Chapter 3: The Billionaire’s Ten Commandments

The study smelled of old money and fresh intimidation.

Elena stood in the center of the Persian rug, still wearing the ivory dress from the ceremony, while Alexander circled her like a predator deciding where to strike. The door had clicked shut behind them with a finality that made her stomach clench.

He’d dismissed the lawyer without a word. Now, in the amber lamplight, his face was carved from ice and granite.

“Sit.”

She didn’t. “I’d rather stand.”

Something flickered in those gray eyes—annoyance, maybe even grudging respect. He pulled a single sheet of paper from his desk and held it out. “Rules. My rules. Memorize them, because I won’t repeat myself.”

Elena took the paper. Her fingers didn’t tremble. She wouldn’t give him that.

The list was printed in ruthless black serif type.

1. You will live at the penthouse. Your belongings arrive tomorrow. Do not bring anything sentimental—I don’t want clutter.

2. You will not contact me unless it is an emergency. I will contact you when necessary.

3. You will attend public events at my side and behave impeccably. No drinking, no flirting, no scenes.

4. You will not enter my study, my bedroom, or my private wing without explicit permission.

5. You will maintain separate quarters. The staff will prepare your room.

6. You will not ask about my past. You will not discuss your own.

7. You will not speak to the press. Ever.

8. You will not interfere with my business or my schedule.

9. You will not expect affection, fidelity, or love. This is a contract, not a marriage.

10. You will be available for an heir within one year. After the child is born, you will be free to live as you wish—within these rules.

Elena read it twice. The words blurred at number ten, then sharpened into something that cut deep.

“An heir,” she said flatly.

“You knew what this was.” Alexander leaned against his desk, arms crossed. “My grandfather’s will demands a legitimate child within eighteen months, or the company goes to my cousin. You’re the solution to a problem, Elena. Nothing more.”

Nothing more.

She remembered the way his lips had brushed her ear at the altar, the cruel whisper that had made her knees buckle: *You’re not the first bride I’ve bought and broken.*

But he was wrong about one thing. He thought she was broken already. He thought he’d chosen a desperate, malleable girl with nothing left to lose.

He had no idea.

“And if I refuse?” she asked, folding the paper with deliberate calm.

“Then you forfeit the two million dollars I paid your father’s debts. You go back to the ruin he left behind. The creditors. The shame.” His voice lowered, silk over steel. “But you won’t refuse. You came to me because you had no other door. And I never open the same door twice.”

Elena’s chest ached, but she lifted her chin. “You forgot a rule.”

He stilled. “Excuse me?”

“Rule eleven.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar along his jaw, the tiny muscle ticking beneath it. “Don’t underestimate the bride you bought.”

For a heartbeat, surprise softened his features. Then it was gone. “Cute. But empty threats bore me.”

“It’s not a threat.” She smiled, and it was all teeth. “It’s a promise.”

She turned and walked toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. She felt his gaze on her back like a brand.

“Elena.”

She paused, hand on the handle.

“Rule twelve,” he said quietly. “Don’t ever walk away from me while I’m speaking.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Then don’t give me reasons to.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click, but her heart was roaring.

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The penthouse was a mausoleum of glass and chrome. Her “quarters” were a pristine suite with a bed she’d never share, a closet already stocked with designer clothes in her size, and a window overlooking the city that sparkled like a thousand unattainable promises.

Elena unpacked the one thing she’d brought—a small velvet box. Inside, a locket her mother had given her before she died. The only sentimental thing in her life.

Rule one, broken already.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone. One message from an unknown number:

*The first rule you’ll break is number six. I know who you really are, Elena. And I know what Alexander did to your sister.*

Her blood turned to ice.

The doorbell chimed.

She froze. Alexander never rang—he had a key. And the staff had been dismissed for the night.

The chime came again. Insistent.

Elena crept to the intercom. The screen showed a woman in a red coat, blonde hair whipping in the wind, smiling directly at the camera as if she knew exactly who was watching.

Elena pressed the speaker button. “Who are you?”

The woman’s smile widened. “I’m the first bride he bought. And I’m here to help you destroy him.”

The line went dead.

Elena stared at the screen, her pulse a wild drum. Behind her, the front door of the penthouse clicked open.

Alexander’s voice slid through the dark. “Elena. We need to talk about rule nine.”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Because rule nine said no fidelity. No love.

But it said nothing about revenge.

And the woman in the red coat had just lit the fuse.