Chapter 5: Michael, Stunned And Intrigued.

Michael’s POV

I stared at the door long after she walked out.

Riley Jordan.

A name I’d learned before the night even ended. But I hadn’t expected her to leave like that. No hesitation. No glance back.

I’ve had women cry for me. Undress for me. Obsess over me.

But none had ever walked away.

Not after a night like that.

A sour smirk pulled at my lips as I looked down at the check, ripped into pieces like it meant nothing.

Like I meant nothing.

No one does that to me.

No one walks away from me.

I walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and watched her disappear into the crowd. Head held high. Back rigid. A goddamn storm in heels.

And something inside me shifted.

It wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way she refused to bend.

Even drugged. Even raw. She had teeth. Fire.

She had no idea how rare that was.

And I wanted to know what made her burn like that.

****

Two Hours Later

I sat in my office, thumbing through the dossier my investigator had dropped off.

Riley Jordan.

Age: 25.

Former marketing staff at Celeste Corporation.

Resigned two days ago.

Unofficial reason? Walked in on her boyfriend, Eric Marshall, screwing her boss, Celeste Hale.

A low whistle escaped my lips.

So that’s what broke her.

The investigator droned on in the background, but I was already two moves ahead.

She was unemployed. Recently humiliated. Living in a shoebox apartment, most likely questioning her own worth.

Perfect.

“I’ve found my queen,” I murmured. “And she doesn’t even know she’s on the board.”

I stared at the photo clipped to the file. She looked different in it, tired, quiet. Trying not to fall apart.

That wouldn’t do.

I picked up my phone. Dialed my real estate team.

“Find out who owns the apartment complex at Northbridge Avenue. Top-floor unit. Make an offer they can’t refuse.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up, leaned back in my chair.

If Riley wanted to walk away, fine.

But the world is full of locked doors.

And I own the keys.

****

Three Days Later

She would receive a letter, polite, impersonal.

A change in ownership.

Upcoming renovations.

One week to vacate.

Cruel?

Yes.

Calculated?

Absolutely.

Because next time I handed her a contract, she wouldn’t tear it.

She would be begging to sign.

And it wouldn’t be blank.

This time, I would write the terms.

****

That Evening

I stood by the window, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, watching the city glitter beneath me. Riley’s name pulsed in the back of my mind like a heartbeat I couldn’t silence.

A woman who tore up my offer. Who stared me down and walked out half-naked, proud.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t fold.

She didn’t even ask for my name.

I picked up the phone.

“Damon,” I said. “I need a contract. One year.”

There was a pause.

“Personal or corporate?” my lawyer asked. Always efficient.

“Personal. Extremely.”

“Define the terms.”

I turned to the window, voice like a blade.

“She lives in my building. Fully furnished unit. Top security. All expenses covered.”

“Got it.”

“She works for Gray Enterprises. Find a position that fits her résumé, close to me, but not obvious.”

“Understood.”

“She attends every function, gala, and business event as my girlfriend. No exceptions.”

A quiet inhale. “Would you like a behavior clause?”

I smiled. “Naturally. No romantic affiliations outside of me. No overnight guests. Total discretion.”

“And compensation?”

“A generous allowance. Driver. Shopping account. Anything she needs… except an exit.”

“And if she tries?”

“Add a penalty clause. If she walks early, she pays back every cent.”

Damon paused. “Michael, this is… intense. Borderline ownership.”

I sipped the whiskey. “Then draft it that way. I don’t lose, Damon. Especially not to a woman who doesn’t know she’s already mine.”

“I will have it by morning.”

I hung up and stared into the gold-streaked glass in my hand.

She walked out. But she didn’t escape.

Not even close.

In this game?

I never lose.