All Chapters of Contract Marriage To The Alpha King : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Damian’s POV She’s slipping through my fingers. The thought was a shard of ice in my gut, a feeling I hadn't experienced since I was a child watching my father’s empire crumble around him. I had sworn then that I would never be powerless again. Never be at the mercy of another. I stared at my office wall, the sleek, obsidian surface reflecting a distorted version of my fury. The bourbon in my hand was now a forgotten amber liquid, the ice long melted, the initial burn a distant memory. But the storm inside me only grew, a churning vortex of rage and something far more dangerous. Ava Sinclair. That name was starting to taste like poison on my tongue. Not because she’d failed—not because she was incompetent, or weak, or stupid. No. The poison was that I wanted her far too much. I was a man who took what he wanted, and I wanted her. Her defiant spirit, her sharp mind, her fiery temper. It was a hunger I couldn't sate, a need that was becoming an obsession. And want… was weakne

Damian’s POV The mansion was silent by the time I returned, but the air inside wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, thick with the residue of my own fury and her silent defiance. The staff had been instructed not to disturb her, a flimsy excuse for my own need to know her every movement. They reported to me the moment she walked in, a ghost in her own home, and a part of me had been waiting for this moment, for the confrontation that I knew was inevitable. I pushed the door to our bedroom open without knocking. Privacy was a privilege she had revoked the moment she chose another over me. The warm, dim lighting spilled across her form, a soft, golden glow that did nothing to hide the stark reality of her state. She was curled up on her side of the bed, a small, defeated lump beneath the heavy duvet. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left in earlier, the fabric wrinkled and clinging to her body. Her hair was a little messy, a tangle of dark waves against the pristine white pillo

Ava Next morning he was seated behind his massive desk, a dark, imposing figure in a space of cold light and sharp angles. The morning sun cut through the blinds in perfect, calculated stripes across his tailored suit, a silent, visual metaphor for the man himself. He was all sharp lines and deliberate precision. The room was breathtaking in its austerity—a wide expanse of polished wood and glass, with a stunning, panoramic view of the city stretched out below. It was the view of a king looking down on his kingdom, and it made me feel very small, very far from the ground. His tie was already loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, as if he’d been working for hours. Or maybe he wanted to look like he had. Maybe he wanted to give the illusion of a man so focused on his work he was beyond the petty games of men and women. His gaze lifted from the papers in front of him—and pinned me instantly. It was a physical sensation, a jolt of electricity that ran through me, a primal insti

Ava’s POV The hallway outside his office felt colder than usual, as if the temperature had dropped the moment I stepped through the massive, unforgiving door. My heels clicked softly against the marble, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise empty corridor. Every step felt like it echoed in my skull, in time with the frantic, pounding rhythm of my heart. The weight of the two folders in my arms felt heavier now, not because of their physical mass, but because of what they represented: a chain, a leash, a binding contract of my new servitude. I didn’t go back to the small, sterile workspace he’d had set up for me just outside his door. Not yet. The thought of being so close to him, of being within his immediate reach, was suffocating. I needed a moment where his gaze couldn’t reach me, where the air didn’t feel so thick with his presence, with his scent of dark cedar and merciless power. I needed to breathe a moment of air that wasn't filtered through his control. But in the B

Ava’s POV The silence after the kiss was a living thing, a charged entity that pulsed in the space between us. I could feel it in my bones, in the air that seemed to crackle with unspoken words and tangled emotions. My breath was a shallow, unsteady rhythm, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Damian’s hand lingered for a moment longer at my back before he finally withdrew, leaning back in his chair with an infuriating calm, as though nothing monumental had just happened. The kiss, the claiming, the unsettling promise of his touch—it was all just another Tuesday to him. “Lunch,” he said simply, his voice a low, even command that shattered the silence. He pressed a discreet button on his desk phone, and within minutes, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. A pair of impeccably dressed assistants wheeled in a low cart laden with silver-domed trays, the rich, savory scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs filling the office. It was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile a