Bound by the Billionaire's Terms

Sophia's POV

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"Why can't anything just go right for once?" I muttered under my breath, trying not to crush the crumpled warning letter from the bank in my hands. My stomach churned as I read it again. Another overdue payment notice. One more slip, and the gallery-my father's dream, my dream-would be gone.

I shoved the letter into my bag and forced a smile onto my face. The gallery was buzzing with Manhattan's elite tonight, sipping champagne and pretending to understand art. Soft jazz hummed in the background, and the golden lights bathed the room in warmth. To anyone else, it looked like a perfect evening. But I could barely breathe under the weight of my nerves.

"Ms. Hart, your collection tonight is absolutely delightful," a middle-aged man in a tailored suit drawled as he strolled past me.

"Thank you, Mr. Harper," I said with as much warmth as I could muster.

"You'll hear from me soon," he added, already walking away, which I know it simply means he was not buying anything tonight.

I swallowed my frustration, my heels clicking softly as I moved toward the next cluster of guests and I keep it together, smile, charm, sell.

But then the energy in the room shifted.

As the hum of conversation became quieted. Heads turned and immediately I followed their gazes to the entrance only for my stomach to sank.

There he was.

Damon Blackwood.

Manhattan's infamous billionaire playboy, known for tearing apart businesses as easily as he signed a check. He strode in like he owned the place-hell, like he owned me. His dark suit fit him perfectly, and his sharp features screamed trouble. Even the way he adjusted his cufflinks felt deliberate, as if he knew the room was hanging on his every move.

"Why is he here?" I wondered to myself, only for me to hear his smooth voice cut through the air as he walked straight towards me.

"Ms. Hart," he said as his gray eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

"Mr. Blackwood," I managed, pasting on a professional smile. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."

"Neither was I," he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But I heard this gallery was worth a visit. Thought I'd see for myself."

His gaze swept over the room, cool and assessing. It wasn't admiration; it was calculation. Like he was already deciding which pieces were worth keeping and which he'd toss.

"Well, I hope you enjoy the exhibit," I said, my voice crisp.

He tilted his head, with that smirk deepening. "I don't usually enjoy unprofitable ventures."

Hearing his words, I blinked, heat rushing to my face. Did he just call my gallery a failure?

Gosh! He is so impossible.

With that, I shot back, my tone sharper than intended.

"Then I'm surprised you bothered to come,"

Damon's eyes sparkled with amusement, as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I like to support causes. Even lost ones."

Lost. Did he just say lost? Heaven knows, I wanted to scream my lungs out and give him a befitting whipping but Instead, I folded my arms and gave him my best icy stare. "Well, your support is always welcome. Of course."

He chuckled, as his voice turned low and infuriating. "I admire your spirit, Ms. Hart. Most people wouldn't dare talk to me like that."

"I'm not most people," I snapped, having a slight frown glamorized on my face and almost to my demeanor.

"No, you're not." His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long before he nodded. "Enjoy your evening."

And just like that, he walked away, leaving me standing there, fuming.

I wish I could give him a piece of my mind but I dated not to as that would ruin my reputation and most likely make me not get any buyers for my art works.

Gosh! I wish I had better options.

However, as the rest of the evening passed in a blur. The conversations, the polite smiles, the empty promises-all of it felt hollow. But for some reasons, I couldn't stop thinking about Damon. From his arrogance to his audacity and importantly the way he seemed to see right through me.

I wish I didn't have to face any of that, honestly. Because I guess it is what it is.

Meanwhile, as the day began turning the dark, the guest began leaving the gallery little by little and my hopes of getting some of the elites to pay for my artwork shattered bit by bit and by the time the last guest left, the gallery was silent. Realizing this, I leaned against the counter, letting out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Hopeless," I muttered, replaying his words in my head. Then, a sudden scoffed echoed out from my mouth as the gallery lights dimmed, the moment I walked through the space, straightening chairs and gathering glasses. Suddenly, my father's voice echoed in my mind, a memory of his relentless optimism.

"This gallery is your legacy, Sophia. You can do this." his voice said but the honest truth or rather questions lingered in my mind.

As I kept questioning myself if I could really do it? Or if Damon was right? Or perhaps was I clinging to something that was already lost?

All of this thoughts weighted in my heart as I kept sighing repeatedly, and soon, the sound of heavy footsteps snapped me out of my thoughts. Which made my heart jumped as I spun around, clutching a stray champagne flute like a weapon.

"Relax, Ms. Hart." the voice said and it sounded familiar, which made me turn back to have a look, only for me to see Damon standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, as his expression turned unreadable.

"What are you still doing here?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended, the instant our gaze met.

With that, he stepped closer as the weight of his presence filled the room. "I thought we should talk. About your gallery."

"What about it?" I snapped.

Then, he stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady. "You need help. And I don't just mean a buyer."

Hearing this, my breath hitched as there was something in his tone-something rather unsettling. "What do you want, Damon?" I inquired, my voice filled with nonchalance as I took a deep breath.

And standing there, increased my heart racing with anticipation and wariness, as Damon's smirk returned, but it was colder this time.

"Let's just say I have a proposal that could change everything," he said, his voice low and measured. "But it's not something I can discuss here."

He glanced around the gallery, his eyes lingering on the artwork and the empty spaces.

"I'll send a car for you soon," he continued. "Be ready."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, feeling like I'd just been punched in the gut.

What did he mean by "a proposal that could change everything"? And why did I get the feeling that I was in way over my head?

As I watched Damon walked out of my gallery, I couldn't shake off the feeling that my life was about to take a drastic turn.