"You bastard!"
Abigail's shriek pierces through the penthouse, her breath hitching between sobs.
Damien leans against the minibar, pouring himself a drink, barely sparing her a glance. "That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"
Abigail's eyes blaze. "Dramatic? I should have listened to the rumors! Everyone warned me about you, but I was stupid enough to believe you actually cared."
He takes a slow sip, unfazed. "I never lied to you."
"You never answered my calls!" She grips the silk sheets, knuckles white. "For weeks, I meant nothing to you, didn't I? You got what you wanted, and now I'm just another number on your list."
Damien exhales, setting his glass down. "Abigail, we had fun. That's all it was."
Her jaw clenches. "Fun? I gave you everything. My time, my body—"
"Your choice."
Abigail lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "God, you're disgusting."
She storms toward him, eyes flashing with fury, and before he can move—slap!
His head tilts slightly from the force, but he doesn't react, doesn't even blink.
Abigail's voice shakes. "I hope you rot alone, Damien Blackwood."
The door swings open.
Cole, his assistant, steps inside, taking in the scene with practiced indifference. "Miss Sinclair, it's time to leave."
Abigail glares at Damien one last time before yanking her arm free from Cole's light grip. "I curse the day I met you."
The door slams behind her.
Cole adjusts his cufflinks. "That's the third one this month."
Damien picks up his glass again, unbothered. "She'll get over it."
Cole doesn't argue. "Your meeting is in twenty minutes."
Damien nods. "Let's go."
***
The air inside the Blackwood Estate ballroom is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and whispered deals. A towering crystal chandelier casts a golden glow over the elite—men in tailored suits, women draped in silk and diamonds.
Billionaires don't just spend money here—they gamble it. They wager fortunes, reputations… and sometimes, much more.
At the center of it all, Damien Blackwood leans back in his chair, swirling the last sip of whiskey in his glass. He's already won three rounds of poker tonight, raking in enough to buy a private island.
But the thrill is fading.
He needs something bigger.
Something that makes his pulse quicken, his blood rush.
Across the table, Victor Langley watches him, eyes gleaming with amusement. The oil tycoon is a man who never smiles without reason, his every move calculated. He flicks a cigar between his fingers, exhaling smoke like a king surveying his court.
"You're getting bored, aren't you, Blackwood?" Victor drawls.
Damien smirks. "Always."
Victor's lips curve into something sharp. "Then let's make it interesting."
He reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out a sleek black envelope, and slides it across the table.
"Inside is a deed. A private estate upstate. Beautiful, secluded. It comes with one condition."
Damien raises a brow, fingers tapping the cool surface of the envelope. "Which is?"
Victor leans forward. "You spend one month there. No money. No assistants. No technology. Just you… and whatever awaits inside."
A ripple of laughter circles the table. Someone mutters, Madness. Another murmurs, Now that's a bet.
Damien's jaw tightens as he studies the envelope.
One month without his billionaire lifestyle? No cars, no penthouses, no security detail?
It's reckless. Stupid.
But it's also irresistible.
His blood hums with anticipation. His mind is already calculating.
He should say no.
But Damien Blackwood never backs down from a challenge.
"All right," he says, lips curling into a dangerous smile. "You've got yourself a deal."
Victor's smirk deepens. "Careful, Blackwood. You might regret it."
Damien just lifts his glass in a mock toast. "I never regret anything."
But as he downs the last drop of whiskey, something in Victor's eyes unsettles him.
Like the bastard knows something he doesn't.
Three Days Later—-
The rain comes down in thick sheets as Damien steps out of the black town car, his breath curling in the cold night air.
The driver barely waits for him to grab his duffel bag before speeding off, tires kicking up gravel.
Damien exhales sharply, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket, his grip tightening on the bag's strap.
Welcome to hell.
He turns, taking in the sight before him.
The estate is massive, yet eerily silent. Dark stone walls loom under the silver glow of the moonlight, the ivy-covered exterior giving it an abandoned feel.
There are no welcoming lights. No staff waiting at the door.
Just Damien. And the shadows.
His lips press into a thin line. He can handle solitude.
He's handled worse.
Twelve years ago, he was just a scared, furious kid standing outside a cemetery, watching his parents be lowered into the ground.
They left him everything—an empire, a name feared by men in boardrooms across the globe.
But money couldn't fill the hollow ache in his chest.
It couldn't stop him from turning into the man he is now—ruthless, reckless, always chasing the next high.
Maybe that's why he agreed to this bet.
To prove that he's more than a billionaire with too much time and too little purpose.
Or maybe he just doesn't care.
Damien shakes off the thought.
Then, just as he takes a step forward—
A flicker of movement.
A shadow, barely visible, disappears behind one of the columns on the front porch.
His muscles go rigid.
His heartbeat slows to a steady, deliberate thud.
He's not alone.
For a moment, Damien stands still, eyes scanning the darkness.
Wind rustles through the trees, whistling through the cracks in the stone. The night feels too quiet.
Too watchful.
Then, from somewhere inside the house—
A floorboard creaks.
A slow, deliberate sound.
Someone's here.
Damien's grip tightens around his duffel bag.
Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's just on edge after three days without his usual comforts.
Or maybe Victor Langley knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Damien here
And whatever's waiting for him inside…
It's not just solitude.