5

GAMMON

The taste of her was still burning on my lips — a chaotic mix of sweet rain, salt, and the sharp, metallic tang of pure terror.

I stood frozen in the center of the dimly lit bedroom, my chest heaving under my black singlet as if I had just sprinted a mile through a war zone. My hands, usually so steady they could sign away billions without a single tremor, were vibrating with a dangerous, electric current.

Below me on the mattress, Evie lay perfectly still. Her eyelids fluttered, the chaotic trembling that had racked her fragile frame just moments ago slowing into a heavy exhaustion. The scream that had cut through my soul was gone, swallowed entirely by the bruising force of my mouth against hers.

"What the hell did I just do?"

The voice in my head didn’t just taunt me this time; it roared a deafening accusation that made my blood run cold. *You swore yourself to Vee. You promised no one else would ever touch you. And you just lost your mind over a Fulham pawn.*

"Sir?"

Henry’s voice broke the suffocating silence, muffled through the heavy oak of the half-open door. "We heard a scream. Is the security compromise internal?"

I didn’t turn around. If I looked away from Evie’s pale, sweat-slicked face right now, I felt like the fragile reality I had built around my dead heart would shatter into dust. I forced my hands into my pockets, burying the tremors deep.

"Everything is under control, Henry," I said. My voice wasn’t the smooth, melodic baritone I used in boardrooms; it was a rough, jagged growl, scraped raw by the sudden spike of adrenaline. "Leave us. Lock the western corridor. No one enters this wing without my explicit clearance."

"Understood, sir." The footsteps retreated, until it was completely silent.

I finally let my gaze drop back to the girl. Her breathing had stabilized, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, peaceful pattern that mocked the absolute chaos storming inside my own mind. Her dark hair was a wild, tangled web across the white silk pillows, a few damp strands clinging to her flushed cheeks.

I took a slow step backward, my polished leather shoes making no sound against the rug. Then another.

There was this sudden, violent urge to flee — to get as far away from this room, from her scent, from the terrifying warmth that was currently thawing out parts of my chest I had spent thirteen years systematically freezing alive.

"You're a monster," I whispered to the empty room, repeating her words like a mantra to anchor myself. "Remember who you are. You don't feel. You don't care."

Turning on my heel, I strode out of the room, shutting the door carefully so as not to wake her up.

Down the grand, sweeping staircase of the glass tower, the architecture was all hard lines, cold steel, and transparent walls, a physical manifestation of my life. I marched straight into my private study, a massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and dominated by a sleek, black marble desk.

I didn't sit immediately, instead I poured myself three fingers of neat scotch from a crystal decanter, downing it in one burning gulp. It did nothing to wash away the taste of her.

"Damn it!" I muttered, slamming the heavy glass onto the marble. The crystal cracked, a tiny spiderweb of fractures blooming across the base.

The door to the study opened quietly, and Henry stepped in, his expression completely wiped of emotion. "The perimeter is secure, Mr. Blackwell. Gary has already established the stakeout at the Fulhams' apartment. We are intercepting their digital communications as of ten minutes ago."

I leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing my arms tightly over my chest to hide the fact that my muscles were still locked in a defensive knot. "Tell me exactly what you found, Henry. Don’t leave out a single syllable."

"The girl in the bedroom... she isn't Camille Fulham," Henry stated clearly, holding a tablet out. "Camille is currently at a luxury resort near her university campus, completely oblivious to her parents' financial ruin. The woman upstairs is Evita, the niece. She's been nothing but a ghost in their legal records until she turned eighteen and started paying off what the Fulhams claimed was her 'living debt.'"

My jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently beneath my beard. "They traded a slave to settle a five-million-dollar account. They looked me in the eye, knowing my reputation, and handed over an innocent girl like a piece of meat to be slaughtered."

"It appears so, sir. From what Patricia — Evie's friend — shared with our field agent, the Fulhams have been systematically erasing Evita’s autonomy for years. The bruises on her arms weren't from a clumsy fall, Mr. Blackwell. Her uncle Derek has a history of severe domestic volatility when his gambling debts peak."

A dark, lethal temperature seemed to drop over the room. I looked down at my own hands. I had forced that same girl to her knees today. I had watched her crawl through the security monitors, laughing at her pain, thinking I was breaking the arrogant daughter of a corrupt businessman. Instead, I had just been another monster in her endless nightmare.

"And her memory?" I asked, my voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. "The fire. What do we know about the accident thirteen years ago?"

"Very little, sir. The medical records from that specific sector are heavily classified or destroyed," Henry replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"All we know is she woke up from a six-month coma with absolute retrograde amnesia. She doesn't remember a thing before the age of ten. Kate Fulham stepped in as her legal guardian immediately after the insurance payout was processed."

"Sir?" Henry prompted gently. "How do you wish to proceed with the Fulhams? If we reveal the fraud to the authorities, the contract is void, and we can legally seize their remaining assets, but... Miss Evita will likely be returned to their custody as a legal dependent if she has no independent income."

"No," I snapped, the word cutting through the air like a blade. "She stays here."

"Sir? If she stays, the debt remains legally unresolved on paper."

"I don't give a damn about the paper, Henry," I growled, standing up and walking to the massive glass window overlooking the glittering, uncaring lights of Manhattan. "The Fulhams think they played me. They think they hid their precious daughter away and left me with a broken girl they don't care about. I am going to make them watch as that very girl becomes the apex of everything they will never possess."

I turned back around, my eyes flashing with a cold, predatory light. "Call my personal attorney. Tell him to draft an ironclad marriage contract. One year. She gets financial immunity, protection, and the Blackwell name. In return, she plays the role of my devoted wife. When the Fulhams see her dripping in diamonds at the center of New York society, they will crawl back to her. And that is when I will crush them."

"And Miss Evie, sir?" Henry asked quietly. "Will she agree to be a pawn in your war?"

I thought back to the fierce, defiant look in her eyes right before she slapped me. I thought about the desperate, breathless way she had clung to my neck when my lips touched hers, as if I were the only solid thing in a world that was constantly shaking beneath her feet.

"She doesn't seem to have any other choice," I murmured, my voice hardening into the familiar, unyielding armor of the billionaire monster. "She wants freedom, Henry. But in my world, freedom isn't given. It's bought with blood and sweats. Tell Margaret to prepare the size six wardrobe. Tomorrow, the game begins."