Isla’s POV

The clink of champagne glasses, the soft hum of orchestral strings, and the sparkle of a thousand-dollar chandelier should have calmed my nerves. Instead, I stood near the edge of the ballroom, fingers clenched tightly around my flute of bubbly, trying not to show that my world was falling apart.

This gala was supposed to be my chance to find salvation.

And he was my last hope.

Damian Voss.

He stood across the room like a shadow dressed in Armani. Dark suit. Darker eyes. A glass of scotch in his hand. Untouchable. Unbothered. The kind of man who made powerful people nervous—and powerless ones like me ache.

He’d already said no once. I had pitched my ideas. Presented my portfolio. Begged for a meeting. And he’d declined without even blinking.

Yet here I was, invited to his party, wearing the most expensive dress I could rent, praying he saw me.

And then—he did.

His gaze found me like a brand, hot and sharp. My breath caught. I couldn’t move. Damian Voss didn’t just look at you—he consumed you. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like he was undressing your soul layer by layer.

He gave a subtle nod. A command, not a request.

I followed.

He led me down a side hallway, his long strides effortless. The hallway opened into a private study—dimly lit, furnished in rich mahogany, leather, and silence. He closed the door behind us, locking it.

And then he turned to face me.

“Miss Moreno,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You’ve been persistent.”

“I don’t have time to be polite anymore.”

“No. You don’t.” He moved closer. “Your agency is two weeks from collapse. Your investors are pulling out. Your staff is already whispering. You’re trying to save something that’s already dead.”

The truth was a slap, and I flinched. “I built it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering you something else.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Damian reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder—sleek, black, and sealed with a crimson wax emblem. He handed it to me.

I opened it.

The words on the first page made my mouth go dry.

“Terms of Submission.”

“What the hell is this?” I whispered.

“A contract,” he said, stepping behind me. “One month. You submit. To me. Completely. In exchange, I will fund your agency, pay off your debts, and secure three years of investor confidence.”

I turned to face him, but he was already close. His hand touched my arm—lightly—and I froze.

“You’ll have a safe word. You can walk away anytime. But if you stay…” His fingers traced up to my shoulder, brushing the strap of my dress. “You’ll obey. No hesitation. No lies. You will belong to me in every way that matters.”

My heart was racing.

“You want… sex.”

“I want control. What I do to you will break and remake you.” His voice dropped lower. “And you will beg for more.”

Heat surged through me—shameful, heady, and uncontrollable.

“Why me?” I asked.

He studied me for a long moment. “Because you pretend to be powerful. But underneath, you crave to be owned.”

I should have walked out. Slapped him. Reported him. Something.

But my hands were trembling—and not from fear.

I licked my lips, trying to form words, but he leaned in first, his breath brushing my ear.

“Sign the contract, Isla. And let me show you what it means to be truly free.”

The pen was in my hand before I knew it.

I hesitated—then signed.

The room went quiet.

And then Damian kissed me.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips. No.

He kissed like a man claiming his prize.

His hand gripped my neck, tilting my head up as his mouth crashed onto mine. I gasped, and he slipped his tongue past my lips—deep, possessive, commanding. His other hand slid down my back and pulled me flush against his chest.

I melted.

The world tilted. Time bent. My knees buckled, and he caught me effortlessly, pressing me against the desk.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing mine.

“You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.”

He bit my lower lip—just hard enough to make me moan—and stepped away, his breathing controlled while mine was a mess.

“Go home,” he said. “Tomorrow, your real training begins.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came.

He smiled slightly, dark and satisfied.

“Wear red.”

And just like that, I stumbled out of the lion’s den—already burning for more.