Chapter 59
ALEXANDER
The knot in my tie was off by half a millimetre.
I stared at it in the mirror, unmoving, jaw clenched.
Ordinary people might not have noticed.
But I wasn’t ordinary.
I tugged the silk free and started again, fingers precise, movements calm—controlled.
Everything about this day had to be exact.
No room for errors.
No second chances.
Not with her.
The white cuffs of my shirt gleamed under the soft light as I smoothed them down. I could still see the faint shadow of her wrists in my mind—raw, red, marked by my restraint.
By me.
Fuck!
I hadn’t slept last night.
Because of her.
Not just the bruises—the angry red welts cutting into her wrists, the raw, scraped skin like a brand of what I’d done.
No, it wasn’t just the damage.
It was her.
Tied to that chair.
Tears streaked her face.
Still glaring at me like she hadn’t already lost.
Small.
Shaking.
But somehow still defiant.
Like pain had made her stronger. Like she’d rather die than give me the satisfaction of breaking her.
And that look—
Disgust?
Anger?
Hatred?
Yeah. All of it.
She looked at me like I was filth.
Like I wasn’t a man, but something less—
A nightmare she couldn’t wake from.
A sickness in human skin.
And the worst part?
She was right.
I was the nightmare.
I was the fucking monster.
I’ve torn apart men for a glance, destroyed lives for less than a whisper.
Regret isn’t in my nature.
Guilt is something I buried a long time ago.
Remorse is for the weak.
And yet…
There was something in her eyes.
Something that didn’t just look through me—
It saw me.
Not Alexander Dimitri, not the name.
Not the tailored suit or the blood-drenched reputation.
Me.
And I hated it.
Because she didn’t see power.
She saw rot.
And somehow, that got under my skin in a way no threat, no enemy ever had.
So yeah, fuck me—I went to her room.
With a fucking first-aid kit.
Like a bandage could fix what I broke.
She stepped out of the bathroom, and her face—
It wasn’t just shock.
It was like I’d come alive from the worst corner of her nightmares.
Unreal.
Unforgivable.
And I dared to pull her onto my lap.
Threatened her, even.
Told her I’d throw her back in that basement if she fought me.
And yet—her heat against my thigh, the pressure of her pussy rubbing through my pants—
Infuriating.
Distracting.
And fucking arousing.
It made everything harder.
The guilt.
The anger.
The fucking restraint.
Her hands shook when I touched them.
Not in fear.
Not exactly.
Something else.
Like part of her wanted to recoil, and the other part… didn’t know how.
She looked at me like I was a puzzle made of knives—
Something jagged and impossible to solve without bleeding.
She stared like she couldn’t reconcile me—the bastard who chained her underground, and the man who now sat there, wrapping her wrists with a care that made no damn sense.
Like I wasn’t supposed to be capable of this.
And maybe I wasn’t.
Because what I did next wasn’t calculated.
It wasn’tt strategic.
It was fucking stupid.
I kissed her wrists.
The same ones I’d bruised.
Like my mouth could erase what my hands had done.
Still, something about that moment lingered. The way her breath hitched.
The way her eyes locked on mine like she couldn’t decide if she hated me or didn’t recognise me.
Maybe I didn’t recognise myself either.
Just for a second.
But it passed.
It always does.
And then, I apologised.
I fucking apologised.
A single word.
Low.
Hoarse.
Human.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I don’t kiss. I don’t soothe. I don’t comfort.
I destroy.
But there I was—whispering things that sounded dangerously close to regret.
And for what?
Because she made me feel something I didn’t understand?
Because for the first time in years, the monster in me blinked—and the man underneath flinched?
It was like watching myself from the outside—some stranger in my skin, doing things I couldn’t explain.
Like the monster had blinked, and for one reckless second, let something else crawl to the surface.
And I hated it.
Because a part of me hadn’t wanted to stop.
I told myself it was the bourbon.
Just a few glasses too deep.
A lapse in judgment after a long day.
A moment of weakness.
Or maybe ..
It wasn’t the bourbon.
It wasn’t exhaustion.
It wasn’t weakness.
Maybe it was her.
Because Alina wasn’t just some girl I’d taken as payment.
She wasn’t just leverage.
She was becoming something else.
Something dangerous.
And the part of me that should’ve crushed that?
It hesitated.
Worse—
It wanted more.
No...no...no...
It was a strategy.
Yes.
That sounded more like me.
I needed to calm her down.
Soften her.
Get the lamb ready and quiet before the slaughter.
A twisted kind of mercy—lead her in gently before showing her the blade. I couldn’t have her baring teeth and spitting venom when today required poise.
Compliance.
And she had complied.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough to put on the dress. Enough to follow the silent current I’d laid out for her, even if she didn’t realise she was doing it.
.....
I was fastening the final button on my cuffs when the door creaked open behind me.
Leo.
He swaggered in, that familiar cocky grin plastered across his face like he’d just won a bet.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, he looked every inch the picture of amusement and anticipation.
“So... nervous?” he teased, voice dripping with mock sympathy.
I turned slowly to face him, one brow arching.
“When have you ever seen me nervous?”
He laughed, straightening.
“True. If you were, the Earth would probably shift on its axis.”
I didn’t respond.
I simply went back to adjusting my sleeves, checking my reflection again, and inspecting every detail.
My watch.
My collar.
The cufflinks I didn’t usually bother with—today, I wore them.
Leo wandered in and flopped dramatically onto the leather chair in the corner like he owned the place.
He crossed one leg over the other, hands laced behind his head, the picture of casual amusement.
“I still can’t believe you went to her room and did her bandages yourself. You. Alexander fucking Dimitri,” he drawled, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief.
“Mr. Cold, Cruel, and Untouchable suddenly playing nursemaid to the girl he had chained in a basement a day ago?”
He let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head like the image physically pained him.
“She must’ve thought you'd completely lost your goddamn mind. Probably checked the corners of the room for hidden cameras. Or a trapdoor. Shock doesn’t even cover it—hell, if I were her, I’d have thought it was some twisted prelude to torture.”
He mimed wiping a tear from his eye, grinning.
“Alexander Dimitri, with a fucking first-aid kit. Jesus. What’s next? Flowers and chocolates? Gonna sing her a lullaby while you’re at it?”
He tilted his head, studying me like I’d grown horns.
“You do know how messed up that sounds, right? You lock her up like some villain out of a gothic horror and then show up like Prince Charming to play healer? She must have looked at you like you’d grown a second head.”
A corner of my mouth twitched—barely.
“I had to calm her down,” I said, voice low.
“Charm her slightly.”
Leo snorted. “Charm her? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
I turned to him fully.
“I couldn’t have her fighting me today.”
He paused, eyes narrowing a little, more curious than mocking now.
“Today? You expect her to cooperate?”
I shrugged once, slow and deliberate.
“I expect her to feel cornered enough to obey... and confused enough not to run.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, not unkindly.
“You always were a cold bastard.”
“No,” I said, turning back to the mirror.
“I’m methodical. That’s the difference.”
Because I had to be.
This wasn’t just about a girl.
It was never just about her.
It was about what she came with.
The inheritance.
The bloodline.
The legacy is tied up in silk and secrets.
She didn’t even realise the kind of power she was sitting on.
But I did.
And once she was mine, it would be mine too.
All of it.
Her wealth would make me untouchable.
Not just feared—but immune.
Above consequence.
Beyond reach.
And she?
She’d learn what it meant to belong to a man like me.
Not just by name.
Not by contract.
But completely.
She’d see beyond the tailored suits and the stories people whispered in back rooms.
She’d see me for what I really am.
And by then, it would be far too late to run.
Leo walked to the door, pausing before opening it.
“She’s never going to go through with it, you know,” Leo said, watching me with that half-amused, half-wary look.
“I don’t need her willingness,” I replied coldly.
“Just her signature. And she will sign.”
Leo let out a low whistle, shaking his head.
“And when you finally have it all? What then?”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t know.
But because I knew exactly what I’d do.
Everything I had built—every move, every step—had been leading to this moment. The dress, the room, the timing. The knock that would come at exactly one o'clock.
And she would open the door, dressed just the way I pictured her, eyes wide with suspicion and that stubborn flicker of fire she still hadn’t learned to hide.
My fingers lingered over the pocket watch I kept hidden inside my jacket. I clicked it open.
12:57.
Three minutes.
I closed it slowly and exhaled once.
Let the games begin.