own empire
Forced to collaborate her father's business together
But who cares because she is the only illegitimate heir of her family
Personality: Rude, sharp tongue, arrogant, smart, only good in business talk and relationships
Status: Single
Age: 32
Family: Father, stepmother, stepsister
Introduction
Killian [Last Name?]
The fallen king of a Russian dynasty
Forced to sign the 'Terms of Surrender' after a hostile merger
But he isn't poor, he just lost the only thing that mattered—his freedom
Personality: Intense, defiant, silent, sophisticated, observant,loves sleeping and reading,lazy man
Status: "Owned" by Elena
Age: 26
Family: Disgraced father, distant relatives
A high-stakes gamble gone wrong 🍷
Chapter 1: The Vance Dictatorship
The obsidian desk in Elena’s office reflected the cold, sharp lines of her silhouette. She was a woman built of glass and steel, her eyes fixed on a digital merger report that would expand her empire. The silence was her sanctuary ...until the sharp vibration of her phone shattered it.
The caller ID flashed a name she only ever answered out of a grim sense of duty: Arthur Vance.
She tapped the screen and brought the phone to her ear, her face remaining as expressionless as the black-and-white suit she wore.
Elena, darling,"
her father’s voice came through, dripping with a calculated, sugary warmth.
"I was just thinking about the legacy. It’s time we brought our assets together. A collaboration of the Vance bloodline. It would be the talk of the industry."
Elena
"Mr. Vance,"
*interrupted, her tone a velvet blade.*
"If there isn't something truly important to discuss, I’ll be hanging up. My time is not a family heirloom you can borrow."
The "sweetness" on the other end
The "sweetness" on the other end evaporated instantly. Arthur’s voice turned into a jagged roar, his demands for loyalty and obedience echoing through the speaker. Elena didn't flinch. She simply pulled the phone a few inches away from her ear, watching the signal bars as if they were more interesting than the man shouting at her.
Elena
"Dad,"
*said, her voice dropping to a sub-zero temperature.*
"I’ve work."
Before he could get another syllable out, she tapped the red icon. Silence.
Elena leaned back, resting her head against the headrest of her chair with a heavy huff. The adrenaline from the confrontation faded, leaving only a dull, throbbing weight behind her eyes. Her head felt heavy, burdened by the constant pressure of a family that only valued her for the empire she had built despite them.
The transition from the cold, high-stakes office to the suffocating silence of her penthouse was seamless. Elena didn't bother with the lights; she let the amber glow of the city skyline filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, lonely shadows across the room.
She reached her bedroom and practically collapsed, her body hitting the silk sheets with a tired thud. One by one, the pieces of her corporate armor fell away—the sharp blazer, the restrictive heels—until she was left shivering in the dim, warm air.
Seeking some escape from the pressure in her skull and the frustration in her blood, she slid a hand beneath the lace of her panties. Her movements were slow at first, her breath hitching in muffled huffs that broke the silence of the room. She closed her eyes, trying to force her mind to find the release she so desperately needed
But the friction was hollow. Her fingers moved for minutes, chasing a spark that refused to catch. When the climax finally came, it was nothing but a second of dry, empty sensation. There was no wave of relief, no fading of the tension. ...only the slick sheen of sweat on her skin and the bitter taste of disappointment. The headache remained, throbbing in sync with her racing heart.
She pulled her hand away, the cold air hitting her skin like a slap. She sat up abruptly, her hair disheveled, and grabbed the nearest silk pillow, hurling it across the room with every ounce of strength she had left.
Elena
"I FUCKING HATE MYSELF!"
*screamed into the empty suite, her voice cracking.*
"I can get anything I want, but I can't even get satisfaction!"
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The Ghost of the Past
The water in the tub was cooling, but Elena didn't move. She lay there in the dim, amber light of the bathroom, her head tilted back against the porcelain rim. The silence was heavy, but her mind was loud. As she closed her eyes, the steam seemed to morph into the shadows of a memory she had tried to bury under a billion-dollar empire.
She was back on that bed.
She remembered the weight of her fiancé, Julian, and the way the air felt sucked out of the room. There was no tenderness, no "gentleman" in the gesture...just the sharp, sudden sting of betrayal as he took her virginity. In her mind’s eye, she saw the vanishing vision of blood on the white sheets, a vivid stain that marked the end of her innocence and the beginning of her coldness.
It hadn't been an act of love; it had been a nightmare of possession.
Elena’s eyes snapped open, her breath coming in a shallow shudder. She stared at the ceiling, her fingers gripping the edge of the tub until her knuckles turned white. The physical pain of that night had faded years ago, but the fear was rooted deep in her bones.
Elena
"What if it hurts again..."
*whispered to the empty room, the vulnerability cracking through her arrogant shell*
She wasn't just afraid of the pain; she was afraid that she was broken beyond repair—that no matter who she bought or who she hired, that "nightmare" would always be the only thing she felt.
Elena
let's see if it's fear or just temporary pain
Elena leaned against the marbled bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a Vintage Crystal glass filled with Neat Scotch...something expensive, aged, and strong enough to peel back the layers of her frustration. She didn't want a cocktail; she wanted a burn that matched the one in her chest.
Around her, the club pulsed like a fever. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and sweat. She watched them—the socialites and the heirs—their bodies tangled together under the strobe lights.
What is so good about it? she thought, her lip curling in a sneer. A noisy hump in a dark corner. Predictable. Cheap.
She turned her back on the dance floor, signaling the bartender for another pour.
As the amber liquid hit the glass, she felt the alcohol finally beginning to win. The world was softening at the edges, the sharp thorns of her ego beginning to dull into a dangerous, jelly-like haze.
She looked at the bartender, her gaze heavy and unfocused.
Elena
"Another,"
*muttered, her voice losing its corporate edge.*
"And make it hurt this time."
She was a queen looking for a way to fall, and the club was more than happy to let her.
The burn in her stomach hit like a physical punch. One second she was staring at the bartender, and the next, the room was tilting on its axis. She lurched away from the bar, her only thought to reach the bathroom before the Scotch made a reappearance.
Elena
*didn't make it three steps.*
Her world collided with a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. A hard, unknown chest blocked her path, and before she could collapse, two powerful arms wrapped around her. His hands were large, his grip firm and steady as they locked around her perfectly thin, small waist, pulling her flush against him to keep her from hitting the floor.
For a split second, time suspended. In the haze of the dim lights, Elena tried to tilt her head back to see the face of the man holding her. She saw a sharp jawline, the glint of dark, obsessed eyes, and felt the radiating heat of someone who moved with the quiet authority of a king.
Elena
*Then, her stomach revolted*
The "Relationship Error" wasn't just a memory anymore...it was a public catastrophe. Before a single word of thanks or a cold dismissal could leave her lips, she threw up right across his immaculate, expensive shirt.
The immediate circle around them went dead silent. The heavy bass of the DJ continued to throb through the floorboards, but for the people watching, the music might as well have stopped. The Queen of the Vance Empire, the illegitimate heir to a billion-dollar throne, had just branded a stranger with her own lack of control.
She felt his grip tighten—not in anger, but in a strange, protective steadiness—as her head fell forward against his ruined chest.
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