Chapter 3 – The Deal 

Lana’s POV

The sun is barely a pale smear outside the massive windows when I slip out of bed.

I’m still wearing his shirt, the white cotton soft against my skin. Still wearing nothing underneath. Still sore from yesterday’s emotional wreckage, but the tears are finally dry. They’ve been replaced by a cold, unsettling curiosity.

Roman’s mansion is huge, quiet, and unsettlingly cold. It’s not haunted; ghosts at least leave residue. This place is just… empty. A polished, sterile mausoleum of wealth.

I pad barefoot down the long, immaculate hall, looking for any trace of life. Any sign of a home.

Wedding photos? Framed candid shots? Tacky vacation memories?

Nothing.

Not on the console table, not on the vast, blank walls, not even a single dusty picture tucked away. Everything is curated to be impersonal. For a newlywed billionaire’s mansion, it’s… sad.

I walk into the master suite—his, obviously. The bed is vast, shrouded in sharp, ironed linens, perfection in white and charcoal. Only one side looks like it’s been slept in.

No perfume bottle on the dresser. No stray lipstick. No messy pile of shoes. No sign a woman has ever truly claimed this room.

My mother has been Roman Vale’s wife for six months. And yet, it’s like she doesn’t exist here at all.

I continue my search, opening door after door.

One is locked tight. That makes my eyebrows raise. Secrets.

Another opens to a fully stocked, cold-steel gym, floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting nothing but discipline. No dust, so it’s clearly used. A place for solitary release.

Down another hall, I push open a door that seems like a storage closet.

It’s not storage.

It’s a walk-in wardrobe dedicated entirely to my mother.

Designer gowns hang in plastic bags. Couture heels sit on velvet shelves. Price tags are still on most of them. The air smells like expensive leather and new fabric—not perfume.

I smirk.

She married a billionaire and clearly expected the perks. Roman furnished the wardrobe, funny. She’s got the wardrobe of a runway model, but I’ve never seen her wear anything but Forever 21 and desperation.

Maybe that’s all marriage is to her: showpieces and fuckups.

She’s all smoke and mirrors. But the smoke is weak, and the mirrors are empty.

I find him in the enormous, immaculate kitchen, already dressed for the day. He looks like pure, uncompromising sin in slacks and a custom shirt. Coffee in one hand, a large digital tablet in the other. He is control personified.

“Morning,” I say, sliding into the chair across the table, making sure my bare legs are exposed below the hem of his shirt.

He grunts, barely lifting his eyes from the screen. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than expected. Thanks to the ridiculously fancy sheets.”

He gestures toward the plate already waiting for me. Scrambled eggs, toast, strawberries. I raise an eyebrow.

“You made this?”

“No. Maria.”

Of course. He probably doesn’t even know how to boil water.

Still, I pick up a strawberry. Bite. Let the juice slide down my tongue a little slow.

“You always feed your strays?”

He flips a page on the tablet. Doesn’t look up. “Just the pretty ones.”

I grin. “So I’m pretty now?”

He finally glances at me. “You’ve always known that.”

Oh.

I chew slower, feeling the weight of that look settle in my chest and lower.

“You and my mom,” I say casually. “How’s that going?”

His eyes go back to the screen. “It’s fine.”

“Do you love her?”

That gets a pause. Then a shrug. “It’s not like that.”

No anger. No passion. Not even denial. Just… apathy.

Not a yes. Definitely not a no. The lack of denial is a roar. It’s not like that.

It’s enough. It’s everything.

“Right,” I say, sipping juice, letting the confirmation sink in like poison. “Didn’t think so.”

He flips another page on his tablet. He’s deliberately avoiding my gaze, but I catch the slight tightening of his jaw. He doesn't like discussing the hollowness of his own marriage.

I spend the afternoon on a chaise lounge in the sunroom, pretending to read a massive, leather-bound volume I pulled off a shelf.

But my mind is spinning, mapping the geometry of the situation.

My boyfriend—my world—betrayed me.

With my mother—her body, her cruelty.

That should be the endpoint of my rage.

But this house... this cold man... this entire operation that doesn't smell of perfume or intimacy.

It's all a sham.

No wedding photos. No shared life. No love. Just transactions.

And that "it’s not like that"? That's a target. An opening.

She took my man—stole him right out from under me, laughing about my heartbreak.

Maybe it's time I returned the favor. Maybe I take what she values most in this controlled, beautiful house: its owner.

It's not about love. It’s about a transaction of power. And a taste of vengeance.

Dinner’s over. He’s still in the kitchen, rinsing a glass with exact, robotic movements.

I wander in.

I’ve swapped the shirt for a tank top. No bra. Bare thighs. Soft silk shorts that cling in all the right places.

He doesn't notice me at first. He is utterly absorbed in his screen.

​I make a decision. I drop the stainless steel spoon on purpose. It hits the marble with a startling clack.

​He looks up, annoyed, and then his gaze catches my outfit.

​I bend over.

​I make the movement slow. Exaggerated. The silk shorts ride up, the tank top gapes, the movement stretching the thin cotton over my hips. I can feel the shift of the fabric against my skin, and I know exactly what he is seeing.

​I straighten up, spoon in hand.

And when I glance back—He’s looking. Not long. Not hungry. But enough. Eyes up. Locked.

Then he shifts. Fast. Back to rinsing his glass like it didn’t happen.

But it did. We both know it did.

“You want something?” he asks without looking at me.

I grab the water pitcher. Fill a glass.

“I already got it,” I say sweetly. Then take a slow sip, licking a drop off my bottom lip.

“You always dress like that?”

“Only when I feel comfortable.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I’m full of interesting choices.”

He sets the glass down. Wipes his hands. “You’re not subtle.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

I meet his gaze. Hold it.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

“You should be,” he says quietly.

That makes me smile. “I’ve already been hurt. What can you possibly do that would scare me more than what he did?”

That lands harder than I expect. His mouth opens, then shuts. I leave him with that.

That night, curled up in the massive, sterile bed of the guest room, I whisper to the silent, dark house.

“You wanted to play games, Mom?”

I grin, cold and vicious, at the ceiling.

“The game just changed. And the prize is your husband.”

To Be Continued…