“Married to the Cruel Tycoon”

The estate was too quiet the next morning. Like a breath held.

But Selene had learned something about Dante's world—

Silence never meant safety.

It meant the storm was being stitched together behind closed doors. It meant someone—somewhere—was going to bleed.

She entered the dining hall to find Dante already seated at the head of the long mahogany table, black suit cutting into the morning light like a blade. A steaming espresso sat untouched beside him, his hand curled around his phone.

He didn't glance at her.

"Get dressed." His voice held no inflection. "You start work today."

Selene stopped mid-step. "…Work?"

His eyes lifted, icy and unreadable. "You'll be my personal assistant. At Blackwell Industries."

Her blood slowed. "You're not serious."

"Do I look like I make jokes, Selene?"

She crossed her arms. "So you're what now—my husband and my boss?"

Dante rose, buttoning his jacket with slow precision. "For the duration of our contract—yes."

Her stomach twisted. One year. That was the deal. One year of marriage. One year under his roof, under his name. One year of pretending, performing, surviving.

All for Lila.

"I didn't agree to be your secretary," she bit out.

"You agreed to be mine."

Selene sucked in a breath, stunned by the quiet cruelty in his tone. "You think putting me in your office will make me easier to control?"

His answer was brutal in its simplicity. "Yes. And safer."

"For who?" she whispered. "You or me?"

He moved closer, heat radiating off his body like fire from steel. She tilted her chin, refusing to shrink.

Dante leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek. "You still don't get it. I'll chain you to my side if I have to. I will own every second of your day, every breath—until this year ends."

Selene's heart slammed into her ribs, fury rising like poison in her throat.

But deeper than the fury—was something worse.

Something shameful.

Something dangerous.

Something she couldn't afford to feel.

Because part of her didn't hate the threat.

Part of her wanted to see just how far he'd go.

---

Blackwell Tower was Dante's kingdom—imposing, elite, and sterile.

Steel and glass scraped the clouds above, reflecting a sky that never quite looked blue.

Selene stepped out of the luxury car onto the polished white marble of the lobby, the world tilting just slightly on its axis. Her heels echoed like gunfire. Her fitted pencil skirt clung to her legs.

Dante had chosen her outfit. Of course he had.

She didn't even remember how it had ended up in her closet this morning.

The top button of her blouse was a little too low. The heels were a little too high. And the eyes on her? A little too curious.

"Mrs Blackwell," a cool voice greeted. "This way."

Yara. Dante's senior secretary. Mid-forties, sleek bun, blazer sharper than a blade. She didn't smile.

Selene followed her through halls of glass offices and sharp whispers. Men in tailored suits glanced up. Some smirked. Some stared too long.

It didn't matter.

Selene had learned to walk through hell and not flinch.

Yara opened a pair of heavy black doors. "His office."

Inside, the temperature dropped ten degrees.

Dante sat behind a monstrous black marble desk, surrounded by walls of glass and power.

"Sit," he ordered.

Selene took the smaller desk in front of his. A stack of documents already waited.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, teeth clenched.

"Everything," he said. "Until I tell you to stop."

Selene's jaw ticked. "You mean coffee runs and staying quiet while you play executioner in a suit?"

Dante glanced up, eyes gleaming. "If that's what today needs."

"Good to know you see me as so useful."

"Don't worry. I'll find a use for you."

Her breath hitched. The look in his eyes wasn't just cold now.

It was watching.

Calculating.

Possessive.

The day drowned her.

She wasn't eased in. She was thrown headfirst into a world of corporate brutality and silent wars.

Back-to-back meetings. Legal briefings with implications she didn't want to understand. Contracts filled with numbers—and veiled threats.

She learned quickly. Faster than Dante expected.

She read every contract. Memorized every schedule. Delivered every instruction with zero errors. She even intercepted a mistake in a merger clause that could have cost Dante millions.

He didn't praise her.

He just handed her more.

And watched.

By the end of the week, she was managing correspondence for multiple departments, sitting in on high-level meetings, and fielding calls from men twice her age who tried to talk down to her—

Until she reminded them she spoke fluent legalese and could tear apart a finance sheet in thirty seconds flat.

She found power in it.

The thrill of proving them wrong. The clarity of control.

And somewhere in that brutal blur of tasks and late nights—

Selene stopped just surviving.

She started owning her space.

Friday night. The tower had emptied.

The skyline outside glowed like a promise.

Selene was typing up a contract when the door clicked shut behind her.

She didn't turn. "If that's another NDA for the Zaitsev deal, it's done."

No reply. Just footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Controlled.

Dante.

He moved around her desk, tossed a file onto it with a thud.

Selene frowned at the tab: Zaitsev Shipping – Bratva Alliance.

"You approved this?"

"Yes," she said. "It's airtight."

"You don't get to decide what's clean in my world."

"I flagged every possible vulnerability—"

"I didn't ask you to think, Selene."

Her spine straightened. "Then what am I doing here, Dante? Fetching lattes and watching you play judge and executioner? Or am I your assistant?"

His jaw tensed. "You're here because I don't trust you out of my sight."

Her voice dropped. "Then maybe you shouldn't have married me."

His eyes snapped to hers. "You married me."

She pushed the file aside. "I married you to save my sister. Let's not pretend this is some love story."

Dante stepped closer.

"You agreed to one year."

"And I'll keep that promise."

"But you don't get to challenge me." His voice was a dark hiss. "Not here."

Selene rose from her chair, heart pounding. "Or what?"

He didn't answer.

He stepped into her space. His hand slammed down on the desk—crack.

Papers jumped.

Selene didn't move.

Their faces were inches apart.

She could feel his breath on her mouth. Could see the war in his eyes.

Push me again, his gaze said. See what happens.

Her pulse stuttered. She wasn't sure if she wanted to slap him—

Or kiss him.

She hated how much she still wanted him.

How even now, her body remembered him.

How her skin burned under his stare.

He leaned closer.

His next breath touched her lips.

And then—

Selene didn'

t know if he was going to kiss her.

Or destroy her.

And part of her didn't care.

Because in that moment, one thing was clear:

They weren't pretending anymore.

Not in this office.

Not in this war.

Not with each other.