Lyra: the Billionaire's stolen wife

Name: Lyra: the Billionaire's stolen wife
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

A. I. Seren

Romance | Completed

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She was never his to keep. But now two powerful men are willing to burn the world to possess her. When modest and mysterious Lyra Moreau agrees to a contract marriage with ruthless billionaire Darian Blackthorn, she expects cold rules-not desire. But as his obsession tightens, a dangerous stranger appears in the shadows: Rafael De Luca, a seductive mafia king who vows to steal her from the golden cage she's trapped in. Torn between power and passion, control and chaos, Lyra is thrust into a deadly love triangle where secrets fester, danger lingers, and her own heart may be the biggest betrayal of all. In a world of lies, love, and violence-can Lyra choose freedom... without losing everything?

Suspense Modern Love triangle CEO Mafia Contract marriage Arrogant/Dominant Romance Mafia CEO

Chapter 9 The Burning Choice

06-24 10:56

Chapter 1 The Contract Bride

"A signature sealed her fate-not with ink, but with silence."

---

The contract was elegant. Crisp. Uncompromising.

Twelve months. No love. No lies. No loopholes.

And now... no escape.

Lyra Moreau's fingers trembled as she clutched the pen, the weight of the Blackthorn name pressing into her lungs like a stone. Her heart whispered run, but her reality screamed sign.

Her father sat silently beside her, eyes full of the quiet defeat that had brought them here. A billionaire's mercy wasn't free. And Darian Blackthorn's mercy came with conditions that tasted like gold and burned like ash.

She pressed the pen to paper.

Lyra Moreau became Lyra Blackthorn.

Wife. Property. Pawn.

The man across from her didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't bless the union.

Darian Blackthorn's gaze was molten obsidian. Sharp. Possessive. Like he was already undressing her with his eyes-and rebuilding her in the image he preferred.

"Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Blackthorn," he murmured, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.

---

There was no kiss.

No music.

Only an exchange of names and control.

Lyra followed him into the private elevator of his penthouse tower, her heels clicking against imported marble floors that cost more than her father's annual salary. She stood beside him, her heart a hummingbird trapped in a cage, while his towering presence enveloped her like smoke-cold, suffocating, addictive.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't have to.

His dominance seeped from every breath he took.

---

The penthouse was a cathedral of wealth. Walls of black glass. Fireplaces carved from volcanic stone. A dining table long enough to seat ghosts.

And in the center of it all, Darian.

He stood in the dim firelight, pulling off his tailored jacket, rolling up his sleeves with a slow, deliberate precision. His watch gleamed like a shackle of power.

"You'll sleep in the east wing," he said. "I expect you dressed and ready for appearances. No scandal. No late-night disappearances. And for your own safety... no curiosity."

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "Is this a marriage or a hostage situation?"

His lips curled. Not into a smile-into something darker.

"Depends on how well you behave."

Her spine stiffened, but her thighs clenched involuntarily.

God help her.

Why did his threats feel like foreplay?

---

Later that night, Lyra wandered the corridors of his home like a wraith in silk. Every room she passed whispered secrets-his secrets. Locked drawers. Black-and-white photos in broken frames. A woman's perfume faint on a pillow that wasn't hers.

And then-the library.

It smelled like old books and forbidden things.

She slipped inside, curling into a leather chaise near the fireplace, her fingers brushing over the spine of a poetry book. She closed her eyes, letting the words cradle her-until she felt it.

A presence.

Like static in the air. Heat behind her skin.

And then... his voice.

"I didn't take you for someone who reads poetry," Darian said from the shadows.

She startled, clutching the book to her chest. "And I didn't take you for someone who sneaks up on women in the dark."

He stepped into the firelight, his shirt half-unbuttoned, exposing a slice of hard chest and the promise of sin.

"I don't sneak. I stalk."

Her breath caught.

He was too close. Too still.

"I wasn't aware reading was against the rules," she whispered.

He tilted his head. "It's not. But fantasy can be dangerous when you forget who owns your reality."

She rose to face him, inches away now, the fire throwing gold across his face.

"I may be your wife on paper," she said, "but you don't own me."

His eyes darkened. "Oh, Lyra... you have no idea how deeply I do."

Before she could retreat, his fingers slid beneath her chin, tilting her face up.

She gasped-half from shock, half from heat.

His thumb grazed her lower lip. "So soft. So stubborn."

Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

"Don't touch me," she breathed.

But her voice betrayed her.

It wasn't resistance.

It was need.

"I'm not touching you," he said, voice low, dangerous. "I'm reminding you."

"Of what?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek like a sin confessed.

"That I can. Anytime I want."

And just like that, he vanished-leaving the fire and her blood still burning.

---

That night, Lyra lay in a bed that smelled like roses and ruin, one hand between her thighs, trembling, furious at herself as her mind replayed every second of his voice, his breath, his gaze.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

She couldn't breathe without thinking of him.

And somewhere across the city, in the velvet shadows of a speakeasy in Florence, a man with haunted blue eyes and a slow, wicked smile studied a photograph.

A woman in white.

Standing beside a billionaire with a monster's heart.

"She doesn't belong in a cage," Rafael De Luca murmured, swirling whiskey in his glass.

"She belongs to me."