The Billionaire Who Wants Me Next

Elara

The water rushed over me, hot and forgiving, and for a few minutes I let myself pretend it could wash away more than just the day. Three years of this. Three years of standing under spray that never quite got warm enough, in a penthouse that never felt like home, waiting for a man who never looked at me twice.

The bathroom filled with steam, soft white clouds that wrapped around my silhouette and made the world beyond the glass blur into nothing. Here, I could almost forget. Forget that I was Elara Dubois, the invisible fiancée. 

I turned off the water and reached for a towel just as – 

“Click.” The sound of the door unlocking reached my ears and it immediately swung open.

My heart stopped. I spun, clutching the towel to my chest as the steam began its slow retreat, revealing the figure in the doorway.

Louis?

I was sure my confusion was written all over my face. Why was he here? Louis Valmont, my fiancé of three years, stood in the bathroom doorway like he owned it – which, technically, he did. 

He owned everything. The penthouse. The company. The city, almost. Everything except me – yet – and even that had been a transaction, a merger of families, a business arrangement signed and sealed before I ever had a chance to say no.

But I’d said yes anyway. I’d said yes because for one glittering night at a charity gala, he’d danced with me and smiled at me and made me believe in fairy tales.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Now his handsome face was cold, those eyes like frozen lakes fixed on me with an expression I couldn’t read. Not desire. Maybe anger. So much anger that it made my skin prickle.

I clenched my towel tighter and took a small step back, sighing when my back connected with the wash basin. “Louis? What are you –”

He stepped inside and closed the door.

I bit hard on my bottom lip as my heart raced. My eyes darted around the space, searching for a corner where I could run and hide from whatever this was. I found nothing. “Louis, I’m not dressed, I –”

He crossed the distance in three strides and grabbed my wrist. Before I could process what was happening, he spun me around and slammed me against the marble countertop. The edge bit into my lower back and I gasped, pain radiating through my body as he yanked the towel away.

“Louis, stop –”

His hand clamped over my mouth. In the mirror, I could see us both – him fully dressed, me naked and pinned, the image so stark and wrong that for a moment I thought I must be dreaming.

“You want my attention so badly?” His voice was low, cruel, nothing like the boy who’d danced with me. “Here it is.”

“What are you doing?” I managed against his palm, my voice coming out hoarse and muffled.

He removed his hand but didn’t let go. His lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “What I should have done a long time ago. You’re my fiancée, aren’t you? Time you started acting like it.”

My blood went cold. “Not like this. Please, Louis, not like this.”

“Please?” He laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles. “Now you remember how to beg? After three years of playing the wounded fiance, running to my grandfather every time I didn’t give you enough attention?”

I hadn’t run to anyone. I had smiled through every slight, every insult, every time I saw receipts for jewelry I never received. I had nodded politely when his mistress name came up in conversation, and had pretended not to notice when Louis’s voice softened on late-night calls.

His grandfather. Old Mr. Valmont. That was the only reason Louis was here, I realized. His grandfather had probably said something at dinner, reminding Louis that the engagement was a public relations asset, that we needed to appear more united at events.

And this was Louis’s solution. Not kindness. Not an effort at becoming a better man and acting the way he should. This.

“Let me go.” I bit out, trying to push down my anger.

He didn’t. His grip tightened until pain shot up my arm. I bit my cheek, refusing to cry out. He wanted tears? He’d waited three years to get them. He could wait longer.

“After tonight,” he said, his mouth close to my ear, “you’ll stop complaining. You’ll remember your place.”

I stopped struggling.

The fight simply left me, draining out like water from a cracked vessel. What was the point? Three years of loving this man, three years of hoping, three years of shrinking myself to fit into the small spaces he allowed me – and this was the moment he finally touched me. 

Not with tenderness. Not even with genuine desire. But with punishment.

My stillness seemed to catch him off guard. For just a fraction of a second, something flickered in those cold eyes. Confusion, maybe. Or the ghost of whatever humanity he’d buried so deep I’d stopped believing it existed.

Then it was gone, and he took what he wanted.

When it was over, I lay on the cold floor, my body screaming from the ache of having him take me on the cold, hard floor of his bathroom. I tried not to glance at the blood that pooled between my thighs. 

Louis stepped into the shower without a glance in my direction. I heard water running. Listened as washed. Minutes later, he emerged, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked past me. I was once again invisible .

It took me a long time to stand. My muscles protested. Something deep inside me throbbed with each heartbeat. But I forced myself upright, forced myself into the shower, forced myself to scrub until my skin turned pink and raw.

I was staring in the mirror, taking stock of the injuries on my body when I realized Louis hadn’t left.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. His long legs were crossed, his posture relaxed. But his eyes tracked me as I emerged from the bathroom, and there was nothing relaxed about that gaze.

I stopped in the doorway, my towel clutched to my chest. “Is there something else you need?” Besides violating me, I wanted to add.

His assessment of me took in every bruise already blooming on my skin, every mark of his use. If he felt anything – regret, satisfaction, anything at all – his face didn’t show it.

“Celia is returning tomorrow.” He said flatly. “You’ll need to be elsewhere for the next few days. I’ll have my assistant arrange a hotel.”

The air left my lungs.

Celia Thorne. His mistress was returning to the country tomorrow? My heart stopped. I knew the woman of course, how couldn’t I? She’d been the object of his love ever since I entered his life or why before that. 

He never really mentioned her in front of me, but she was always there. A shadow I couldn’t really do better than. Whenever he traveled abroad on his numerous business trips, news of their romance would be splashed on all tabloids. 

He flaunted her with everything he had while he hid me like an illness he'd rather no one saw. Compared to her, I was an eyesore and he never cared to remind me of it.