CHAPTER 2

“Only a man who’s dangerous looks at you like he already owns your secrets.”

That’s how Damien Sinclair looked at me as he pointed I sat at the car as the guard opened the car door.

The Bentley’s interior smells like sandalwood and silent power as he had always been.

 The city blurred past the tinted windows as he poured me a glass of wine without asking what I liked.

It was Malbec. My favorite.

I hadn’t said a word to him since he gave me a lift. My soaked clothes clung to my skin, my fingers were trembling but was only noticed by me, and my thoughts jumbled, wondering what he is up to. 

Every instinct in me screamed to run. But his voice was gravity—low, smooth, addictive just as it has always been. And my exhaustion made escape feel like floating, I wanted to but I couldn't.

“I have an offer for you ,” he said,with his eyes trained ahead as the car ascended into the heart of Manhattan’s elite. 

“And I don’t make them twice.” he snapped.

 I didn't reply to him instantly. The elevator opened directly into a penthouse that didn’t smell like money—it smelled like old secrets and danger masked in sophistication.

Damien moved through the space like he built it with his bare hands, like it bowed to him. Maybe it does.

From the Floor-to-ceiling to the windows overlooked a city I no longer trusted.

“I’m not interested in another job,” I managed to say. My voice was hoarse, my throat was still raw from screaming into my own silence.

“I didn’t say job,” he replied, turning to face me with maddening calm. “I said offer.”

He stepped close, the heat radiating off him in quiet waves. I could see them. “You look tired, Celie. Take a bath. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”

That nickname. No one had called me that since… I tried remembering but I couldn't.

My mouth opened widely, but no sound came out.

I should have left immediately. I should have. demanded answers. Demanded sanity instantly. But my body betrayed me—my knees were weak, my curiosity stronger than my pride.

The bath was drawn. The robe is plush. The wine glass was refilled. I didn’t remember moving toward it, just the sensation of warm water covering my bruises like forgiveness I hadn’t earned.

When I emerged from the bathroom , damp hair was brushing my shoulders. I saw him. He was seated by the fire side, his shirt sleeves rolled up, reading a contract with surgical focus on his face.

“You’ve been watching me,” I said flatly, keeping distance between us yet my eyes couldn't stop piercing through his eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he corrected instantly, not even looking up. “Since you left me.”

My pulse stuttered on hearing that word.

“We’ve never met, so. …. when did I leave you?.” I tried so hard to recall if I had a thing with him before but none could remember.

He bent his head over to me, his eyes piercing through mine and he studied me as if I were a problem that only he could solve. 

“That’s what makes this fun.”

He handed me the document without any further words.

Pages of legalese—but the bold title at the top said it all:

 Contractual Marriage Agreement.

“You want to marry me?” I laughed bitterly trying to understand the message passed on by the . “What is this, billionaire pity?”

“Revenge,” he said softly.

I stared.

“On who?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped closer, invading my space with calculated precision and his eyes piercing through mine. His presence felt like pressure—too much, too close, too deep.

“Let me be clear, Celeste. This isn’t a love story. It’s a transaction. But with perks.”

His fingers brushed my jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’ll be protected. Worshipped, even. But don’t mistake that for kindness.”

I swallowed hard. My legs were shaking beneath the robe.

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.”

His confidence should have angered me. It should have snapped me out of whatever spell his voice and wine and fire had cast.

But God help me—I didn’t.

The fire cracked. He poured another drink into the glass cup. 

I didn’t move an inch from where I laid my head. Instead, I curled myself into the velvet couch, wrapped in his robes,and listening to the storm outside with the thunder of my own heartbeat.

He didn’t attempt to touch me. Didn’t push. Instead, we talked.

Not about business. Not about him. But about music, childhood, and grief.

There was no sex—but something worse: intimacy.

He listened like he was memorizing me. Like he already had.

“I used to sing,” I said, not knowing why I told him. “Before the world told me I wasn’t allowed to be soft.”

“You’re not soft,” he said. “You’re steel dipped in velvet.”

A strange kind of warmth spread through my chest. I hated him for it.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

The penthouse was too silent and quiet. I wandered barefoot into a study lined with leather-bound books and crystal decanters.

There were papers, ledgers, and business journals. A fireplace barely glowing.

And a photo.

A small, silver-framed one on the edge of the desk.

It was old—creased at the corners.

A small girl stood in a sun-drenched lawn,she looked so happy clutching a chocolate-covered ice cream cone. Her cheeks were round. Her eyes are familiar.

Me! That was my exact picture.

I stared at it, my heart turning cold immediately while trying to process it.

Next to me stood a boy, his hand on my shoulder protectively—but his face had been scratched out.

Over and over.

Nails. A blade. I didn’t know.

I picked up the photo with shaking hands, my lips parted and left open.

Behind me, I heard his voice.

“Curiosity is dangerous in this house, Celie.”

I turned, slowly.

It was Damien, he was leaning against the doorframe,his arms crossed, and his expression unreadable.

“You kept this,” I whispered. “Why?”

He walked toward me, taking the photo from my hands.

“To remind myself what I lost,” he murmured in a cold voice. “And what I’m going to destroy to get it back,” he added.

 My heart skipped hearing those words, what was he saying? 

 How did he get my photo? I made to ask him but he snapped the pictures away from me and walked out.

 I was left dumbfounded. My feets froze at that spot. I promised to find out how he was connected to my childhood and why he said so. My instinct wouldn't lie to me. 

“Make sure you get some sleep, tomorrow the contract begins,” he snapped, gulping down the glass of wine.

 My eyes met his, and for a second my stomach churned and twisted. Causing a sharp pain across my abdominal but I let out a fake smile on my face.

“The designer and make-up artist will be here early. Get enough sleep and don't act sluggish tomorrow.” 

With that he walked away to his bedroom.

My heart dropped. Should I quit the contract? I need him to get my revenge and he needs me al

so to get his revenge. But on who? And how was he connected with her childhood?