A Fiancée or a Prisoner?

Damien's POV

The city blurred around me in streaks of neon and dusk as I tore through traffic like a man possessed. My foot was a weight on the gas, but it was nothing compared to the chaos in my head.

Every piece of the puzzle twisted in my mind like a knife. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this.

Cleo had played it perfectly. Used protocol, bureaucracy, and timing like a scalpel. And the worst part? She wasn’t bluffing. The agency she worked under didn’t tolerate breaches. No broken deals. No complaints. If I pushed her out now—especially without a legitimate reason—they’d pull every contract I had with them. I’d be blacklisted across half the sector before sunrise.

That couldn’t happen.

Not now.

Not with Osmond breathing down my neck like a rabid dog, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Cleo knew that.

She knew everything.

And now she was moving into my penthouse—into my world again—like a goddamn ticking bomb with a smile on her face.

But Isabella…

She was the only thing keeping me sane, the only softness in the sharp, brutal world I’d built. She was in my bed. Under my roof. And Cleo being anywhere near her?

Fucking messy.

But if I tried to force Cleo out now, she’d blow the deal and maybe more. She didn’t operate on fear—she thrived on it. That girl would laugh in my face and sleep like a baby after burning down the entire building.

So no—I couldn’t push her.

Not until I’d found a way to secure Isabella.

Claim her—make her mine so completely that Cleo couldn’t touch her.

The moment I pulled into the underground garage, I was already unbuckling. I bolted toward the elevator. My fists clenched, jaw locked, heart racing like it had something to prove.

When the doors slid open into my penthouse, I moved fast—changed the passcode, locked every alternate access point, shut down the external entry from the building’s network. If Cleo wanted in, she’d have to knock on my goddamn door.

Then I stormed straight to the bedroom.

I bypassed the sleek marble entryway, took the stairs two at a time, and headed straight for the bedroom I left her in.

Empty.

My heart punched through my ribs.

The bed was made. Neatly. Like a goddamn hotel. Like she’d taken time to erase the fact that she ever existed in my space. The pillows were fluffed. Sheets tucked. Perfect.

Too perfect.

“Fuck,” I growled under my breath, spinning on my heel.

Did she…escape?

I swept through the living room. No sign of Cleo’s luggage either. Which meant the movers hadn’t arrived yet.

And Isabella hadn’t run.

So… where the hell was she?

I checked the guest room. The office. The bathroom.

Nothing.

Then—

Crash.

A loud shatter rang out from the kitchen.

I didn’t think. I sprinted.

When I reached the kitchen, I froze.

She was on the floor. Legs folded under her like a broken doll, her soft robe slipping off one shoulder. A jagged wine glass lay shattered at her side, and she held her hand close to her chest.

Blood.

My body went rigid.

“Isa—Ariana,” I breathed, stepping into the kitchen.

She flinched when she saw me. Her eyes widened—wild, terrified. Her breath came in shallow bursts like she was bracing for pain.

Her lips were parted slightly, breath shallow.

I crossed the space between us in two strides and dropped to my knees, gripping her wrist gently.

“What the hell did you do?” I muttered, inspecting the crimson smudge on her fingertip.

“It’s nothing. Let go of me,” she whispered.

But I didn’t.

A faint splinter of glass stuck just beneath her skin, so small I almost missed it. But the sight of it—this sharp thing hurting her—sent a wave of something vicious and primal through me.

I plucked out the splinter of glass free and without thinking, brought her fingertip to my mouth.

She gasped—soft, shocked. Her whole body tensed.

I licked slowly, letting my tongue glide over the wound. Tasting her. Claiming her.

Her breath caught. Her eyes didn’t move from mine. It was fear. It was fire. It was everything I wanted to consume.

Her lips parted, eyes locked on mine as I ran my tongue slowly, deliberately over the wound. A growl rumbled in my chest. She tasted like sugar and sorrow. My tongue slid again—this time just to feel her react.

Her breath hitched.

“Excuse me, sir…” she breathed.

Reality slammed back into me. I pulled away just as she tugged her hand back.

“I said I’m fine,” she whispered, flushed.

I didn’t move.

“You’re not fine. You can’t afford to be careless like this, Ariana,” I said, my voice tight, clipped. “You don’t lift a damn finger unless I tell you to. You don’t cook, clean, or reach for anything higher than your waist. The only thing I need from you is to breathe, eat, sleep, and look absolutely fucking ravishing while doing it.”

She flinched slightly at my tone. But I didn’t step back.

“I said I’m fine!” she repeated, stronger now—but her voice trembled.

“You don’t get to decide what fine is anymore,” I shot back. “I got that right the moment your father almost destroyed me.”

Her lashes fluttered. She was watching me closely, like I was a bomb she couldn't stop ticking. Beautiful. Wounded. Dangerous in a way that only made me want to consume her whole.

“I don’t know who you are. And my father is dead! You’re insane.” she yelled.

“Only about you.”

I pulled her gently to her feet.

“Leave the mess. The maid will clean it when she arrives. You're not lifting another damn thing in this house.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but I silenced her with a glance before guiding her to the living room. She settled into the couch, curling her legs beneath her.

“I’ll get the first aid,” I muttered, already turning.

When I returned, she looked like she was sitting in a stranger’s house. Shoulders stiff. Eyes distant.

Of course she is. I literally kidnapped her.

I crouched in front of her, dabbing antiseptic gently on the cut.

She winced.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “Almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I cut her off. “You’re mine to take care of as long you're under my roof.”

Silence stretched between us like a drawn blade.

When I finished, I stood slowly, towering over her.

“I need to ask you something,” I said, voice lower now.

She looked up.

Then I asked, “If I let you go… would you really leave?”

Her eyes shimmered. She nodded once. The kind of nod that ripped something inside me apart.

No. I couldn’t allow that.

So I gave her an impossible choice. It would help me deal with Cleo too.

“Four months,” I said. “Pretend to be my fiancée until I settle a few issues. After that, if you still want out… I’ll let you go.”

She laughed. Cold. Broken.

“You think I’ll parade on your arm like some trophy wife just because you snapped your fingers?”

“No. I think you’ll do it because the alternative is worse.”

“And if I say no?” she spat.

I took a slow step toward her. My voice was steel wrapped in silk.

“Then you stay tied to my bed for the rest of your life. And I will make sure you never get the chance to walk away again.”

Her breath hitched.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She stared at me—chest rising and falling with fury and fear. Her hands balled into fists. She looked ready to slap me, scream, claw her way through my skin.

She opened her mouth to speak—

Ding.

The doorbell.

We both froze.

Time fractured.

My eyes closed for half a second.

Fucking Cleo.

And this time, she wasn’t here for business.

She was here to finish what she started.