Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 113

Chapter 113

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VENUS

The days crawled by with agonizing precision, each second dragging like it had something to prove. Gerald, in his infinite delusion, thought he’d earned something from me. Maybe respect. Maybe affection. Maybe gratitude. Whatever it was, he called it trust. I called it bait.

After my feigned obedience-the rehearsed smiles, the whispered thank-yous that tasted like ash, the hollow compliance that curled at the edges-he gave me a reward.

He unlocked the cuff.

Not both. Just the one.

My right wrist, finally free, felt almost weightless. I could stretch shift, pace the length of the room in lazy, bitter loops. It was freedom in the cruelest sense: just enough to remind me what I’d lost. The left wrist remained shackled to the bedpost, a constant anchor. A reminder.

The door? Still locked. Always locked. The windows? Sealed with industrial expertise. No latch, no hinge, no give. It was like the room itself had been hermetically sealed, vacuum-packed for captivity. Time didn’t flow here, it stood still, stale and stagnant.

He said it was progress. That he trusted me now.

“Trust.” The word made bile rise in the back of my throat. Trust was a transaction. Trust required choice. And choice had been ripped from me the moment I woke up in this cage.

I explored the space again, this time with the bitter knowledge that nothing had changed. I moved like a ghost, barefoot on cold wood, haunting the same four walls.

The bathroom was still surgical in its sterility. Not a screw loose. Not a hinge I could exploit. The mirror was a sheet of shatterproof plastic, mocking me with its safety. The toiletries were laughable-a single bar of soap and a toothbrush too soft to bruise a peach.

There was no clock. No phone. No buzzing of street traffic. No hum of city life. Just the muffled ticking of my own sanity.

He had planned this with terrifying thoroughness.

Still, I bided my time.

I played the part.

I smiled when he entered. I nodded when he spoke. I laughed-softly, demurely-when he told one of his dull stories about his childhood or his “visions” of our life together. All of it a charade.

And one night, when dinner came-steak, mashed potatoes, peas lined up in perfect rows-I slipped the butter knife into the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It wasn’t sharp. Not truly. But it was metal. It was potential. It was a whisper of rebellion.

He smiled at me like we were lovers sharing a date night, not a prisoner and her captor locked in a warped power game.

“How’s the food tonight?” he asked, voice warm. Inviting.

I smiled back, sweet as arsenic. “Perfect.”

That was the last word I said before I lunged.

I didn’t aim for the kill. Not the heart. Not even the throat. I went for his hand, the one that held the keys, the one that fed

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Chapter 113

me, that touched me like I belonged to him.

But he was ready. Too ready.

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He caught my wrist mid-air with a swiftness that was almost choreographed. The butter knife slipped from my grip. clattering to the floor like a punchline.

“I knew it,” he whispered, voice trembling but not from fear. From something colder. Something deeper. “I knew you were just pretending.”

His grip turned iron, and he dragged me back to the bed.

My scream was raw. Instinctive.

He didn’t scream back. He didn’t hit me. That would be too base Too obvious.

He cuffed me. Both wrists this time. Tight. Brutal. Final.

Then he stepped back. His chest rose and fell like he was trying to control a wildfire inside him.

“You-you just don’t get it, do you?” His voice was feral. “I gave you freedom. I gave you trust. And you spit on it.”

I stayed silent. Frozen. But inside, my pulse was a scream.

He paced. Fast. Wild. Muttering things I couldn’t quite catch: half-thoughts, twisted affirmations.

Then he turned on his heel.

Eyes locked onto mine.

And he came toward me.

Fast.

And I-

I panicked.

My body went cold. My brain snapped into flight. I yanked at the cuffs, my breath breaking into frantic pieces.

“No,” I whispered, barely audible. “Please-don’t-”

And he froze.

It was as if my voice hit him like a brick to the chest.

He stumbled back a step. His hands raised. Palms open.

“No. No, Venus-I would never-”

His voice cracked, and suddenly he looked so small. Like a child who’d broken something precious.

“I’m not like them,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not him. I’d ever hurt you like that. You’ll come to me when you’re ready. You will.”

He sounded like he believed it.

He believed in us.

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He turned and left the room.

Didn’t even lock the door behind him.

Not that it mattered.

I couldn’t move.

Could barely breathe.

And then, I shattered.

The tears came before I could stop them. They burst, hot and silent, down my face and into the pillow.

I cried for the silence.

I cried for the false hope I’d nurtured like a fragile ember.

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I cried because for one awful moment, I thought he was going to do the one thing I feared more than death.

And worse? He didn’t even recognize it as violence.

He thought it was love. He thought it was fate.

I cried until my throat burned and my chest ached. Until there was nothing left in me but dry sobs and the sound of my own breath, rattling like dry leaves.

This cage was still my world.

And the longer I stayed, the more it became the shape of normal.

But those tears weren’t weakness.

They were truth.

Raw. Blistering.

Even in the unraveling, something small began to stitch itself back together.

He thought I was broken.

Maybe I was.

But I wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Then came the ache. Dull at first. Then sharper. Heavier. I shifted, confused. The sheets beneath me felt… wrong. Damp.

My stomach dropped.

No.

Not now.

I glanced down and saw it-faint, but unmistakable.

Blood.

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Chapter 113

I was on my period.

Of course. Of course my body would betray me now, too.

No pads. No tampons. No painkillers. Nothing.

I was bleeding into a mattress with my wrists cuffed to a bedpost

I curled up, ashamed and angry and furious with everything.

When he returned, it was quiet. A soft knock on the frame before he stepped in.

He looked at me-red-eyed, puffy-faced, trembling-and something in him shifted.

He knelt. Not close. Just far enough to look apologetic.

“Venus,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I lost control. But you caused that.”

I flinched.

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“I just want peace between us,” he continued. “You and me. We could be happy. If you’d just… stop fighting this.”

I didn’t answer.

He sighed. “I want to let you go from these cuffs. I do. But you have to show me I can trust you again.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. My voice came out hoarse.

“I’m… on my period.”

That startled him. He blinked.

“Oh.”

He hadn’t thought of that. Of course he hadn’t. He controlled every element of this space but forgot the one thing he couldn’t plan around-biology.

“I’ll go get you some supplies,” he said quickly. “From the city.”

He stood and moved toward the door, fumbling for the keys.

“The city.”

The word rang in my ears.

The city. That meant we weren’t in it.

That meant we were far.

Remote. Removed.

He came back to me and adjusted the cuff’s not loose, but loose Enough that I could stretch a little, breathe a little.

Then he left.

And this time… he locked

the door.

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Chapter 113

But I didn’t care.

Because he said it.

He said city.

And now I knew.

We weren’t near help.

We weren’t anywhere close to rescue.

But at least I had a direction.

And that was something.

That was hope.

And hope was dangerous.

Hope meant I wasn’t done.

Not by a long shot.

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