90 Days of Him
The gates opened without a sound, swallowing the car like a secret.
Lila Vale sat still in the backseat, fingers clutched around the fraying strap of her bag. The driver didn’t speak. He hadn't since picking her up in front of her rundown flat an hour ago. Just nodded, opened the door, and drove her straight to hell in a black car that smelled like leather, silence, and money.
Now she was here.
The Wolfe estate was more fortress than home — all stone, glass, and sharp lines. Cold. Immaculate. Designed to remind people like her that they didn’t belong.
She stepped out, cheap flats brushing marble, and tilted her head to the sky. No stars. Just clouds and tension pressing down on her lungs.
The front door opened before she reached it. He didn’t send a butler.
Of course he didn’t.
Dante Wolfe stood in the doorway himself — six foot three of deliberate detachment in a custom suit and eyes that made the rest of the world shrink.
“Seven minutes late,” he said, voice like a blade. “You’ll want to work on that.”
Lila swallowed whatever polite response she’d practiced. Her throat was too dry.
She stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a click that sounded suspiciously like a lock.
Ninety days. That’s what she’d signed up for.
Ninety days under his roof.
Ninety days of pretending she wasn’t in over her head.
Ninety days of obeying rules written in ink, silence, and power.
“Your room is down the hall,” he said, already turning away. “Third door. Try not to get lost.”
“That’s it?” she asked before she could stop herself. “No welcome? No small talk?”
He turned. Slowly.
“You want small talk, Lila?” he asked, his voice quiet, dangerous. “Fine. You’re here because you’re broke. I’m letting you stay because I need a buffer for a family deal I didn’t agree to. We’re not friends. We’re not lovers. And if you touch me, I’ll end the contract.”
He stepped closer.
“But,” he added, eyes dipping once — slow, possessive — before snapping back to hers, “if you break the rules, you pay me back. Every damn cent.”
Lila’s mouth went dry. She hated the way her body reacted to him — like her nerves hadn’t gotten the memo her pride was trying to send.
“I don’t need you to like me,” he said, turning. “Just remember who owns your time.”
