Rain battered the night sky of Manhattan, thunder rolling like the growl of a beast. But inside the top-floor office of the Sinclair Building, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than the storm outside.
Aria Thorne stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, soaked to the bone. Her cheap dress clung to her shivering body. She was shaking not just from the cold, but from fear.
The man sitting behind the massive mahogany desk was Damien Sinclair. The King of Wall Street. A monster rumored to be ruthless and cold-blooded. At this moment, his unusual grey eyes were fixed on her, locking onto her like a wolf stalking its prey.
"Five million dollars," Damien's voice was deep and husky, carrying a magnetism that sent shivers down her spine. "To buy you for three years."
His long fingers rested on a document. Beside it lay a signed check.
Aria bit her lower lip hard until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Her father had committed suicide, leaving behind massive gambling debts, and her grandmother was in the ICU waiting for life-saving surgery. She had nowhere else to go.
"Mr. Sinclair..." Her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz. "If I sign, what... what do I have to do?"
Damien stood up. His tall frame—over 6'3"—instinctively cast a massive shadow, enveloping petite Aria completely. He walked around the desk, approaching her step by step.
He moved with a predatory grace, silent and lethal. Aria wanted to retreat, but her legs felt like lead.
He stopped just an inch away from her. Aria could smell the dangerous scent on him—a mix of forest, rain, and a primal, masculine musk that made her knees weak. It was terrifying, yet strangely intoxicating.
"Simple," Damien lowered his head, whispering in her ear. His hot breath fanned over her cold skin, making her tremble. "Be my wife. Play the role of 'Mrs. Sinclair' in public. And in private..."
He reached out a large hand, roughly gripping her chin and forcing her to look up.
Suddenly, Aria gasped. For a split second, she swore his grey eyes flashed a glowing **gold**.
"In private, you will be available whenever I call," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating in her chest. "You belong to me, Aria. Body and soul."
Aria's heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The contract... didn't say anything about my soul."
"It does now." Damien smirked, a cruel, arrogant curve of his lips. He leaned closer, inhaling deeply near her neck, as if savoring her scent. "You are my prey now. Since you sold yourself to me, you have no right to bargain."
He released her abruptly, turning his back as if fighting for control. "Sign it. Or walk out and watch your grandmother die."
It was a naked threat.
Aria looked at the check. That was her grandmother's life.
With trembling hands, she picked up the pen. Tears blurred her vision as she signed her name at the bottom: Aria Thorne.
The sound of the pen scratching against the paper sounded like a prison door slamming shut.
Damien took the document. He didn't offer a handshake. He didn't smile. But the air around him seemed to crackle with a dark, possessive energy.
"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Sinclair," he said coldly. "Butler, take her to the Villa. Get her cleaned up."
Aria bit her lip, turned around, and walked out of the office with as much dignity as she could muster.
As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut, Damien collapsed back into his leather chair. His eyes burned a brilliant, feral **gold**. A low, inhuman growl rumbled deep in his throat.
"Mine,"his inner beast roared, clawing at his chest. *"Mate."*
Damien clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. He had bought her to use her, to break her. But he hadn't expected her scent to be the only thing that could calm his madness.
Three years? No. He would never let her go.