ALMS TO LOVE CHAPTER 7

Fiona didn't blink.

She turned to him deliberately, lashes low over her eyes, voice as cool as glass.

"You paid for a wife, Charles. Not a puppet."

He smiled. "Same thing."

"No," she replied, smile tenuous. "A puppet doesn't bleed when you cut it."

Charles's jaw clamped down. The spark in his eyes cooled to something harsher—something that resembled eerily respect. or maybe, fear. Of a woman who couldn't be fully owned.

Fiona sat up straighter, crossing her legs intentionally.

You want me polished? Good. I'll shine like a diamond and your grandmother will think I breakfast on them. But talk to me like that one more time, and God as my witness, I'll show you what a peddler does to a billionaire in public."

Charles's eyebrow shot up. "I'm accustomed to being obeyed."

"Then this is going to be a hell of an rude awakening."

His jaw clenched. "Do not test me, Fiona.

She moved forward now, chin lifted, heels snapping like gunfire on the marble floor.

"Test you? Sweetie, I endured worse than your designer suits and daddy drama. You do not intimidate me."

He stepped closer, tone a whisper heavy with venom. "You think this is a game?

No," she snapped. "You made it one. You drew the board, fixed the price, wrote the rules. And now that your pawn has a spine, you're panicking."

Charles's mouth twitched—whether in anger or fascination, even he wasn't certain.

Clara, stuck in the corner, muttered to herself, "This is why I drink."

Fiona didn't relent.

You paid for a name, Charles. You paid for a contract. But you didn't pay for me. Not my soul. Not my pride. And if you speak to me again like that, I swear I will incinerate this whole deal to ashes—Liza's treatment or no."

He glared at her as if she'd struck him. Perhaps she had—without laying a hand on him.

Then gradually, Charles moved back. Just an inch. He sipped his scotch, never looking away from her.

"You're exhausting."

"You're predictable," she shot back. "And profoundly insecure for a person with a billion-dollar ego."

Clara cleared her throat. "If you're finished measuring your emotional—assets—can we please get back to the fittings?"

Neither shifted. Neither blinked.

Then Charles cocked his head.

"You have no idea what you've signed up for."

Fiona leaned forward, eyes blazing.

"Neither do you."

There was a slow silence in the car. The driver wasn't breathing. Clara, in the corner, was going through the motions of checking her tablet but had long since ceased blinking.

Charles gazed at Fiona like a man who'd purchased a stunning sculpture and only now recognized that it had a pulse.

Then. a slow, pleased smile.

"Now that," he said softly, "is the woman I employed."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "You keep playing like you're in charge. That's cute."

Clara, at last having mustered up the courage to speak, grumbled under her breath:

"If you two kiss before the brunch I'm jumping out of this moving car."

Charles made a short, harsh sound of laughter.

Fiona, without hesitation, shot back:

"If I kiss him before the brunch, I'm jumping out."

They glared at one another—equal measures of defiance and disdain—and for an instant, the air crackled with something they couldn't quite define. Not romance. Not yet.

But a warning.

Two souls on the brink of a cliff, held together with paper and deceits. and a storm rushing in quick.

When they pulled up at Billionaire's mansion of Billion clan

The Bentley drove over marble lions, decorated gates, and trimmed hedges that rose up as high as walls. Fiona gazed from the window at the vast estate that was less like a house and more like Versailles had been bullied into resurrection by contemporary capitalism.

This place has a zip code of its own," she grumbled.

Charles did not glance at her. "Collect yourself. And don't forget what I said."

"Oh, don't be a peddler. Right." Her voice dripped with acid. "Thanks for the pep talk, Your Arrogance."

He finally faced her, his grey eyes cool, detached. "We're here to be a power couple and not ourselves. If you flinch wrong, Madam Jamaica will scent it.

"I'm not a show pony, Charles."

"No," he said, cool and incisive, "but you are mine. For now."

Fiona balled her fists in her lap. She counted to five. For Liza. For sixty million reasons.

When the car came to a halt, a butler pushed open the door, and Charles exited first. Then, with mechanical elegance, he extended his hand to Fiona.

She didn't take it.

He raised a brow.

"I'm not here to play dollhouse," she said softly.

"You're not. You're here to play queen." And with a bright, forced smile for the crew observing, "Now hold my hand like you love me."

Fiona slid her hand into his, smiling up at him as if he'd pulled her out of the water. "You're lucky I'm a great actress."

They climbed the steps hand in hand, their outlines clear-cut against the sun.

The instant they stepped into the foyer, the temperature plummeted ten degrees.

A woman sat atop a marble staircase, flanked by twin Dobermans and two housekeepers. She had on a high-necked silk blouse, a brooch the size of a doorknob, and an eye that could slice through titanium.

Madam Jamaica Billion.

Eighty-one. Owner of Billion Enterprises. The lioness who constructed an empire out of nothing but toughness, charisma, and a ruthlessness that sent shivers down Wall Street's spine.

"Charles," she purred, voice like gravel coated in honey. "You're late."

"You invited me at eleven. It's ten fifty-nine."

"Then you're early. And I detest early." Her gaze shifted to Fiona. "And this is clearly your flushing bride."

Fiona breathed in. Extended her hand. "Fiona Generys. It's a pleasure, Ma'am."

Jamaica descended with an elegance that belied her years. She didn't shake hands—she took her measure.

"Good grip. No artificial nails. You work."

"I do," Fiona said coolly. "Or at least, I did. Until recently."

"Therapist, yes? I've read your file."

Fiona's eyes widened. "You… have a file on me?"

Jamaica smiled, but not with amusement. "I have dossiers on each threat to my empire. You're fortunate. Most threats sport Gucci belts and can't spell ethics. You're unique."

"Thank you?"

"That wasn't an insult. It was a warning."

They were led into the solarium dining room—glass-walled rooms over a private lake, a never-ending table of truffle eggs, lobster toast, champagne fountains.

Charles’s cousin Daniel was already seated, oozing entitlement. “You’re the mystery girl,” he said, eyeing Fiona. “Brave.”

“She’s more than brave,” Jamaica said, sitting at the head of the table. “She’s necessary. Charles needs someone who won’t just smile for the camera. He needs someone who’ll slap him with a truth he doesn’t want to hear.”

“Charming,” Charles muttered. “I’m right here.”

"I gave birth to your father. I've seen you naked and screaming. I'll say what I damn well want."

Fiona smiled.

"So, Fiona," Jamaica said, cutting into a blood-orange. "Why Charles?"

The room snapped tight.