Chapter 2 – His Rules

Hindi ako nakatulog nang maayos.

Buong gabi, iniisip ko ang mga sinabi niya.

You’re mine.

Follow my rules.

Eighteen na ako. Hindi na ako bata. Marunong akong magdesisyon para sa sarili ko. Pero bakit parang sa harap niya, bumabalik ako sa version ng sarili ko na hindi sigurado?

Pagbaba ko ng hagdan ng penthouse kinaumagahan, naka-ready na ang breakfast. Tahimik ang buong lugar. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, city skyline sa labas, parang lahat controlled — tulad niya.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hayes.”

Napahinto ako.

Nasa dining area siya. Naka-suit na agad. Perfect. Untouchable.

And watching me like I was already something he owned.

“Don’t call me that,” sagot ko agad, pilit steady ang boses ko.

One corner of his lips lifted. “But that’s what you are.”

Umupo ako sa tapat niya. “Contract wife. Not real wife.”

He leaned back slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “A contract is still binding.”

The way he said binding made my stomach flip.

Tahimik kaming kumain for a few seconds. Pero ramdam ko yung tension. Hindi yung simpleng awkward silence — kundi yung parang may invisible current sa pagitan namin.

“May rules tayo,” sabi niya finally.

I froze. “Rules?”

He placed his fork down neatly. “Rule number one. You don’t leave this penthouse without informing me.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Rule number two,” tuloy niya, ignoring my tone. “You don’t entertain men.”

Natawa ako, disbelieving. “I’m not your prisoner.”

His gaze darkened slightly. Not angry. Worse — controlled.

“You’re my wife. Publicly.”

“That doesn’t mean you control my life.”

Silence.

He stood up slowly. And then he walked toward me.

Every step measured. Every movement calm. Pero habang papalapit siya, parang bumibilis ang tibok ng puso ko.

He stopped right behind my chair.

I felt him before I saw him.

His hand rested on the back of my chair. Not touching me. But close.

Too close.

“You signed that contract knowing who I am,” he said softly near my ear. “I don’t share what’s mine.”

My breath caught.

Mine.

There it was again.

I stood up abruptly, turning to face him. “I’m not an object, Logan.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Something intense. Dangerous.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re far from that.”

His hand lifted — slowly — and brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

The touch was brief.

But deliberate.

“And that’s exactly why I won’t let anyone else have you.”

Heat rushed to my face. I hated how my body reacted before my mind did.

“This is just business,” I reminded him.

He studied me for a long moment.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

That afternoon, he insisted I accompany him to the office.

“Public appearance,” he said. “People need to see you.”

So now I was standing beside Logan Hayes in the lobby of his own building, cameras flashing.

“Sir, is it true you got married secretly?”

“Who is she?”

“Is she connected to the board?”

His hand settled at my waist.

Possessive.

Not tight. But firm.

“This is my wife,” he said smoothly to the press. “And yes, it was private. Because she’s private.”

The way he emphasized private felt like a warning to everyone watching.

Or maybe to me.

Inside the elevator, the doors closed and the noise disappeared.

I immediately stepped away from him.

“You didn’t have to hold me like that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You enjoyed it,” I accused.

His eyes moved over my face slowly. “Of course I did.”

The honesty made my stomach twist.

“Why me?” I asked again. “You could have married anyone. Models. Socialites. Business heirs.”

He stepped closer.

Lowered his voice.

“Because none of them looked at me the way you did.”

“What way?”

“Like you weren’t afraid.”

I swallowed.

I wasn’t afraid of him.

I was afraid of how I felt around him.

In his office, everything screamed power. Dark wood. Clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows again.

“This will also be your office,” he said.

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I want you close.”

There was no hesitation. No shame.

Just truth.

“Logan…” I exhaled. “This obsession of yours—”

“It’s not obsession.”

“It is.”

He stepped in front of me, blocking my path to the door.

“You think I don’t know what obsession looks like?” he said quietly. “Obsession is reckless. I am not reckless.”

“Then what is this?”

His hand came up again — not touching, just hovering near my jaw.

“Intent.”

The word sent a shiver down my spine.

“I don’t do anything halfway, Lila.”

My name in his mouth sounded different.

He continued, “If I choose something… someone… I commit.”

“That sounds romantic,” I muttered.

“It’s not meant to be.”

That night, back in the penthouse, I found a folder on the bed.

Updated contract.

New clauses highlighted.

I opened it.

Clause 7: Public displays of affection permitted when necessary.

Clause 8: Shared bedroom required for public consistency.

My heartbeat spiked.

He walked in just as I looked up.

“You changed it.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even ask me.”

“You’ll agree.”

“And if I don’t?”

He loosened his tie slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

“Then I’ll convince you.”

The air between us shifted.

Heavy.

Charged.

“Stop doing that,” I whispered.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already won.”

A slow smile formed on his lips.

“I don’t play games I can lose.”

My back hit the edge of the bed.

Not because he pushed me.

Because I stepped back.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

He always notices.

His hand finally touched my wrist.

Warm.

Firm.

Not hurting.

But claiming.

“Relax,” he murmured. “If I wanted to force you… you’d know.”

The statement should have terrified me.

Instead, it made my knees weak.

“I don’t understand you,” I admitted.

“You don’t need to.”

He gently released my wrist.

“I’ll move to the guest room tonight,” he added calmly.

That surprised me.

“You said shared bedroom.”

“Eventually.”

His eyes darkened slightly.

“I’m patient.”

And somehow that felt more dangerous than anything else he’d said.

When he turned off the lights and left the room, I sat there for a long time.

My pulse still racing.

He wasn’t touching me.

He wasn’t forcing me.

But every word, every look, every controlled movement…

It felt like he was slowly building something around me.

Not a cage.

Something worse.

A choice.

And the terrifying part?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run.

Or step closer.