The room beyond the door was dark.
Not dim. Not shadowy. Dark.
The kind of darkness that felt intentional, like whoever controlled this space wanted you off-balance before you even stepped inside.
Isla hesitated at the threshold, every instinct screaming at her to turn around and run. But Luca's presence behind her felt like a wall, polite but immovable, and the NDA she'd just signed felt like chains around her wrists.
She'd already made her choice.
Now she had to live with it.
"Go ahead," Luca said softly. "He doesn't bite."
The way he said it made Isla think that was probably a lie.
She stepped inside.
The door closed behind her with a quiet click that sounded far too final.
For a moment, Isla couldn't see anything. Her eyes struggled to adjust, catching only vague shapes in the blackness. Then gradually, details emerged. This room was even larger than the first one, and somehow more intimidating despite—or maybe because of—the darkness.
A massive fireplace dominated one wall, flames crackling and casting dancing orange light across hardwood floors that probably cost more per square foot than most people's cars. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall revealed the city below, but heavy curtains were partially drawn, letting in only slivers of ambient light from the buildings outside.
The furniture she could make out was masculine. Expensive. All sharp angles and dark leather, the kind of aesthetic that screamed power and money and someone who didn't care about being comfortable, only about being in control.
And standing in front of those windows, backlit by the city lights, was a man.
Isla's breath caught.
He had his back to her, hands clasped behind him, perfectly still. Tall—maybe six-three, with broad shoulders that filled out an obviously tailored suit jacket. Dark hair, though she couldn't make out much more than that in silhouette. Everything about his posture radiated command, like he was used to being obeyed without question.
She stood frozen just inside the door, waiting.
He didn't turn around.
Didn't acknowledge her presence at all.
Just stood there, staring out at the city like he owned every light twinkling below.
Maybe he did.
The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Isla's heart hammered against her ribs.
"Mr. Archer?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
Finally, he moved.
Just his head at first, turning slightly as if considering whether she was worth his attention. Then slowly—so slowly it felt deliberate, calculated to make her wait—he turned to face her.
And Isla forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful.
Not handsome. Not attractive. Beautiful in a way that seemed almost wrong on a man, like God had spent extra time on this one and then decided to make him dangerous just to balance things out.
Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. A jaw so perfectly defined it looked carved from marble. Lips that would've been sensual if they weren't pressed into such a hard, unforgiving line. Dark hair styled back with almost military precision, though a few strands fell across his forehead in a way that seemed calculated rather than careless.
But it was his eyes that trapped her.
Ice-blue. Almost gray in the firelight. Cold and assessing and absolutely ruthless as they traveled over her from head to toe, cataloging every detail like she was a piece of inventory he was considering purchasing.
She'd never felt so exposed while fully clothed.
"Isla Cross." His voice was deep, smooth, the kind of voice that could convince you to walk off a cliff and make you thank him for the privilege. "Twenty-six years old. Pediatric nurse at Saint Catherine's Hospital. Raised your sister after your mother's death. No romantic entanglements. No criminal record. No social media presence to speak of. Clean credit until six months ago when your father's gambling debts started appearing on your accounts."
He took a step toward her.
Isla's instinct was to step back, but she forced herself to stand still.
"You're five-foot-six," he continued, moving closer with each word, "a hundred and thirty pounds, blood type O-positive. You drink your coffee with too much cream and not enough sugar. You volunteer at the children's hospital on your days off. You've never left the state. You've been on exactly four dates in the last three years, none of which progressed past dinner."
Another step.
"You're afraid of heights but you love thunderstorms. You read romance novels when you can't sleep. You have a scar on your left palm from a kitchen accident when you were twelve. And right now—" He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne, something expensive and woody that probably cost more than her rent. "—you're absolutely terrified."
Isla's mouth had gone dry. "How do you know all that?"
"I make it my business to know everything about people I'm considering bringing into my life." His eyes never left hers. "Especially when that person will be wearing my ring."
"You've been watching me."
"Investigating you," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"For how long?"
Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"No," he said quietly. "It doesn't. Because you're here now, and what happened before tonight is irrelevant. What matters is what happens next."
He moved past her, and Isla realized he'd been circling her. Like a predator studying prey, looking for weaknesses, deciding where to strike.
She turned to keep him in view, her back now to the windows.
Killian Archer walked to a side table where a crystal decanter sat next to two glasses. He poured amber liquid into one—didn't offer her any—and took a measured sip, still watching her over the rim.
"Luca explained the terms?" he asked.
"Eighteen months. Marriage in name only. No questions about your business."
"And you're willing to accept those terms?"
Isla's hands clenched at her sides. "Do I have a choice?"
"Everyone has a choice, Isla. You could walk out of here right now. Take your chances with the Kozlov family. Pray they're merciful with your sister." He set down his glass with a soft click. "But we both know you won't do that."
He was right.
She hated that he was right.
"What do you want from me?" she asked. "Really. Why go through all this trouble for a fake wife?"
"I told you. No questions about my business."
"This isn't about your business. This is about me. About why you chose me specifically." She forced herself to hold his gaze even though everything in her screamed to look away. "You could've picked anyone. Someone from your world. Someone who already understands whatever this is. Why a random nurse with a dying father and crushing debt?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Just studied her with those ice-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through skin and bone to whatever was hiding underneath.
"Because," he said finally, "I don't want someone from my world. I want someone clean. Someone who doesn't know the rules well enough to try to bend them. Someone who will do exactly what I need without complications."
"You want someone desperate enough to be controlled."
"Yes."
At least he was honest about it.
Killian moved again, this time crossing behind her. Isla started to turn, to keep him in sight, but his voice stopped her.
"Don't move."
She froze.
He circled her slowly, and she could feel his gaze on her back, her shoulders, her hair still falling out of its messy ponytail. Could feel him assessing, cataloging, deciding if she measured up to whatever standards he'd set.
"You'll wear my ring," he said from somewhere behind her. "Answer to my name. Live in my home. Attend events when required. Smile when expected. Play the role of devoted wife without deviation."
He came back into view, this time stopping so close she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
"You will obey without question," he continued, voice dropping lower. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. When I tell you to be somewhere, you're there. When I tell you to speak or stay silent, you follow that instruction to the letter."
"That sounds like slavery, not marriage."
"It's a contract. One you're free to refuse right now. But once you agree—" His hand came up, and Isla flinched before she could stop herself.
He froze, hand hovering inches from her face.
For the first time, something like emotion flickered across his features. Not anger. Something colder. Disappointment, maybe. Or calculation.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hand without touching her.
"I won't hurt you," he said quietly. "That's not part of this arrangement. You'll be safe in my home. Protected. No one will touch you without your explicit consent. That includes me."
"Then why does this feel like I'm being purchased?"
"Because you are." Again, that brutal honesty. "I'm buying your time, your discretion, and your obedience. In exchange, you're getting money, security, and your family's safety. It's a transaction, Isla. Let's not pretend it's anything else."
He stepped back, giving her space for the first time since entering the room.
Isla's breathing came easier without him looming over her, but her heart still raced like she'd run a marathon.
"I need an answer now," Killian said. "Because once you're mine, there's no going back. The contract is binding. Eighteen months. No early termination unless I deem it necessary. No exceptions, no matter how difficult it becomes."
"And if I say no?"
"Then Luca will drive you home. You'll honor the NDA, and we'll never speak again. Your problems remain your problems." He tilted his head slightly. "Your sister remains in danger. Your father remains buried in debt. And forty-six hours from now, the Kozlov family will come to collect."
Isla closed her eyes.
Saw Mara's face. Sweet, innocent Mara who wanted to study law and change the world and had no idea she was being photographed through her bedroom window by men who saw her as currency.
Saw her father in that hospital bed, machines breathing for him, drowning in debts he'd created through his own weakness.
Saw the life she'd planned—the simple, safe life she'd wanted—crumbling to ash.
She opened her eyes.
Killian stood watching her with those ice-blue eyes, patient as a predator who already knew the prey was trapped.
And she realized something that made her stomach drop.
This wasn't actually a choice.
It had never been a choice.
From the moment Luca appeared in that parking garage, from the moment those loan sharks showed her that photo of Mara, maybe even from the moment her father took that first loan from the wrong people—her path had been narrowing, options disappearing, until there was only this.
Only him.
Only the devil's bargain standing in front of her in an expensive suit, offering salvation at a price she couldn't begin to calculate.
"Yes," Isla whispered.
Killian's expression didn't change. Didn't smile, didn't relax, gave her absolutely nothing.
"Say it properly," he said. "Say 'I agree to marry you, Killian Archer, under the terms discussed.'"
Her throat felt like sandpaper. "I agree to marry you, Killian Archer, under the terms discussed."
"And you understand there's no going back once we proceed?"
"I understand."
"And you agree of your own free will, without coercion?"
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. "Yes."
For another endless moment, he simply looked at her. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black box.
Velvet. Expensive.
He opened it.
Inside was a ring that probably cost more than her car, her student loans, and three years of her salary combined. A massive diamond surrounded by smaller stones, set in platinum that caught the firelight and threw it back in sharp, cold fragments.
It looked like a shackle made of ice and money.
"Give me your hand," Killian said.
Isla's hand trembled as she extended it.
He caught her wrist—his fingers warm against her skin, grip firm but not painful—and studied her hand for a moment. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, almost gentle, and she noticed what she hadn't before.
His knuckles were scarred. Not fresh, but old marks that spoke of violence in his past. Of fists meeting bone repeatedly enough to leave permanent evidence.
What kind of businessman had hands like that?
Before she could process that thought, he slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did. He'd probably known her ring size before she'd even signed that NDA.
"You're mine now," Killian said quietly, still holding her hand, his thumb now tracing the edge of the ring he'd just placed there. "For the next eighteen months, you belong to me. Do you understand what that means?"
"That I'm trapped."
"That you're protected." He released her hand. "No one touches what's mine, Isla. Not the Kozlov family. Not your father's other creditors. Not anyone. You and your sister are under my protection now. But that protection comes with expectations."
"Total obedience."
"Complete loyalty." He turned and walked to the side table, picking up what looked like a phone. He tapped something, then set it down. "Luca will handle the logistics. Your father's debts will be cleared by morning. Your sister will have security watching her, though she won't know it. You'll move into my home tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow?" Isla's voice pitched up. "I have work, I have—"
"You quit your job tomorrow morning. Luca will provide you with the appropriate resignation letter. Your sister can finish the school year before transferring somewhere more appropriate."
"You can't just—"
"I can." He turned back to face her, and there was steel in his voice now. "And I will. This is what you agreed to, Isla. This is what 'obeying without question' means. You don't get to negotiate anymore. That time passed the moment you said yes."
The door opened behind her. Luca stepped in, somehow having known exactly when he was needed.
"Take Ms. Cross home," Killian said without looking at his assistant. "Make sure she has everything she needs for tomorrow."
"Of course." Luca's hand appeared at Isla's elbow, gently guiding her toward the door.
She let herself be led, numb, the weight of the ring on her finger feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.
At the threshold, she stopped and looked back.
Killian had returned to the window, hands clasped behind his back again, staring out at his city. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his profile, making him look carved from shadow and flame.
"Mr. Archer?" she called out.
He didn't turn around.
"Tomorrow afternoon, Luca will collect you at two p.m. Be ready." A pause. "And Isla? Welcome to your new life."
The door closed.
The darkness swallowed him.
And Isla stood in the elevator descending back to ground level, staring at the ring on her finger, and wondered what kind of man she'd just promised eighteen months of her life to.
What kind of man knew everything about her.
What kind of man had scars on his knuckles and guns on his side tables.
What kind of man looked at her like she was already his before she'd even said yes.
The elevator chimed.
Ground floor.
In forty-six hours, she would've lost everything.
Instead, she'd sold herself to a beautiful stranger with ice-blue eyes and secrets that felt like they could bury her alive.
Isla stepped out into the night.
And didn't look back.
Because she couldn't.
Not anymore.
She belonged to Killian Archer now.
Whether she understood what that meant or not.