Game of Billionaires

Bella 

I close my eyes, taking in a slow breath, trying to remember who I was before I ended up here. Before all of this. I wasn't always this girl. The one standing in a silk robe over lingerie, the kind of thing meant to entice men like them.

I don't know what game Ted is playing by throwing Jonathan into this mess, but I know it's calculated. Ted never makes a move without knowing the outcome. And I'm just another piece on his chessboard, aren't I? A queen kept in check, trapped in this endless spiral of smoke and mirrors.

The chime of the elevator startles me. My eyes snap open as the doors slide apart. I don't know what I expect when it opens, but the weight of his presence hits me the moment he steps inside. Jonathan.

He closes the door behind him, his movements deliberate, quiet. His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, and I feel the air shift. His presence commands the room in a way that's almost oppressive, and yet, I can't look away.

I straighten my shoulders, fighting to keep my voice steady. "This is just another part of the deal, isn't it?"

"It's not a deal I wanted. I don't do this."

My brows knit in confusion. "Then why are you here?"

He steps closer, his dark eyes scanning my face as if searching for something. His silence unnerves me, his intensity leaving me feeling exposed in ways I can't explain.

"I told you yesterday. I wanted to see you," he finally says, his voice lower, steadier.

My chest tightens. To see me? The idea sounds ridiculous, almost laughable. Men like him don't come here for something as naive as that. I force a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "You think I believe a man came here just to see me?"

I turn my back to him before he can answer, walking toward the window at the far end of the room. I stop in front of the glass, letting the skyline fill my vision. It feels safer to look out at the city than to face him.

I hear his footsteps behind me, until he's close enough that I can feel his presence again. Too close. His voice comes quieter, almost a whisper. "You won't tell me why you stay in this kind of situation?"

I flinch. The question slices through me, leaving an ache in its wake. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, my lips pressing into a thin line. "There's no way out," I say, the words feel hollow.

When I turn to face him, I expect to see indifference. Instead, I find his gaze burning with something I can't quite name. Concern? Anger? 

"There is more than meets the eye, Jonathan." My voice cracks at the edges, but I don't care. 

His expression hardens, frustration flickering in the lines of his face. "Then fucking explain to me."

The anger in his voice sends a ripple through me, but I can't let him in, it's not that easy. "You better step back before you regret it."

For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. Finally, I sigh subtly and look away. "This should be my fight, not yours."

"It could be mine too, if you let me, and you know you don't have to be alone."

I don't know what to say to that. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would mean to let him in. To believe that someone—anyone—could pull me out of this. But I've been here for too long. I know how this story ends.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I look at him one last time, trying to find a reason to believe he's different. That he's not like the others. But hope feels like a dangerous thing to hold onto.

Behind me, the city lights flicker. It's beautiful, almost haunting, and for a moment, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to be free.

I appreciate your willingness to help me," I say, breaking the silence. "But we don't know each other." My voice is even, a challenge wrapped in velvet. 

"Fair point," he admits. "I know nothing about you beyond the fact that you're a smart woman who doesn't give a fuck about my wealth, or my reputation." 

"I give a fuck about your appearance," I say, my voice dripping into something sulkier as my resolve weakening. 

I stroll toward him, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug beneath me. I close the distance between us. His gaze flickers for a moment to the curve of my hip before snapping back to my face.

I tiptoe, leaning into his ear, "I could say that you're refreshing in this whore world." I take a step back, studying his reaction. "And who doesn't want a refreshing, beautiful thing?"

The room feels smaller now, the space between us charged. I lean in, my lips hovering just a bit of his, testing him, watching for any sign that he'll pull away. The moment stretches, an unspoken game between us. His lips part subtly as if inviting me.

"I wonder how you taste," I say, my voice barely a whisper as I let my tongue trace a slow, sensual line along his lower lip. 

He inhales sharply, and he grips my chin—tight enough to betray the control he's trying so hard to maintain. His thumb brushed over my bottom lip slowly. It's as if he's trying to decide whether to give in or keep playing this dangerous game.

"What if you have one night with me, and leave. Just like the other men did."

I'm tired of all of this game. I need him to distract me, to use me. He stands there, watching me with an intensity that feels like it could burn through steel.

"Is it a yes, or no?" I ask, tilting my head slightly, watching him with an amused expression. 

Then he nods slowly, his eyes sharp as it burns into me. "Fucking yes."

Without a word, I reach for his belt, my fingers brushing the cool metal as I glance at him for permission. His hand covers mine.

"Are you always this direct?" 

I let out a chuckle and shook my head. "No."

His fingers trace the line of my jaw. "Them what makes tonight different?" 

"Because it's you." 

The honesty in my voice surprises even me, and I see the way his expression changes. His eyes darken, his breath hitching for a brief second.

And in that moment, I know I've won.

My fingers fumble slightly as I unfasten the belt around his waist, the soft click of the buckle breaking the heavy silence in the room. The black leather slides easily through the loops, and I let it drop onto the floor. I lift my gaze to him, and there he is—still watching me with that steady, unreadable expression. 

He is the kind of man women trip over themselves for, the kind of man who knows how to command a room without uttering a single word. And yet, here I am, standing in front of him, my hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, feeling… underwhelmed.

I undo the first button, then the second, letting the fabric part to reveal the smooth, toned expanse of his chest. His skin is warm under my fingertips, his body impossibly firm. Like a sculpted man straight out of some forbidden fantasy. But as I continue down the line, something in me falters. 

Why am I the one always making the first move? 

I pause briefly, swallowing against the irritation bubbling up in my chest. I push it down, willing myself to stay composed, to finish what I started. But by the time I undo the last button and his shirt falls open completely, my enthusiasm has all but evaporated.

I exhale slowly, the sound almost too loud in the stillness of the room. My shoulders sag slightly as I take a step back, my hands falling to my sides. "My mood," I murmur, more to myself than to him, "it's completely gone." 

His brows knit together, panic flickers across his face as his hands quickly find my waist, pulling me flush against him. "Not happening." He finally presses his lips into mine in a hungry, searing kiss. And it deepens as he hears my subtle moan. 

He walks me backwards until my legs hit the bed, sitting me down on it without breaking the kiss. He slowly lowers himself on top of me, his weight supported by his elbows. He breaks the kiss, panting heavily, and I realize his ragged breath is music to my ears. "Is this helping your mood?" He captures my lips again, his hands roaming over my back to unclasp my bra. I can't help but smirk against his mouth. 

I get what I want.