TIED TO A RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

"Miss Isla, it’s time to wake up."

The voice was gentle, but it sliced through the fog in Isla’s head like cold water. Her eyes flew open to an unfamiliar ceiling, soft ivory, gold accents. Luxury. The kind that didn’t belong to her. She sat up too fast, silk sheets slipping off her shoulder.

"Where... where am I?"

"You're at Mr. Vasilios' penthouse," the maid answered with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Your room."

Right. The contract. The signature. The cold, perfect words: "You belong to me now."

"He wants you to have breakfast in the dining hall. You have fifteen minutes."

Clicking heels faded down the hall.

Isla swallowed hard. Her throat was dry. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her. A satin robe hugged her frame and someone had dressed her. She hadn’t even realized when she’d fallen asleep. Her feet touched the warm floor. It felt too smooth, too foreign.

Her chest tightened.

She didn’t belong here.

"You’re late," Ares said, not looking up.

He sat at the head of a massive glass table, navy shirt unbuttoned at the collar, dark hair slightly wet. He scrolled through a tablet, calm and detached.

"I didn’t know the way," Isla murmured, voice thin. "And I…."

"No excuses. Sit. Eat."

Her chair scraped softly against the marble. The plate in front of her looked like a photo from a magazine of perfect eggs, toast, and fruit carved into delicate shapes.

She couldn’t eat. Her stomach twisted.

"You’ll need to adjust quickly," he said, flipping the tablet closed. Then he looked at her. His gaze didn’t flinch. Cold. "Media attention has already started."

Her heart skipped. "What? Already?"

He slid his phone across the table. A photo. She was stepping into the building the night before, head down, hair messy.

Isla Quinn: Billionaire’s Mystery Fiancée?

"I thought this would be private."

"I don’t hide," he said. "You’re part of my life now. Publicly."

Her fingers curled under the table. "You could’ve warned me."

"You wanted the money. You got it. The public comes with the price."

Her throat burned. Her hands trembled.

Everything in his tone said transaction, not person.

"Will I have a schedule or something to do today?"

"Stay inside. No interviews. No visitors. My assistant will bring you an etiquette packet. Study it."

Her mouth parted. "So I’m your project now?"

"You’re my fiancée," he said. "If people dig into your past, I want them to see polish. Not a stray."

He stood. Picked up his tablet. "And stop slouching. You have a photo shoot on Friday."

She blinked. "Photo shoot?"

"Engagement portraits. Press release. We’ll announce it at the gala."

"You’ve already planned it all?"

"Of course."

The penthouse was beautiful, but it felt like a museum. All glass, chrome, and silence. Every step she took echoed.

She found herself standing in front of a wall of windows. The city glittered beneath her like a different universe.

She pressed her hand to the glass, eyes filling.

Her reflection stared back exhausted, pale, lost.

What have I done?

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Whispers in the hallway.

Two maids.

"She’s the one? Doesn’t look like his type."

"He always liked models."

"Give it a month."

She walked past them. They fell silent.

She kept walking.

Their words clung to her like smoke.

Later, she curled on a balcony chair. Wind tangled in her hair, but the noise of the city grounded her.

She tucked her knees up.

A contract. A ring. A lie.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Congratulations, sweetheart. Enjoy your little fairytale. It won’t last.

No name.

But she knew.

The ex.

Her hands shook. She turned off the screen.

Far down the hall, Ares stood in front of a monitor.

Watching her.

She looked so small out there.

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t speak.

"Have the stylist prepare three wardrobe options," he told his assistant. "Neutral tones. Book the driver for Friday. Six sharp."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

He paused. "Clear her schedule. From now on, she answers only to me."

Dinner was cold.

Not the food or the mood.

Isla sat across from him, moving roasted chicken around her plate while he typed away on his phone.

"Did you get the etiquette packet?" he asked without looking up.

She nodded. "It’s... thick."

"Memorize it. Friday is only the beginning."

Her lips parted. "Ares, can I ask something?"

He looked up. "Speak."

"Why me?"

The silence stretched.

She heard the hum of the refrigerator.

He met her eyes. "You were convenient."

Her stomach dropped.

"That’s it?"

His tone didn’t change. "That’s all you need to know."

She blinked hard. Tears prickled but refused to fall.

She wouldn’t cry in front of him.

That night, she lay on the wide bed again, staring at the same ivory ceiling.

She waited for the tears.

But they didn’t come.

She was too numb to cry. Too empty to feel.

And deep down, she wondered if this was a dream. How did she find herself here?