---
The gates of Aiden Knight's mansion loomed like jaws.
Zara sat in the backseat of a sleek black car, watching the iron teeth slide open as if they were welcoming her to her own damn funeral.
She clutched the contract tighter in her hands — the one that said she had to live here now. Smile for the press. Pretend to be the perfect fiancée for six months.
All because her father couldn't say no to the wrong deal.
The car stopped.
The driver opened her door.
And the cold, perfect air of Aiden's world wrapped around her like silk dipped in poison.
The mansion was modern. All glass and sharp edges. Cold. Beautiful. Heartless.
Just like him.
She stepped inside.
Aiden was already waiting — standing at the base of a spiral staircase in a black button-down shirt, no tie. Like he owned everything. Like he owned her.
Which, technically, he did.
"Welcome home," he said.
"I'm not playing house with you," she snapped.
Aiden arched an eyebrow. "Then I suggest you get very good at pretending."
He motioned to a maid, who took her suitcase. "You'll be in the guest wing. Top floor. Unless I change my mind."
Zara's jaw clenched.
"And what if I don't follow your rules?"
Aiden stepped closer. He wasn't smiling.
His voice dropped into something low and lethal. "Then I'll remind you who signed your name on the dotted line."
She flinched.
For a second, she hated how her body still remembered the heat of his hands. How her skin still burned from where he kissed her. Touched her. Owned her.
"Is there a rulebook I should memorize?" she bit out.
"Just one," he said. "Stay out of the west wing."
She blinked. "Why?"
Aiden's jaw ticked. "Because I said so."
Then he turned and walked away.
Just like that.
Like she wasn't worth another word.
Zara stared after him, fists clenched at her sides. Every part of her wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned on her heel and followed the maid upstairs. As they passed the corridor leading to the west wing, she glanced at the door Aiden had warned her about.
It was shut. Locked. Ominous.
She didn't ask.
Not yet.
---
It was midday when she got restless.
The mansion was too quiet. Too sterile. Her thoughts were too loud.
She stepped out of her room and started walking — no direction, just movement.
As she passed the corridor again, something caught her eye.
The west wing door… was open.
Her heart jumped.
She blinked, then called out. "Hello?"
No answer.
She turned toward the stairs. "Excuse me? Is anyone here?" she called louder.
Still nothing.
The hallway echoed back her voice like it didn't want to help.
That door had been locked this morning. She was sure of it. Now it stood slightly ajar, like a secret trying to whisper.
A part of her said walk away.
But curiosity? Curiosity was a louder voice.
Zara stepped forward.
---
The room was dimly lit. The walls were deep red, trimmed in black leather. Heavy curtains, dark wood, and shadows clinging to every edge.
The air smelled faintly of musk and danger.
And then she saw it.
Chains.
Silken ropes.
A bench.
A spreader bar.
Collars.
A rack of blindfolds and gags.
A bed in the center — huge, black satin sheets, headboard fitted with cuffs.
Zara's breath hitched. Heat flushed up her throat.
This wasn't just a room.
This was a confession.
She moved slowly, drawn to it, fingertips brushing the cold metal of a spreader bar.
---
📲 Elsewhere…
Behind a hidden screen in his office, Aiden's phone lit up.
Motion detected. West Wing.
He clicked the feed.
And there she was.
Zara. In his room. His forbidden space.
She didn't know about the camera.
She didn't know he'd left the door unlocked on purpose.
She didn't know he was watching her now, drink in hand, eyes glued to the screen like it was his favorite movie.
---
She sat on the bed slowly, her fingers grazing the cool satin sheets like they were alive.
Her pulse throbbed at her throat. Her breathing changed — heavier, slower, almost cautious.
But curiosity was a drug. And she was already high.
Zara's gaze wandered to the leather cuffs clipped to the headboard. The soft, worn edges. The buckle. The weight of them.
She imagined the sound they'd make if tightened around wrists.
Her wrists.
A blush crept up her neck, but she didn't move away.
Instead, her hand shifted. Down. Between her thighs.
Her fingers brushed over her skin — a tentative stroke that made her shiver.
She closed her eyes.
And suddenly, it was him again.
The velvet sound of his voice in her ear.
The way his hand had slid up her thigh that night, slow and sure.
His mouth. His teeth.
The way he had growled "good girl" when she moaned into his shoulder, trembling under him.
Her lips parted with a breathy gasp as her fingers moved again — firmer this time, pushing against the heat building between her legs.
Her hips lifted slightly from the bed.
One hand tangled in the sheets.
The other slipped beneath the waistband of her lace panties.
A soft, desperate sound escaped her lips.
She rocked her hips slowly, chasing that memory — that perfect, dark moment when he made her scream a name she didn't know and beg for more.
She didn't know if it was shame or hunger that made her move harder.
But she didn't stop.
---
📲 Back in his office…
Aiden leaned forward, his drink forgotten.
The camera captured everything — her breathing, her body arching, the pleasure written across her face like a confession.
She was lost in it. In him.
And she didn't even know she was giving him a front-row seat.
He watched her fall apart in his sheets… in his room… because of him.
His jaw tightened.
His voice, low and dangerous, spilled into the empty air:
> "You broke the rule, sweetheart… now you'll learn what happens next."
---