Trapped By The Billionaire Brothers

ALYANA POV

The black sedan drove over the gravel driveway toward the Vance estate. The large iron gates opened slowly, and the car continued down the long private road.

"Stop shaking your hands, Alyana. It’s making me nervous," my father said. He didn't look at me. He was busy straightening his silk tie in the rearview mirror, obsessed with looking like a man who wasn't about to hand over his eldest daughter to a stranger.

"I’m not shaking," I lied, tucking my hands under my thighs. The leather seat felt cold against my skin. "I’m just... cold."

"The house is large and has heating," he said, turning off the engine at the front entrance. The building was constructed of dark stone and glass. The upper floors were dark. It appeared built for security rather than comfort.

I didn't move. My seatbelt felt like a lifeline I wasn't ready to unclick. "Dad, we can still go back. We can find another way. The bank, maybe? Or Uncle Silas?"

My father finally looked at me, and for a second, I saw a flash of guilt. But it was quickly buried under the weight of his own desperation. "Silas won't help. The bank is already seizing the warehouse, Alyana. Julian Vance is the only person in this city with enough liquid capital to wipe that debt in a single afternoon. He asked for a wife. I’m giving him one. You’re saving the family. Think of your sister. Think of her tuition."

"I am thinking of her," I whispered. "That’s why I’m here."

"Good." He reached over, unbuckled my seatbelt for me, and patted my shoulder—a gesture that felt hollow and transactional. "He’s waiting. Marcus, his assistant, will meet you at the door. I have a flight to catch for the Singapore merger."

"You aren't even coming in?"

"Mr. Vance is a private man. He doesn't like crowds." He nodded toward the door. "Go. Don't make him regret the investment."

Investment, not a marriage—just an investment.

I stepped out of the car. The night air was humid and still. I didn't look back as he drove away; instead, I stood on the pavement with my suitcase until a man in a charcoal suit opened the oak doors.

"Miss Alyana?" he asked. His expression remained neutral and professional.

"Yes," I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat. "Yes, I’m here.

"I am Marcus. Please, follow me. Mr. Vance does not like to be kept waiting, and we are already three minutes behind schedule."

The house was cold inside. The black floors were shiny, reflecting the lights from the ceiling. There were no pictures on the walls and the vases were empty. It just smelled like wood polish and air conditioning.

"Is he always this... quiet?" I asked, my footsteps made a loud sound on the floor.

"Mr. Vance likes his privacy," Marcus said, keeping his pace. He led me through several hallways to a set of double doors at the end of the west wing. "You’re staying in the east wing. Your bags are already in the room next to the main suite. But first, he wants to see you."

Marcus opened the door slightly. "He is in his study. Go in and keep your voice low."

​I stayed at the door for a second, my chest feeling tight as I looked back at Marcus. "Are you coming in with me?"

​"No," Marcus said. He looked at me for a moment as if he felt sorry for me. "Good luck, Alyana."

​I pushed the door open. The room was large and filled with books from floor to ceiling. The only light came from a green lamp on the desk and the moon shining through the curtains.

​A man sat in a leather chair with his back to me, looking out the window. I could smell whiskey in the room.

"Shut the door," he said. His voice wasn't loud or scary like people said it would be. It was just low, raspy, and very calm.

​I closed the door. "Mr. Vance?"

​"Come closer," he said. "I want to see what six million dollars looks like in the light."

I walked toward the desk, my legs heavy as I moved. When I reached the rug, he turned his chair around.

I stopped. He stayed in the dark, but I could see a mask. It was smooth and black, covering the top left side of his face with a thin strap. The other side was clear—he had a sharp jaw, and he wasn't smiling.

​"You're smaller than the photos your father sent," he said. He looked me up and down, as if he were checking to see if I was worth the price.

"I'm 5'4," I said, trying to stay calm. "And I'm not a statue, Mr. Vance. I'm a person."

​He gave a small, cold laugh. "In this room, you are a contract. Nothing more. Did your father explain your duties?

"He said I’m your wife."

"Nominal wife," he corrected, leaning forward into the light. I saw his right eye then—a sharp, clear blue that looked straight at me. "You will live here. You will go to three charity events a year. You will let people take photos of you leaving my office once a month. You will look happy. You will look cared for."

"And in private?"

"In private, you will stay out of my way," he said, reaching for a glass of amber liquid on his desk. "I have no interest in your life, your hobbies, or your conversation. You are here to fix a PR problem. My board thinks I'm too 'unstable' since the accident. A wife suggests a man who has something to lose. It suggests a man who can be trusted."

"So I'm just a prop for your shareholders."

​"You're a very expensive prop," Julian said. He took a slow sip of his drink. "Don't get any ideas about changing me, Alyana. Don't try to look under the mask, and don't pretend to be the sad, loyal wife. I paid for you to be here, not for your heart. Do you understand?"

His words were colder than I expected. I felt a sudden heat in my chest—not because I was scared, but because I was starting to get angry.

"Understood," I said. I walked right up to the desk, leaning down so he had to look me in the eye. "But if I’m an investment, you should know I’m not a cheap one. If you want me to look happy for your board, you’d better start acting like a human being, Mr. Vance. Because right now, you just look like a man who’s hiding from everyone."

​The room was completely quiet. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall behind him. I thought he’d get angry, or call Marcus to throw me out.

​Instead, Julian just tilted his head. He didn't move, but his gaze stayed fixed on me. His blue eye didn't look away; it stayed on me as if he were really seeing me for the first time. He watched me as if he were surprised I actually fought back.

He didn't say anything. He just watched me, his thumb slowly moving along the edge of his glass.

​"Get out," he said quietly.

​I didn't wait. I turned and walked toward the door, my heart beating fast. As I reached for the handle, I could still feel him looking at me.

​"Alyana," he called out.

I stopped, my hand on the handle. "Yes?"

​"Don't wear that perfume again," he said, his voice dropping. "It doesn't fit in this house."

​I didn't answer. I stepped out of the room and closed the door, leaning my back against it. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my chest.

The stories about him were right—he was a difficult man. But as I walked toward the east wing, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he looked at me. He didn't just want someone to sit there and look pretty. He wanted someone who would fight back.