Chained to his desire
- Genre: Billionaire/CEO
- Author: Ibanye Ash
- Chapters: 110
- Status: Ongoing
- Age Rating: 18+
- 👁 29
- ⭐ 7.5
- 💬 124
Annotation
She signed a contract as a last-ditch effort to save her father. In the name of salvation, he gave her chains. Elena Roberts, a broke writer, ends up married to a ruthless billionaire tycoon, Damian Cruz, whose empire is as icy as his luxury apartment's marble floors and his options in life, after agreeing to settle her father's drowning debt. She is to belong to him for one whole miserable year. A year of domination, rules, and temptation. Ultimately, the truth is he is more than the tabloid beast he is painted to be. Underneath his coarse veneer dwells a controlling tyrant who has been fooled—until Elena shatters all of those notions. Elena must perform the dance of a maddeningly unpredictable man who has not just her freedom but also her love at his mercy while being the receiver of his macabre obedience-based ways (to the expansive extent of some being loving) if she can navigate her oscillation of being petulantly annoyed but drawn to him. The question is, will both be ruined in their aberrant state of union, or will they be indefinitely bound?
Chapter 1:Chapter One: Debt Chains
New York's night air was thick with rain, the kind that clung to windows and made the city's glittering skyline hazy. Elena Roberts sat bent over her laptop, gazing at the rejection email blazing on her screen from the small flat above a laundromat. An additional publisher. One more courteous rejection.
'We appreciate your contribution. Regretfully, your manuscript does not meet our requirements at this time. We hope your future activities are filled with success.'
It was as if the words were a death sentence. Since the age of twelve, Elena had been writing, sketching stories in the margins of school notebooks, hoping to one day see her name on t book. She had worked part-time jobs to pay for her laptop, majored in English literature, and devoted numerous evenings to writing what she thought would be her breakthrough book.
The awareness that the dream she had been pursuing since college seemed to be slipping farther away every day caused her stomach to tighten, not because she was hungry even though the cupboard was almost empty. Writing was meant to be her liberation and escape. She was twenty-five years old, broke, and bound to a life that seemed as little as her own breath.
Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she massaged her eyes and pressed her palms into her sockets. When she looked again, the screen became blurry. With a sigh, she closed the laptop, her image momentarily apparent on the blacked-out screen. Hazel eyes, pale skin, and dark locks in an untidy bun. She appeared older than she actually was, exhausted from nights spent trying to keep a dream alive that seemed determined to die and days spent balancing expenditures.
The apartment was oppressive. The kitchen is only large enough for one person, and there are two bedrooms and one bathroom. Because of how thin the walls were, she could hear Mrs. Chen next door watching her nighttime soap operas at an excessively high volume. Uneven heat from the radiator's clanking and hissing caused some areas to freeze while others sweltered.
She had not anticipated this as the course of her life. She had been confident in herself since graduating from college, believing that her talent and willpower would suffice. She had precisely three months' worth of savings when she went to New York, and her confidence had diminished with every rejection letter she received.
Elena?
From the small corridor came her father's sleepy voice. With his shirt wrinkled from yet another restless night, Richard Roberts stumbled into the living room, his thinning hair pressed to his forehead. He appeared to be the specter of the man who had once prepared her heart-shaped pancakes and read her bedtime tales of valor and kingdoms.
At first, the change had been so gradual that she had hardly noticed. When Elena was fifteen years old, her mother passed away, and her father began placing tiny wagers. He had told her it was nothing major. Just a few bucks for football games, and perhaps a lottery ticket. Something to add excitement to life and divert attention from the grief that had descended like dust on their home.
However, little wagers grew into larger ones. In basement chambers that reeked of desperation and cigarette smoke, football games evolved into horse races and then into card games. Richard had persuaded himself that he was unique, fortunate, and intelligent enough to overcome the odds. Each defeat was merely a brief setback. Each little victory was evidence that the big one was on the horizon.
Elena had made an attempt to stop him. She had canceled bank accounts, concealed credit cards, begged, argued, and wept. Nothing was successful. Her father was no longer merely a gambler; it was his identity.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, "Did you—uh—check the mail?"
Elena knew what was in store for them without having to check the mail: yet another demand, notice, and reminder that their lives were drowning in red ink. On the kitchen counter, the pile of overdue bills had gotten so high that it almost fell over. Credit cards, rent, water, and electricity were all past due, accruing interest and late fines that increased every day.
She had attempted to assist. She worked three part-time jobs, including data entry for a marketing company, teaching high school students, and waitressing at a diner, but her pay hardly covered food. As soon as they arrived, her father's disability cheques vanished, being used to fund fantasy sports leagues and internet gambling sites.
She said, Dad, with caution, how much is it this time?
He averted his gaze. A little matter. A few thousand, that's all.
Her heart fell. A few thousand? We don't possess many hundred.
Elena got up so fast that her chair brushed the floor. This conversation had been going on for months as she struggled to keep them afloat while seeing her father get deeper into debt. However, he had a different posture tonight. In some way, he appeared smaller and more frail, like a man who had finally descended into a very deep pit.
Before he spoke, his stillness told her the truth. This time, it's not only the bank. It's... another person.
Her chest was pierced by the words. Another person was referring to males who failed to send courteous reminders. In the kinds of places her father had been going to, it meant names whispered with fear. It meant bloodshed, shattered bones, and those who vanished during the night.
Elena had grown up reading news articles about gambling debts that resulted in tragedy and seeing movies about loan sharks. Although she had never thought those stories would infiltrate her own life, she found herself in the midst of one.
As though charm could repair damage, her father attempted to grin. Don't be concerned. I'm in control of it.
Elena, however, was no longer a child and was aware of her father's deceit. It was confirmed by the look of shame on his face. The tremor in his hands as he combed through his hair. The heavy bags beneath his eyes were a testament to the many sleepless hours he spent gazing up at the ceiling and figuring out unsolvable problems.
Who is it, Dad? she demanded in a quiet, fearful voice.
She had to know. Had to realize just how horrible this was. She was already doing calculations in her mind. Is it possible for them to sell the vehicle? It was only worth a thousand dollars and was fifteen years old. Would they be able to find a less expensive place if they broke the lease? But there was nothing in Queens that was less expensive than a two-bedroom apartment above a laundry.
The knock sounded before he could respond. heavy. Firm. final.
Elena stopped. Richard's lips parted as if he wanted to warn her not to open it, but he remained silent. Their little flat echoed like a judge's gavel as the knock returned, this time more forceful.
She got up, her pulse blaring in her ears as she took weighted steps toward the door. She could see two dark-suited people standing in the fluorescent-lit hallway through the peephole. They didn't have the appearance of debt collectors. They appeared to be considerably worse.
Slowly, she opened it.
In the corridor stood a pair of men dressed in black suits. Don't introduce yourself. Don't be nice. The taller one had eyes that had seen too much and hair that was steel-gray. The shorter one was younger, wider, and had hands that seemed capable of crushing bone with ease. Both were dressed in pricey clothes that didn't look appropriate in the dim hallway of her building.
Just the clear conveying of a message: Mr. Cross asks that you come. Tonight.
Elena felt a knot in her stomach. Although she had never heard the name called out before, she had seen it flash over financial networks and read it in news pieces. Cross, Damian. billionaire. Titan. brutal. He was the type of man who purchased and sold businesses in the same manner as regular people buy groceries. The sort of man who was said to desire the other half of Manhattan and who possessed half of it.
He was now their creditor.
The knowledge was a shock to her. Her father had not just taken out a loan from a local bookmaker. Somehow, he had become involved with one of New York's most influential individuals. His level of ignorance was astounding.
The males didn't hold off till she answered. One reached for the stairway with a gloved hand.
This way.
With a look of panic on his face, her father stepped forward. This is not related to her. Instead, take me
Sharp and uncompromising, the taller of the two guys turned to face Richard. Excuses don't appeal to Mr. Cross. He called out for her. She. Not him. It was not the man who had really accrued the debt. She. Elena's thinking was slow with worry as she attempted to digest this knowledge. Why particularly would Damian Cross want to see her? What could she possible provide something her father was unable to provide?
Unless...
Elena's chest grew constricted. Her instinct told her that screaming would only make her appear smaller in their eyes, but she still wanted to scream and demand to know why a man like Damian Cross would call her. These men were as still as wolves. They were accustomed to obedience, dread, and people who followed instructions without question.
She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and moved ahead. "I'll go."
Her father's hand shook when he took her wrist. Elena, no!
His fingers pressed desperately and coldly across her flesh. She could see the fear in his eyes and feel the slight quiver in his hands. She hesitated for a second. Her father was this. The man who had taught her how to ride a bike and read her self-rescuing princess bedtime stories. What had brought them to this place?
Whispering, I have to," she said. If I don't, it'll only get worse.
Gently, she peeled his fingers off. More than the debt, his eyes shone with a sense of powerlessness that crushed her heart. She had never seen him seem so completely dejected, even though he had always had flaws gambling, poor investments, and blind confidence in schemes that promised quick returns.
Knowing that this was only the beginning was the worst part. People weren't called in for nice chats by men like Damian Cross. They called them to send messages, collect debts, and show what happens when you cross someone with unrestricted resources and authority.
They went down the tiny stairs, the men on either side of her. The sound of their shoes clicking hard on the concrete steps reverberated throughout the small room. The fragrance of damp clothes and detergent permeated the dark laundromat below. The street where she had grown up appeared suddenly alien and far away through the windows.
A black automobile, sleek and shining in the rain, waited outside. Too costly, too ideal for their area, it looked like something out of a movie. A few neighbors had gathered behind windows and on stoops to observe with unabashed interest. Elena pondered whether they believed she was being taken into custody.
The door was opened for her by one of the men. Elena paused and took one look back. Her father was a lone figure behind broken glass, framed in the upstairs window. She nearly turned around when she saw him there, little and broken.
Keeping herself from collapsing, she raised her chin. The leather of the automobile felt cold against her thighs as she slid inside.
Her fate was sealed as the door closed with a faint thud.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two: The Master of Cold
Chapter Two: The Master of Cold
There was silence on the road. Neon bled into the darkness as the city dissolved beyond the rain-streaked windows. With her eyes wide and her lips pulled into a harsh line, Elena's reflection gazed back at her. To conceal the shaking in her hands, she clasped them in her lap.
Questions raced through her head. Why me? Why not my dad? What is Damian Cross looking for in me?
The men did not respond. As if she were invisible, they sat motionless as statues, staring straight ahead. Any chance of speaking to the driver was eliminated when the partition between the front and rear seats was erected. There was silence even on the radio.
Elena made an effort to get ready for the situation. She knew Damian Cross's reputation since she had read enough about him. When it came to business, he was clever, merciless, and totally unforgiving. He had acquired failing busi
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