The billionaire virgin wife

When pain becomes unbearable, courage is born.

The slap came hard and fast,louder than thunder, and sharper than her breath.

Isabella stumbled backward, her cheek stinging, eyes watering, but she didn’t cry. Not anymore. Crying had lost its power in this house a time long ago.

“Ungrateful wretch,” her stepmother hissed, her heavily painted lips curling in disgust. “If it weren’t for my mercy, you’d be rotting in the gutters with your good-for-nothing  dead mother.”

“I didn’t touch your necklace,” Isabella whispered, voice trembling.

“You’re a liar just like your dead mother .” Her stepsister chimed in, leaning on the doorframe with folded arms and a wicked smirk. “You were probably planning to sell it and run away with your invisible boyfriend. If anyone would even look at you.”

That wasn’t the plan,but now it was.

That night, Isabella didn’t sleep. She waited.

She waited until her stepmother’s heavy footsteps faded into silence and her stepsister’s phone buzzed with yet another late-night flirtation.

Then she packed.

Nothing expensive. Just her passport, a few clothes, her mother’s rosary, and a bundle of cash she’d been hiding under a loose floorboard for two years. She’d saved every penny she could from menial jobs and housemaid tips. They never noticed. They never looked that far beneath her skin.

At dawn, she left.

The air outside felt foreign on her face. She hadn’t stepped out alone in months. The city still buzzed like it was awake and mocking, but this time, she had purpose in her .

The night air burned her lungs as she sprinted across the icy sidewalk. The scent of fuel, vodka, and fear clung to her coat. Her boots slapped wet against the cracked pavement, but she didn’t dare look back. If she looked back, she’d freeze—and freezing meant dying.

She boarded the plane to New York with trembling hands, a secondhand coat, and a prayer under her breath.

The plane landed in New York just before dawn.

Isabella Volkov pressed her forehead against the icy window as buildings stabbed into the sky like glass knives. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Her fingers clutched the handle of the cracked black suitcase she’d carried since Moscow.

Inside it was nothing but a spare blouse, a passport, and a broken silver watch that used to belong to her father.

The watch was the only part of him they hadn’t stolen.

When the plane touched down, she didn’t cry.

She’d cried enough already. On train tracks, in moldy attics, in a kitchen full of fists and slaps. Tears didn’t save people like her.

Only silence did.

Two Weeks Later — Manhattan

Isabella clutched her resume like it was armor, though her trembling fingers betrayed the panic inside her. She adjusted her frizzy bun, trying to tame the stray curls sticking to her forehead.

The towering glass building loomed over her like a monument of power.

JAXON CORP.

A multinational tech empire. She’d found the job listing by chance. Secretary position. No experience required. High pay. Interviews today.

She needed this.

She stepped in and was greeted by sleek marble floors, LED lighting, and a woman at the reception desk who looked like a model straight out of a fashion campaign.

“You’re here for the secretary position?” the woman asked with a glance.

Isabella nodded. “Yes.”

The woman blinked, her gaze sweeping over Isabella’s coat, her cracked nails, the faded red scratch on her cheek.

The receptionist’s lips twitched, but she said nothing as she gestured toward the elevators.

“Top floor. Straight to Mr. Knight’s office.”

Isabella blinked. “The billionaire himself is doing interviews?”

The woman smiled faintly. “He prefers a…hands-on approach.”

Hands-on. Right. Isabella stepped into the elevator,When the elevator doors closed, Isabella finally exhaled.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. Hollow cheeks. Big eyes. Lips bitten raw. Her fingers trembled as she clutched her papers, but she told herself it didn’t matter. If she could just survive the next hour, she’d have a job. A place to sleep. A life.

No more running.

The office was enormous. Glass walls. Black marble desk. A skyline view that stretched across Manhattan like a painting.

And behind that desk sat the man himself.

Damian Knight.

She recognized him instantly. Every woman in Russia had seen his photo at some point in some glossy business article. A self-made billionaire. Ruthless. Sharp. Impossible.

Thirty, maybe thirty-two. Sharp jaw, stormy eyes, black suit tailored like sin, and a presence that made the air thinner.

He didn’t look up immediately. He was typing something on his phone so fast and  focused. Then, as if sensing her discomfort, he finally met her gaze.

Time stopped.

His eyes narrowed, as though trying to place her in a memory. She felt it too,an eerie sense like he had seen her before.

“Isabella Martinez,” he said, reading her name off the file.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, quietly.

“Your voice,” he murmured, gaze darkening. “It’s soft. Too soft for this city.”

“I’ll adapt.”

He stood, walked around the desk, and stopped two feet in front of her. Tall. Broad. Dangerous. He circled her once, like a predator evaluating prey, but didn’t touch her.

“Why New York?”

“I had nowhere else to go.”

“Are you running from something?”

A pause.

“No,” she lied.

A slow smirk curled on his lips. “Liar.”

Isabella stiffened. Her instinct screamed for her to run,to run and never come back,but something in his eyes, cold and curious, pinned her in place.

“You’re hired,” he said simply.

She blinked. “Just like that?”

“I don’t waste time. Starting tomorrow, you’re my secretary. Six a.m. sharp. And Isabella?”

“Yes?”

He stepped even closer, his breath warm against her cheek.

“If anyone touches you in this office…they’ll have to deal with me.”

Isabella was so shocked that she practically ran out of the office.

Without knowing she was been watched.

From the hallway, a pair of eyes watched Isabella walk out of Damian Knight’s office. Eyes filled with hatred.

A camera clicked.

A message was sent.

“She’s here. Plan begins now.