“Married to the Cruel Tycoon”

The moment passed in a breath, taut and violent.

Dante didn't kiss her.

Didn't strike.

He simply turned away—calm as a blade sheathed with intent.

"You're dismissed," he said coldly, moving toward his desk.

Selene didn't move. Not right away.

Because something inside her had cracked open. Something fierce and dangerous.

She wasn't just surviving in Dante's world anymore.

She was resisting it.

And he knew it.

—

The next day, the air in Blackwell Tower was suffocating. The temperature hadn't changed. But the power had shifted.

Dante hadn't spoken to her since the confrontation. He hadn't looked at her either. Not during meetings. Not when she handed him files. Not even when she corrected one of his top executives in front of the entire board and proved the man's calculations were off by seven figures.

But silence wasn't mercy.

It was the build-up before the storm.

And it arrived on Friday.

—

The deal was critical. Time-sensitive. A merger with one of Dante's shell companies that held silent stakes in Bratva-linked ports.

Everything had to run like clockwork.

Instead, Selene disappeared from her post for over thirty minutes.

By the time she returned, Dante's jaw was clenched, his phone gripped in one hand. The deal had stalled. The foreign partners had started asking questions. The lawyer was pissed.

And Selene?

She was holding a bloodied rag and had dirt on her knees.

"Where the fuck were you?" Dante snapped the moment the room cleared.

Selene didn't flinch. "One of the cleaners in the east wing slipped. No one helped her. She was bleeding—bad."

Dante's eyes narrowed. "That cleaner is not your problem."

"She's a person."

"She's a liability." His voice thundered through the glass-walled office. "This isn't a charity, Selene. It's an empire. You don't delay my operations over a janitor."

Her fingers dug into the hem of her blouse. "Then maybe your empire's built on the wrong foundation."

The silence that followed was thick and lethal.

Dante stared at her like he didn't recognize her.

Or maybe, like he finally did.

He didn't yell. Didn't throw anything.

He just said, "You'll pay for this."

And she knew he meant it.

—

That night, Selene was dragged from bed by one of his guards before dawn, dressed in silence, and escorted to the east wing of the estate. Dante wasn't there. But a note was.

"Clean up the ballroom. Use heels. No help. No breaks. Not a fucking word." – D."

The ballroom had hosted one of Dante's infamous parties the night before. The kind filled with drunken billionaires, powdered vices, and broken glass.

She stepped in, and her stomach turned.

Empty bottles. Cigarette butts. Spilled champagne soaked into velvet drapes. Red-soled heels and lipstick-stained napkins littered the place like remnants of a war zone.

It was cold. Silent. Cruel.

And she was alone.

Wearing stilettos.

—

Selene didn't cry.

Didn't scream.

She got to work.

She scrubbed marble floors until her knees throbbed. Picked up broken glass with trembling fingers. Dragged bags of trash one by one across the massive estate halls. Sweat dripped down her back. Her arms ached. Her heels blistered.

And still—she worked.

Because he was watching.

Even if he wasn't here, he was always watching.

She knew the punishment wasn't about the ballroom. Or the delay. Or the cleaner.

It was about control.

It was about breaking her spirit.

But Selene Harts didn't break easy.

—

By the time the sun rose, Selene could barely walk.

Her blouse was ruined. Her hands were raw. She'd bled into her own heels.

And still—the ballroom gleamed.

She took a final breath, leaned against the wall, and let herself slide to the floor.

Everything blurred at the edges. Her vision swam.

The cold marble kissed her cheek.

Then—darkness.

—

She didn't hear the footsteps.

Didn't see the shadows lengthen behind her.

But she felt it.

Warm hands—rough, furious—slid beneath her.

Lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing.

She tried to open her eyes, but her lashes fluttered uselessly.

The scent of him wrapped around her—dark leather, spice, power.

Dante.

He didn't say a word.

He carried her through the hallways, jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

Not a single soul dared speak as he passed.

—

She woke in his bed.

Silk sheets. Warm lighting. Clean bandages around her feet.

Her heels were gone.

Dante was sitting at the edge of the bed, head bowed, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

"You should've followed orders," he said without looking at her.

Selene pushed herself up, pain lancing through her ribs.

"I'd do it again."

He finally turned his head.

Eyes unreadable. Voice low. "Even knowing the price?"

She swallowed. "Especially knowing the price."

His jaw ticked. "You think this is a game between us? That you can win with noble defiance?"

"No," she whispered. "I think I'm already losing. Because the longer I stay here, the more I forget what freedom feels like."

Dante stood. Slowly. Like a storm about to crack.

Then he leaned down, bracing one hand beside her head.

"Good," he said quietly.

"Why?"

"Because freedom doesn't love you back," he whispered. "But neither do I".

The words hit harder than his punishments ever could.

Selene looked up at him, and for a second—just a breath—he looked tired.

Haunted.

But the moment passed.

He straightened, walked to the door, and said without looking back, "You return to work tomorrow. Don't make me regret saving you.

That night, Selene stood at the window, watching the storm roll in across the city.

And behind her—Dante's reflection appeared in the glass.

Close. Too close.

His fingers brushed her shoulder.

"You disobeyed me again."

Selene didn't

turn around. "Are you here to punish me?"

He leaned down, his lips at her ear.

"No," he murmured, voice a dangerous caress. "I'm here to remind you who you belong to."

And this time—there would be no escape.