“Married to the Cruel Tycoon”

The elevator doors slid shut with a whisper of finality, encasing Selene Hart in silence and steel. As the car ascended the towering glass monolith that was Blackwell Enterprises, her reflection in the mirrored panels stared back—alien, lacquered, and utterly composed.

But beneath the surface?

Chaos.

Her heart pounded like a war drum beneath her borrowed dress.

The city glittered beneath her, dazzling and distant—a world away from the one she used to know. New York had always overwhelmed her, but this building, this man… they were a different kind of predator. The kind that smiled while it devoured you.

She adjusted the thin diamond bracelet that had been delivered to her hotel suite that morning, along with a cream designer dress and a note that read simply: Wear this. Be on time.

No name. No warmth.

Just a command.

Dante Blackwell hadn't changed.

She should have walked away.

She should've never signed the contract.

But when it came to saving the people she loved—Selene had always been reckless.

Her sister's face flashed behind her eyelids—frail, bruised, and unconscious in that sterile white hospital bed. Selene's stomach turned.

The elevator dinged.

The doors parted into a palace of silver, glass, and quiet menace.

The executive floor of Blackwell Enterprises stretched out before her like a frozen lake—beautiful and treacherous. The air smelled like money and ozone. Everything gleamed—marble floors polished to a mirror shine, walls of glass catching the skyline, and minimalist steel fixtures that somehow made the space feel even colder.

A tall brunette in a black pencil skirt approached. "Mrs. Blackwell," she said crisply. "Mr. Blackwell is waiting for you."

Selene flinched at the name.

Not Miss Hart. Not Selene.

Mrs. Blackwell.

This was real.

Her heels echoed against the floor as she followed the assistant through a corridor of frosted glass walls and impersonal art.

She passed employees who didn't dare look up.

Power ran through this place like an electric current. She felt it in the silence. In the fear.

Finally, the assistant opened a heavy door of smoked glass and motioned her inside. "Go ahead. He's expecting you."

Selene stepped into the lion's den.

---

The office wasn't just luxurious—it was a declaration of war.

Black marble. Gray steel. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city like a painting. The room radiated authority and control. A single long desk of dark glass stood at its center, minimalist yet commanding.

Behind it stood the man she had once trusted with her heart.

Dante Blackwell.

And God help her—he was even more dangerous than she remembered.

He turned slowly, his broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that clung to his frame like sin. His dark hair was slicked back, his expression unreadable. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. An aura that demanded submission.

Selene swallowed hard.

"You're late," he said.

Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "Your driver dropped me off ten minutes ago."

He raised a brow, then let his gaze trail over her body.

From the tips of her designer heels, up the curve of her hips, past the neckline of the dress he had chosen for her, to her bare shoulders, and then—finally—her eyes.

Not desire. Not warmth.

Just assessment. Possession.

As if she were a car he had leased.

"That dress," he said, his voice silken and cutting.

"You sent it," she answered quietly.

"And you wore it."

"I didn't have a choice. Your assistant said it was mandatory."

He stepped out from behind the desk, his footsteps slow, deliberate. A predator approaching its prey.

"You'll find that's true of many things now."

"I'm not your doll," she said, lifting her chin. "You don't get to dress me up and parade me around."

"A doll would be easier," he said without hesitation.

The words struck deep. Too deep.

But Selene didn't flinch. She'd already given this man too much.

"Why am I here?" she asked, voice firmer.

He circled her now, slow and calculated. Like he was testing her boundaries. Her limits.

"To establish the rules."

"I thought the contract made them clear."

"In public," he said, stopping behind her, so close she could feel his breath at her ear, "you are Mrs. Blackwell. Composed. Loyal. By my side when required. In private—you do what you're told."

She turned to face him, fury burning through her fear.

"I'm not a servant."

"No," he said. "You're leverage."

The word gutted her.

She stepped back. "So I'm a pawn."

"A beautiful one," he murmured, eyes flicking to her lips. "But yes. A pawn."

"And you're the player," she snapped.

"I'm the board."

Selene's breath hitched.

This wasn't just control. This was domination. Psychological warfare. And she was trapped in the middle of it, bound by a signature inked in desperation.

"You're more mouthy than I expected," he said, tilting his head. "Most women would be grateful."

"For what?" she spat. "For being sold into a marriage I didn't ask for? For you blackmailing me into giving you a title so your empire doesn't crumble?"

"You make it sound so dirty."

"It is dirty."

His smile was sharp. "Then why do you still look so pristine?"

She stepped toward him now, shaking but steady. "You might have my name, Dante. But you don't have me. Not really."

There was a flicker in his eyes—surprise? Admiration? Annoyance?

She couldn't tell.

He leaned in, voice like ice. "Don't pretend this is anything more than a transaction. I own you now."

Selene's heart cracked at the edges.

She'd made the deal. She'd agreed to this. But hearing it said aloud, so coldly, stripped away the last layers of her illusion.

He wasn't the boy she had kissed beneath falling stars.

He was a king in a tower of glass, and she was nothing but a sacrificial bride.

---

She turned, ready to walk out, when—

Bang.

The door flew open.

A frantic assistant skidded in, eyes wide. "Mr. Blackwell—your fiancée is here!"

The words hit like a gunshot.

Selene froze.

Behind her, Dante stilled.

"…Fiancée?" she said slowly, turning.

The assistant's face drained of color. "I—I thought the engagement was still—"

The hallway behind her echoed with the sound of stilettos.

And then she appeared.

Tall. Blonde. Clad in blood-red silk. Her lips curled into a perfect pout, her eyes sharp with entitlement and venom.

"Darling," she said to Dante, walking past Selene without even a glance. "You didn't tell me we had company."

Her gaze landed on Selene like a blade.

"And who is this?"

Selene's fists clenched.

Before she could speak, Dante moved.

He crossed the distance in two steps and slid an arm around Selene's waist. His grip was firm. Possessive.

He pulled her close.

"This," he said, voice smooth as sin, "is my wife."

The room pulsed with tension.

Selene's pulse thundered in her ears. The other woman's face turned ghost-white. Dante's fingers dug into her hip like a claim.

Wife?

Not pawn.

Not leverage.

Wife.

And suddenly… everything had changed.

---