You're mine

Alina's POV

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I drove home in a daze. The city blurred past me, stoplights, pedestrians, the usual midday chaos. I didn't see any of it. My mind was stuck on my plan. Deep down in that quiet place I didn't want to admit, I knew that my plan wasn't going to work. The partnerships, the data, the whiteboard flowchart… it was all smoke.

I pulled into my driveway. The house was quiet, too quiet. I'd lived alone since I graduated, and the silence had never bothered me before. But today, it felt heavy. Like the walls were waiting for me to break.

And then I saw it.

A package. Sitting on my front doorstep. Crisp white cardboard, no return address. But written across the top in elegant black ink, three words that made my stomach drop:

Tik Tok Princess.

Damien. He'd called me that once, mockingly, after I'd stumbled through a presentation about social media strategy. He'd said, "Stick to your little Tik Tok dances, princess. Leave the real business to the adults." I'd hated him for it. I'd also remembered it. Clearly.

I picked up the package. It was heavier than I expected. I carried it inside, set it on the kitchen table, and stared at it for a long moment. Then I walked away. I wasn't ready. Not yet.

I made pasta instead. Boiled water, salted it, dropped in the spaghetti. I opened a jar of marinara, store-bought, nothing fancy, and heated it on the stove. I grated parmesan, poured a glass of red wine, and sat down at the table across from the unopened package. I ate slowly. Deliberately. I savored each bite, not because it was good, but because it was something to do. Something normal.

When I finished, I washed the dishes. I dried them. I put them away. I wiped the counter. I did everything except open that box.

But eventually, I sat down. I pulled the package toward me. I slid my finger under the tape and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a leather-bound folder. I opened it. The first page was a contract, detailed, airtight, signed by Damien's lawyers. A prenuptial agreement. Financial terms. A clause about the company remaining under my operational control, with him as a silent partner. A clause about heirs. About duration. About what happened if either of us wanted out.

It was clinical. Cold. Everything I'd expect from him.

But beneath the contract, there was a card. Handwritten. His handwriting, sharp, slanted, almost aggressive.

"Penthouse. 2PM. When you're ready."

No phone number. No email. Just an address and a time. He knew I'd come. He knew I had nowhere else to turn.

I stared at the card for what felt like hours. I thought about my father. About the board. About sixty days that felt more like sixty seconds. I thought about Damien's cold eyes and crueler smile. I thought about what it would mean to sign my name next to his.

And then I thought about the alternative. Losing everything. Watching my father's life's work crumble while he lay in a hospital bed, unaware. Telling him, if he ever woke up, that I'd failed.

I picked up my phone. I typed the address into my maps app. And I set an alarm for 1:00 PM.

---

The penthouse was everything I expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Minimalist furniture, sleek, expensive, unwelcoming. A bar cart with crystal decanters. Art on the walls that probably cost more than my house.

And Damien, standing by the window, his back to me, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He didn't turn when I walked in. "You're early," he said. "I like that."

"I'm not here for small talk," I said. My voice was steady, but my hands were trembling. I'd rehearsed this in the car. I'd practiced my lines until they felt like armor. But standing here, in his space, the armor felt thin.

He turned. He was wearing a charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. His eyes swept over me, assessing, calculating. Then he smiled. Not the cruel smile from before. Something softer. Almost curious.

"The contract is on the table," he said, gesturing to a glass coffee table. "Take your time. Read it. I'll wait."

I walked to the table. I sat on the edge of the leather sofa. I opened the folder. I read every page, every clause, every line of legalese. It was exactly what he'd promised. He'd save the company. I'd keep control. And in exchange, I'd wear his ring. I'd share his name. I'd stand beside him at galas and press conferences and pretend we were something we weren't.

It was a transaction. Nothing more.

But as I read, I kept glancing at him. He'd moved to the bar cart, pouring himself another drink. He wasn't watching me. He was giving me space. That surprised me.

I signed.

My pen scratched across the final page. I closed the folder. I looked up.

Damien set down his glass. He walked toward me, slowly, deliberately. He sat on the coffee table in front of me, so close that his knees almost touched mine. He took the folder from my hands and set it aside.

He reached out. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face. I should have pulled away. I should have slapped his hand. But I didn't. My body betrayed me.

"You're stronger than you think," he said. "I've known that since the first time you told me to go to hell."

I scoffed. "You called me a Tik Tok princess."

"I was testing you." His thumb traced my jaw. "You passed."

His face was inches from mine. I could smell his cologne, woodsy, expensive, intoxicating. His eyes weren't cold anymore. They were dark, intense, locked on mine. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

He leaned in. Closer. Closer. I felt his breath on my lips. My eyes fluttered closed. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to stop, to push him away, to remember who he was and what this was.

But my body didn't listen. I didn't resist. I tilted my head. I parted my lips. I hated myself for it. I hated how much I wanted it.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. He pulled me closer not roughly, but with a deliberate slowness that made every nerve in my body hum. His lips hovered a millimeter from mine. I could feel the heat of his mouth, the whisper of his breath. My own breath caught. My hands, betraying me again, came up to rest on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat beneath my palms, steady, calm, nothing like the wild racing of mine.

He didn't kiss me. He just stayed there, frozen in that almost, watching me through half-lidded eyes. Testing me. Seeing how far I'd let him go. Seeing if I'd close the gap myself.

And I almost did. God help me, I almost did.

But then, at the very last second I pulled back. "What the hell!" I yanked my hands away. I scrambled backward on the sofa, my back hitting the armrest. My chest was heaving. My lips were still tingling. My entire body ached with the absence of his touch.

Damien didn't move. He stayed on the coffee table, leaning forward, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face.

"Interesting," he said. His voice was low, velvety, and utterly cold. "You pulled away. But you wanted it. Every second of it. Your body told me everything I needed to know."

I opened my mouth to deny it, but no words came. Because he was right. My skin still burned where he'd touched me. My lips still ached for the kiss he'd denied me. I hated him. I hated myself.

He stood up. He straightened his cuffs. He looked down at me like I was a puzzle he'd just solved.

"You signed the contract," he said. "That means you're mine now. And I take care of what's mine." He paused. "You move in tomorrow. My driver will be at your house at nine AM. Pack light. I'll have everything else you need delivered."

I shot to my feet. "Move in? No. That wasn't in the..."

He held up a hand. He walked to the table, picked up the folder, and flipped to a page near the back. He read aloud, his voice flat and legal:

"The parties agree to cohabitate as spouses in a residence designated by the Husband, effective immediately upon execution of this agreement. The Wife shall comply with all reasonable requests regarding household arrangements."

He closed the folder. He looked at me. "Reasonable request, sweetheart. I own the penthouse. You'll live here. That's reasonable."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "That's not..you can't just.."

"I can." He stepped closer. He was taller than me, broader. He loomed. "And I will. You wanted to save your father's company. You signed your name to that. Now you live with the consequences." His hand came up, and for a moment I thought he'd touch me again. But he just tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture so gentle it felt obscene. "You're mine now. And that entails doing everything I say."

He dropped his hand. He walked past me toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle.

"Oh, and princess?" He glanced back over his shoulder. "That almost-kiss? That was a test. You proved you want this. You want me. And that's going to make this arrangement very, very interesting."

He walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood there in the middle of his penthouse, surrounded by his furniture, his art, his scent in the air. My knees gave out. I sank onto the sofa, my hands shaking, my lips still burning, my heart still racing.

I'd saved the company. I'd signed my freedom away. And somewhere deep down, in a place I refused to acknowledge, I knew Damien was right.

I did want him.

And that terrified me more than anything.