Bound To Him: A Billionaire's Contracted Wife

Angele's POV

"What's it going to be, Angele? You going to take a jump or leave nothing to chance?"

The voice had a place with my dearest companion, Marcus, yet my look was locked across the room on him - Henry, the CEO with eyes as cold as his name recommended. He lane in the cowhide seat behind his huge mahogany work area, one corner of his mouth jerking as though he were making an effort not to snicker. An entertained look all over, similar to he definitely knew my response.

All I knew was he believed me should sign some paper that, as far as he might be concerned, implied power and control, yet to me... it was the pass to something I was unable to try and completely handle. An exit plan, perhaps. A future.

"Miss Angele, I accept you've perused the conditions of the understanding?" His voice was low, estimated, similar to each word was being handpicked to one or the other interest or threaten me.

I gestured, gulping down nerves. The agreement on the work area between us was thick loaded up with statements, conditions, things I could half comprehend. However, my fingers shivered with the longing to go after the pen, sign my name, and step into his reality. A world that guaranteed riches and solidness. Also, perhaps something hazier.

"See, kid," Marcus murmured, prodding me, "you don't need to do this."

Be that as it may, Marcus didn't have the foggiest idea what it seemed like to party day in and day out, with nothing certain. My family required this; they required me to do this. I expected to do this.

Also, the CEO staying there, pausing, knew it.

As I went after the pen, he inclined in nearer, his look choosing my hand. "Keep in mind," he said, his voice smooth yet firm, "this isn't simply a piece of paper. When you're in, you're mine. Completely. No space for questions or misgivings."

My heart beat harder as his words sank in; their weight weighty with something I was unable to disregard. Be that as it may, the manner in which he saw me, similar to he could see directly through me - what I needed, what I dreaded - was attractive. I was unable to turn away.

"Fine," I made due, despite the fact that my voice shuddered. "Simply let me know a certain something." I maintained eye contact with him, trying myself not to recoil. "Why me?"

He gave a half-grin, one eyebrow curving in entertainment. "Why not you?"

His response was unclear, purposefully thus, yet there was something in his eyes that let me know he was at that point ten strides ahead, playing a game I didn't have the foggiest idea about the standards to. He recently paused, knowing that ultimately, interest or urgency or perhaps both would take me leap.

With my unique on the paper, he reclined in his seat, watching me like a tracker evaluating its prey. I felt my heart hustling, each thump an update that I had quite recently given over something I was unable to reclaim.

He shut the agreement, the snap of the envelope reverberating in the quietness between us. Standing up, he crossed the distance between us, his tall casing overshadowing me as he expanded his hand. "Welcome to my world, Angele," he mumbled, voice dropping into a murmur that felt like a chill down my spine.

I grasped his hand, the glow of his skin a glaring difference to the cold quiet of his disposition. Interestingly, I felt the implicit commitment he'd made. That I was as of now not free. That he held the strings now.

"Tomorrow," he said, his tone both instructing and quiet, "you'll start to see precisely exact thing you pursued."

He delivered my hand, venturing back, and without another word, he left me there in the faintly lit room, heart dashing, mind turning. I'd consented to his terms, however I had no clue about what I'd recently ventured into.

The quiet in Henry's cool, moderate office was so thick I could nearly hear my own pulse. Sitting opposite him, I paused my breathing, fingers apprehensively following the edges of the agreement he'd put before me. The pen weighed vigorously in my grasp, a tie holding me on the edge of a choice that could make a huge difference.

"Sign it, or don't," he said, his voice quiet however chillingly separated. "However, don't burn through my time, Angele."

He watched me with those cold blue eyes, the touch of restlessness glimmering underneath the surface. There was something unnervingly attractive about the manner in which he took a gander at me - like he could see directly through my endeavors to stay made.

I gulped hard, attempting to cover the faltering ascending in my chest. "I want to understand what I'm getting into, Mr.Thorn," I made due, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Call me Henry," he said without a hitch, that weak, risky grin gracing his lips. "With respect to what you're getting into, I'd say it's precisely exact thing you're expecting - security, independence from monetary concerns, and a day to day existence that will take you a long way from where you are NOW."

His words lingered palpably, weighty with suggestions. Is it safe to say that he was promising me a future, or selling me an overlaid confine?

I peered down at the agreement, the fresh dark ink defining clear boundaries around my opportunity. In any case, past the lawful terms, there was something different here - a severe rundown of rules, limits, and that chilling expression, "no inquiries posed."

The truth hit me. He needed my responsibility, my quietness, my acquiescence.

"Appears to be a great deal to ask from somebody you scarcely know," I said, raising my look to meet his. My heart beat as his eyes held mine, looking, working out.

"Do you truly need to know me?" he countered, inclining forward marginally. "Since once you step into my world, Angele, there's no way but forward."

His words were both an admonition and a greeting. I felt the draw, a perilously tempting desire to jump recklessly, despite the fact that I knew the dangers. With a flimsy breath, I went after the pen and marked, fixing my destiny with a strong stroke.

When the agreement was marked, his disposition moved. He stood, his tall, strong edge creating a shaded area that appeared to envelope me.

"Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Thorn," he mumbled, the convention bound with something hazier. "I trust you'll see as my home obliging."

Home. The word sounded strange coming from him.

"I have one rule," he proceeded, his tone firm. "Try not to enter the cellar. My rule is untouchable - for any reason."

The reality in his voice sent a chill down my spine, however I dealt with a little gesture. His appearance relaxed just somewhat, his eyes glinting with something practically delicate.

"I'll give you an opportunity to change," he added discreetly. "Be that as it may, recall, Angele... nothing in this world is free."

That evening, I moved into his penthouse, a shocking pinnacle of glass and steel sitting above the city horizon. It seemed like strolling into an alternate world - extravagance enclosed by an inauspicious calm.

As I got comfortable, I saw a bunch of keys on the kitchen counter, each marked flawlessly. However, one stuck out, silver and engraved with a multifaceted plan. The cellar key.

I got it, a rush and an admonition droning through me. For what reason was it prohibited? What was concealed down there that he expected to keep so firmly locked away?

Interest stewed, however I shoved it to the side. The last thing I needed was to test his understanding on my most memorable evening.

Over the course of the following couple of days, our collaborations were brief, formal, accused of an implicit pressure. Henry stayed away, yet I could feel his presence, a shadow waiting in each side of the penthouse. His quiet look, his deliberate words - they resembled unique pieces I was unable to fit together.

Then, at that point, on the fifth night, he showed up in the entryway of the library, watching me unobtrusively as I perused his books. His eyes mellowed for one minute, and I felt my guards disintegrate.

"Do you appreciate secrets, Angele?" he asked, ending the quietness.

"I do," I answered, practically short of breath under his serious look. There was something hauntingly lovely in his watched disposition, similar to he'd fabricated walls to keep everybody out - and me in.

"Alright," he mumbled, inclining nearer, "think about this house your most memorable secret."

Soon thereafter, I wound up remaining at the highest point of the storm cellar flight of stairs, the prohibited key gripped in my grasp. His words replayed to me; his standard clear. However, a mind-boggling desire filled me - the need to open the insider facts he watched so wildly.

I realized I was wavering on a risky edge, playing with limits I scarcely comprehended. In any case, one inquiry beat to me: What's Henry stowing away?

Similarly as I went after the entryway, a strong hand folded over my wrist, pulled me back. I turned, breath got, as Henry's eyes bore into mine, dim and angry.

"What do you believe you're not kidding?" His voice was a low, hazardous murmur.

Furthermore, at that time, I knew - I'd recently crossed a line I was unable to uncross.