The Billionaire's Silent Obsession
Anastasia woke up to the quiet hum of the city.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
The sheets beneath her were silk-soft yet cold, the air around her tinged with the faint scent of expensive cologne—dark, woodsy, laced with something uniquely him.
And then it hit her.
She was married.
To Leonidas Kosta.
The weight of the reality pressed down on her as she sat up, fingers tightening against the sheets. The penthouse was eerily silent, save for the muffled hum of distant traffic.
Had he even come to bed?
Or had he spent the night in his own world, untouched by this arrangement, untouched by her?
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
It shouldn't matter.
This was a contract.
Nothing more.
And yet… something in her chest twisted at the thought of how little she meant to him.
She made her way downstairs, the long silk robe brushing against her legs.
The penthouse looked even colder in the daylight, the sharp lines of glass and steel reflecting the gray morning sky.
No warmth. No softness.
Just like its owner.
And then she saw him.
Leonidas sat at the dining table, dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a dark tie loosened at his throat. A cup of black coffee rested in front of him, the steam curling upward.
His dark eyes flicked to her immediately, unreadable, assessing.
For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
The tension between them was different now.
Sharper. Tighter.
His gaze swept over her—slow, deliberate, a silent possession.
Something in his expression shifted—just barely—but she caught it.
Something that wasn't indifference.
And then it was gone, his face turning back into stone.
---
"You're awake." His voice was smooth, deep, yet strangely careful.
She nodded, hesitating. "I… wasn't sure if I should come down."
His brow lifted slightly. "Why wouldn't you?"
Because this isn't a real marriage.
Because you don't want me here.
Because you told me not to fall in love with you.
She swallowed those thoughts down, forcing herself to stand straighter. "I didn't know the rules."
A flicker of something—amusement? Annoyance?—crossed his face.
Then, he leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping against the rim of his coffee cup. "There are no rules about breakfast, Anastasia."
She didn't know why hearing her name from his lips made her stomach tighten.
Or why the way he said it made her feel… unsteady.
She moved carefully, settling into the chair across from him.
The space between them felt too small.
And he knew it.
She could tell by the way his lips curved slightly, as if he was enjoying her discomfort.
She reached for the teapot, but just as her fingers brushed the handle—
He moved.
A flash of motion, a shift in the air—
And suddenly, his hand covered hers.
A jolt shot through her, her breath catching as her gaze snapped up.
His skin was warm.
Too warm.
His fingers were long, strong, capable of both destruction and control, yet his touch was… careful.
Deliberate.
Their eyes locked.
The world seemed to slow, the tension stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.
She should pull away.
She should say something.
But she didn't.
Couldn't.
Because for the first time, she felt something real.
A spark.
A shift in the air between them.
A moment where she wasn't just his contract wife—but a woman.
And then—
He let go.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn't just set fire to the space between them.
---
"Be careful." His voice was too calm, as if masking something beneath the surface.
Her pulse hammered. "I—what?"
His gaze dipped to her hands. "The teapot. It's hot."
She blinked, realizing that her fingers were still resting on the ceramic. A second later, the warmth registered—not unbearable, but enough to sting.
He had stopped her from burning herself.
Her chest tightened at the absurdity of it.
This man—this cold, unreadable tycoon who claimed not to care—had reacted before she even noticed the danger.
She should thank him.
She should say something.
But he had already looked away, as if the moment had never happened.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because now she knew—
Leonidas Kosta wasn't as indifferent as he pretended to be.
Breakfast passed in a haze.
She barely tasted the food, barely registered the way his fingers tapped against the table, the way his presence filled every inch of space even when he wasn't speaking.
By the time she pushed her plate away, she felt restless.
She needed air.
Escape.
Something to calm the fire in her chest.
"I think I'll go out today," she said suddenly, standing.
Leonidas, who had been reviewing something on his phone, barely glanced up. "Where?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. Just… out."
His fingers stilled.
The air shifted.
His dark eyes lifted slowly—too slow, too controlled.
And then, with quiet finality, he said—
"No."
The word slammed into her like a wall.
Her heart skipped. "What?"
"You're not going anywhere."
She stared at him, confusion flickering into something else. Something hotter.
"I didn't realize I needed permission," she said before she could stop herself.
A dangerous silence.
Then, he set his phone down and leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, gaze locking onto hers.
"You don't," he said smoothly. "But you are my wife now, Anastasia. And that means I decide what's safe for you."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. "Safe?"
He didn't blink.
"Do you think a last-minute marriage to me has gone unnoticed?" His voice was calm, too calm. "People are watching. Competitors. Enemies."
A pause.
"Your family."
Her stomach twisted.
She hadn't thought about that.
Hadn't considered that her marriage to him wasn't just a contract—it was a statement. A shift in power.
And power always came with danger.
She swallowed, something uncomfortable settling in her chest.
He wasn't just stopping her from leaving.
He was protecting her.
From what, she didn't know.
But she did know this—
Leonidas Kosta didn't let go of what belonged to him.
And now, that included her.