The billionaire virgin wife

Isabella stood outside Jaxon Corp the next morning, clutching a paper bag with her new shoes, plain black flats from a secondhand store. They weren’t pretty, but they wouldn’t snap beneath her.She tilted her face up toward the steel tower. It loomed like a kingdom. A place she didn’t belong. But today, she would walk through its gates anyway.Back in Russia, towers like this belonged to men who shattered bones and called it law.But here, in America, they called them billionaires.She still remembered the last time she’d stood in front of a tall building not to enter, but to hide from the man whose belt still hung in her bedroom doorway.This building felt just as dangerous. But for once, danger didn’t make her run. It made her rise.She took a breath, stepped inside, and didn’t look back.By 6:25 a.m., she was in the executive floor’s private break room, washing her hands like it might erase the panic from her chest. She’d been early her entire life. It was the one thing she could c

After the man stepped into the elevator and vanished, Isabella stayed frozen for several moments. The scent he left behind—citrus and smoke—still clung to the air like an invisible fingerprint.She forced herself to focus. To breathe.Damian hadn’t called her in. No one on the floor looked alarmed. Life at Jaxon Corp was moving like a well-oiled machine. Maybe that was what scared her the most was how easily a threat could slip in and out of such a place without anyone blinking.She turned back to her screen, heart pounding against her ribs. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard as she reviewed the updated call logs, the investor summaries Damian had forwarded, the legal brief she was supposed to revise by noon. It all felt pointless now. Fragile.But she worked anyway.By 11:50, she needed air.She slipped out of the executive floor and rode the elevator down to the twelfth, where the Jaxon Café buzzed quietly. She ordered a coffee she wouldn’t finish and a sandwich she wouldn’t tou

Damian rarely misjudged people.He’d spent his entire adult life detecting lies, reading fear like a language, picking apart smiles that concealed daggers. In boardrooms, he thrived. In war zones, he survived. And in business, he dominated.Because Damian didn’t get emotional.Emotions were leverage. Noise. Clutter.He never let them in.Until her.Until tonight.She sat on the guest bed now, her back straight, her fingers wrapped around the old photo like it might fall apart if she let go.But Isabella Volkov wasn’t any of those things.She wasn’t a strategist.She wasn’t a threat.She was a ghost.The girl he’d never been able to forget.She looked up at him with wide, stunned eyes. Vulnerable, but not weak. There was something fierce in her confusion. Like her instincts wanted to run but her heart wasn’t ready to follow.He watched her silently, the tension between them thickening like storm clouds before a downpour.Her voice came out small.“Who gave you this?”He didn’t move. “N

A smile can be sharper than a knifeIsabella turned from the kettle slowly.The breakroom was empty—at least, it looked that way. But she had felt it again. That weight behind her neck. That prickling instinct she’d learned not to ignore.The scent of vanilla and money drifted in before the click of her heels. Isabella didn’t have to turn around to know it wasn’t just another intern. There was a presence some women wore like perfume, expensive, confident, lethal. And this one was laced with warning.She turned slowly, heart already picking up pace.Afriaid of who she might see when she turns.“Isabella, right?”The woman’s heels had clicked too confidently. Too deliberately.And she didn’t blend in.No one wore red heels in Jaxon Corp. No one except her.Helena Knight. Damian’s sister-in-law.She hadn’t even known he had a sister-in-law until yesterday, when his assistant had whispered it under her breath while filing the floor’s clearance records.Helena was married to Damian’s older

Possession isn’t a choice—it’s instinctDamian stood in the kitchen, two fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched.He didn’t need the alcohol.He needed the control.He needed her.And right now, he was losing it, one heartbeat at a time.He could feel Isabella in the room down the hall like a presence in his own bloodstream—uneasy, trembling, but stronger than she thought she was.lsabella Volkov.That name should’ve meant nothing. Just another file. Another résumé. Another quiet girl trying to rebuild a broken life.But the moment she’d stepped into his office with her downcast eyes, tight posture, and that scar behind her left ear he remembered too well—he’d known.It was her.The girl from Russia.The girl who had looked him dead in the eye once through a bulletproof car window and made him feel something he thought he’d buried with his humanity.And now, she was under his roof.Clutching a photograph she wasn’t supposed to find.Looking at him like he was the v