[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl Chapter 4: Victory

There was a split second, just one, where I felt victorious.

Like I’d done sothing. Like I’d made a dent in his perfect life. Lila had said I lacked drive, danger and so on but I just punched the guy she left for. If that wasn’t drive or the reckless edge she was looking for I don’t know what is.

I just made her eat her words.

However, that split second ended when he straightened, rubbed his jaw once, and looked down at the cigar now lying sadly on the ground like a fallen soldier.

Then he looked at .

No expression. No pain. No real reaction at all.

Just a look.

One that sent a cold jolt down my spine.

He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out another cigar like the one I’d knocked away ant nothing, and lit it with calm, practiced hands.

Like I hadn’t just punched him in the face.

Like I didn’t even exist.

"You reek of desperation," he said, exhaling smoke through his nose like a damn dragon. "Is this the part where you cry on my shoes?"

My jaw clenched.

"You don’t deserve her," I snapped, taking a shaky step forward, half-sure I was going to fall. "You think just because you’ve got the face and the money and the, the aura or whatever, you get to treat people like trash?"

"I didn’t take anything," he replied coolly. "I don’t know who you’re talking about but if she ca to , then she did. Willingly. Happily. Loudly, if I rember right." The sa infuriating smirk returned with the last sentence before exhaling smoke like a goddamn exhaust pipe.

Oh.

Oh, fuck him.

"That’s not, she was mine!" I shouted, my voice bouncing off the alley walls. "We were happy! She was supposed to be, I was going to propose, you asshole!"

"And now you’re here," he said, lips curling into an infuriating smirk. "Drunk. Sloppy. Crying about a girl who left you for a better option."

Better. Better?

My hands curled into fists.

"I’m not crying."

"No," he said, eyes flicking down at like I was chewed gum under his shoe. "You’re embarrassing yourself."

I didn’t think.

I just swung again.

But this ti, he caught .

Mid-air.

His hand wrapped around my wrist like a steel cuff, tight and unrelenting. I tried to pull back, but he didn’t budge.

He didn’t even flinch.

His grip tightened just a little, enough to make my chest heave. Enough to remind I was in way over my head.

And he stepped closer.

Not rushed. Not angry. Just slow. asured. Like a man fully aware of how much he scared people.

"Try that again," he said, voice low and sharp, "and I’ll break more than your pride."

His breath slled like smoke and spice and sothing expensive I couldn’t na. His face was so close now I could see the flecks of blue in his eyes.

It should’ve scared . It should’ve made run. But all I could think was, God, he really was prettier up close. And that pissed off even more.

"Let go," I snapped.

His grip didn’t loosen. Not even a little.

"I said, let go. You piece of shit."

He didn’t respond. He just looked at , that sa bored, sharp gaze, and then turned on his heel.

And dragged with him.

Literally.

I stumbled after him like so damn handbag, trying to yank my wrist free, but his hand was ironclad. People stared as we re-entered the club, eyes flicking over us as the music swallowed us whole again. I could feel the bass pounding in my ribs, but it was nothing compared to how loud my heartbeat had gotten.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed, half-walking, half-tripping behind him.

He didn’t even glance back.

Up the stairs we went. Past the velvet ropes. Past the crowd. Past a bouncer who gave him a nod and a quiet "Mr. Wolfe." Oh.

Oh no.

Of course he had a na like that.

And of course the VIP area had leather couches and moody lighting and air that slled like wealth and exclusivity.

At the top of the stairs, he slowed. There was a woman waiting, the sa one he’d been talking to earlier. Beautiful. Dressed in a silk dress that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. She gave him a coy smile and handed him a keycard.

Her eyes flicked to . Then lingered.

Her smile wavered into sothing curious. Then a smirk. Like she’d just realized sothing. Like she knew.

I imdiately looked away, face burning.

Soone shoot . Please.

The bastard didn’t say anything to her. He just took the card and resud walking. Dragging behind like a misbehaving pet.

We stopped at a sleek black door at the end of the hallway. He swiped the keycard, pushed it open, then finally let go of my wrist just long enough to shove inside.

I stumbled in. The door clicked shut behind .

Locked.

My heart dropped. Was I about to be murdered? Abused? Was I about to be the headline of the news tomorrow. ’Useless man found dead on the street by a nightclub.’ No. No.

The room was dim, glowing with soft, ambient light and the low hum of bass still muffled through the walls. Luxurious. Intimate. Too intimate.

I spun around.

He was standing by the door, fingers still on the lock, cigar back in hand. That smile on his face, cruel, quiet, confident. Like a cat who’d just trapped sothing small and wounded in a box.

My stomach twisted.

"What the hell is this?" I snapped, backing up a step.

Mr. Handso exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like this was all so twisted joke.

"You wanted my attention," he said smoothly. "Now you have it."

"What are you gonna do to ?" I asked, voice thin, heart hamring.

He smiled.

That slow, devilish, unholy smile. The kind of smile that made you feel like sin was breathing down your neck.

"Well," he said, stepping away from the door, his tone almost playful, "that depends on what you’re hungry for."

My whole body tensed.

He was coming closer, smoke curling from his lips, steps lazy and confident, like he already knew how this would end.