The lobby felt too luxurious, too polished, too cold for someone like Alina. She hugged her purse tighter to her chest, trying to gather herself as the atmosphere suffocated her a little more with each step.
The model was still staring at Alina, eyes scanning her from head to toe as if searching for the joke. Alina's simple clothes, pigtails, and faded purse only made the sting sharper.
So she stepped back.
"I'll wait somewhere. You can finish with her."
But the second she tried to retreat, a sharp, commanding voice dragged her attention back.
"Alina."
She looked up — and flinched.
Damian's eyes were locked on her, dark and unreadable… but heavy with something that pinned her in place. Something like a warning. Something like heat. Something she didn't understand.
He stepped forward and plucked the brown envelope from her hands without breaking eye contact.
"Get in the elevator," he said quietly. "Now, little wife."
The lady was forgotten. Lucas was forgotten. The world was forgotten.
Only his voice existed.
And that unnatural intensity in his eyes.
Her legs trembled.
"O-okay…"
She scurried toward the elevator, his gaze trailing her like a physical touch. She felt it on her skin. On her neck. Down her spine.
The air grew thinner.
When the doors closed behind her, she gripped the railing, exhaling shakily.
Only then did she realize — the woman he'd been with was a model. A real one. Someone Alina would normally only see on magazine covers or TV screens or hear from her colleagues.
What was she doing here?
What was Elena doing here?
Nothing made sense.
The elevator chimed open, revealing a warm-smiled dark woman in her fifties.
"Welcome, Mrs. Thorn," she said, the title hitting Alina like a slap and an embrace at once. "I'm Winnie. The boss asked me to prepare his private lounge for you."
Mrs. Thorn.
The words felt foreign. Too big for her skin.
Winnie led her into a suite that was more of an apartment than a room — a full kitchen, a bed neatly tucked to one side, a spacious living room with a fur rug and a massive screen.
Alina gaped.
This wasn't just luxury.
It was another universe.
Winnie gave her back a gentle pat.
"I'll leave you here, dear. Congratulations."
Alina bowed slightly. "Thank you, Winnie."
As the older woman stepped into the elevator, the doors opened again…
And Damian stepped out.
Tall.
Quiet.
Effortlessly dominant.
His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes?
They were fixed on her with a heat that made her breath stutter.
Alina quickly darted inside and closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it.
The air in the room cooled around her… but inside her chest, everything was burning.
The door opened moments later. Damian stepped in with a controlled calmness that felt more dangerous than yelling.
He dropped the envelope on the couch with a soft thud.
"I thought you were smart," he said.
"Why did you sign only one of the documents? There were twenty."
She crossed her arms, glaring despite her nerves.
"All the papers are connected. I just had to sign the primary one. It saves me trouble."
His brow lifted, amused.
"And what trouble is that, little wife?"
"Divorce," she spat.
"I'm not staying with you forever."
Damian smirked, eyes glinting.
"So you know it's a contract marriage."
"I do. Which means no feelings, no attachment. You live your life, I live mine."
She stood. "I'm leaving."
He stepped forward, predatory slow.
"Are you sure we're not doing this forever?"
Her breath caught.
"It seems," he murmured, "you didn't read the contract properly, Alina."
She paled.
She reached for the envelope — but Damian grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer before she even blinked.
"You can't touch that after handing it back to me," he said softly.
His thumb pressed lightly against her pulse, feeling how fast she was breathing.
"And you missed an important clause."
"What… clause?" she whispered.
"You'll bear my children."
Her entire body froze.
"What do you mean by that?" she rasped.
Damian leaned in, breath ghosting her cheek, voice low and dark.
"It's still a marriage, Alina. And in marriage, there are… expectations."
Her knees nearly buckled.
"No cheating," he added, voice dropping an octave.
"You're officially mine."
She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering dangerously.
"How did my father get a man like you?" she whispered.
He smirked, brushing his fingers through his dark hair.
"You should be grateful. Not every woman gets to be my wife."
His gaze trailed slowly down her figure — hot, deliberate — before rising back to her eyes.
"I'll have Lucas move your things to my estate in a few days. Along with your brother."
Her eyes widened. "Kelvin? But he's still in ninth grade—"
"A new school. Better. Safer. And your mother will go to a proper care home after she's discharged."
Her heart clenched.
"How… how do you know all this?"
Damian finally released her wrist and walked toward the kitchen with fluid grace.
"Is it wrong," he said, pulling off his suit jacket and revealing the sculpted lines beneath, "for a man to know about the woman he married?"
He opened a drawer and took out a white apron, tying it around his waist.
Alina blinked. "…You're going to cook?"
He moved with elegant precision, reaching for seasoning on the upper shelf.
And her eyes — traitorous — trailed down.
Straight to his backside.
Her friend Stacey's voice echoed in her head:
'Girl, men with nice butts are dangerous.'
Seems that rubbed off on her.
"Stop staring at my ass, Alina," Damian said without turning.
Her face went scarlet. "I— I wasn't!"
"You were."
He threw her a sideways glare.
"And it's firm because I work out."
She wanted to sink into the floor.
"It is firm," she muttered before her brain could catch up.
Damian froze.
Then… the tips of his ears pinked.
"What was that for?" he asked, voice slightly rougher than before.
She quickly escaped to the small study, needing air.
But Damian's eyes followed her every movement.
She checked her phone — only to see five missed calls from her manager.
A sixth one came through immediately.
Her hands shook as she answered.
"Good afternoon mana—"
"You stupid girl!" her manager screeched. "You're supposed to be here! You're fired! Come and collect your garbage!"
The call ended.
Alina stood frozen, breath gone.
Damian wiped his hands on a towel, walked to the living room, casually picked up his phone — and noticed she was gone.
She hurried to the door.
"Alina."
His voice echoed behind her.
She didn't turn.
"You're not leaving this building. Go sit down."
"My job— I lost my job— I need—"
He grabbed her arm, pulling her back with quiet strength.
"You don't need that job," he said, eyes turning colder.
"I have enough money for you to spend."
"I am not your prisoner!" she protested.
"You can't keep me here!"
Damian stepped closer, towering over her as his expression hardened.
"You need to eat," he said, voice low, firm, and brooking no argument.
The air between them throbbed with tension — fear, heat, confusion, dominance clashing with desperation.
And when their eyes locked…
Everything changed.