I Chained the Wrong Billionaire

The blood clot in my brain was pressing against a nerve.

The doctors called it a severe cognitive distortion.

A glitch in my reality.

Which is how I ended up mistaking the most ruthless, cold-blooded billionaire in New York for my sweet, long-dead first love.

And why I kept him chained to a wall in my basement.

For ninety days.

The basement lightbulb had been dead for three days.

I crouched in the damp corner, using the pale glow of my phone screen to stir the pot of warm porridge. The heavy clink of iron chains echoed from the shadows behind me.

I picked up the bowl, turned around, and let a soft, warm smile spread across my face.

"Danny, I put dates and honey in the porridge today. Try some."

The man leaned against the concrete wall. His white button-down shirt was so filthy the original color was entirely gone, the collar torn, a thin line of dried blood tracing his collarbone.

He lifted his head.

Even in this state of ruin, his features possessed a terrifying, sharp-edged beauty. High cheekbones, a harsh brow, thin lips pressed into a tight, humorless line.

I held the spoon to his lips.

He jerked his head away.

"Isla Maxwell."

His voice was incredibly raspy, the sound of a throat that hadn't seen water in days. "Do you have any earthly idea what you are doing?"

I tilted my head, genuinely confused. "I'm feeding you, Danny."

His Adam's apple bobbed heavily. He gripped the solid gold chain around his wrist, making the links groan.

"I am not your fucking Danny."

"I'm Beckett."

"Beckett West."

I set the bowl down, reaching out to stroke his tangled dark hair. When my fingertips brushed the dried blood near his temple, my chest tightened with ache.

"Danny, you hurt yourself again," I whispered. "How many times have I told you? Don't fight the chains. You'll only hurt yourself."

He suddenly grabbed my wrist. His grip was so tight my bones practically clicked.

"Isla, are you deaf?" he snarled, his eyes burning. "I said, I am not that dead man of yours!"

The pain in my wrist flared, but I didn't pull away. Instead, I leaned closer, gently cupping his jaw with my free hand.

"Danny, do you have a fever? You're talking nonsense again."

His pupils contracted violently.

In that split second, I watched his expression morph from pure rage into something far more complexsomething dark and unreadable.

He slowly let go of my wrist.

He leaned his head back against the cold, damp concrete, letting out a low, humorless laugh.

"Fine."

His voice was a gravelly whisper. "Fine, Isla. Pray I never get out of here. Because when I do, I will show you what living hell feels like."

I didn't understand the venom in his words. I only thought he was having another one of his bad days.

I picked the bowl back up, blew on the steaming porridge, and held it to his lips again. "If you won't eat, at least have some water. Your voice is so hoarse."

He closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell in ragged, heavy breaths.

Finally, he opened his mouth.

A rush of joy flooded me as I slipped the spoon in. I watched his throat move as he swallowed, a strange warmth blooming in my chest.

"Danny," I whispered. "It's so good to have you back."

He stopped chewing.

He opened his eyes, those pitch-black depths reflecting my smiling face.

I had no idea. No idea that the "Danny" I was clinging to had been buried in a cemetery for two years.

And I had no idea that the man I had chained to my basement floor was the most feared figure in the city.

Beckett West.

The sole heir to the West empire.

He had taken over his family's multinational conglomerate at twenty-four, quickly gaining a reputation for being ruthless and calculating. Three years ago, a rival had crossed him; by the next morning, all seven of the man's companies were bankrupt, his family ruined and forced into exile.

In our social circles, there was only one golden rule:

Never, under any circumstances, cross Beckett West.

But my broken mind knew none of this.

My world held only a ghost. And this man who looked just like him.

I set the empty bowl aside, pulled a clean, damp towel from my bag, and gently began to wipe the grime from his face.

He didn't move.

He just stared at me, his gaze so heavy and loaded with shifting emotions that I couldn't begin to untangle them.

"Danny, I'll bring you a thicker blanket tomorrow. This one is too thin." I brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Are you cold? Do you want me to hold you tonight?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Isla Maxwell," he muttered, his voice dangerously soft. "You better pray I stay in these chains forever."

Day thirty-seven.

I noticed Beckett had stopped screaming at me.

Before, he would spit out "I'm going to kill you" at least ten times a day. Now, he simply watched me enter in silence, ate the porridge I fed him in silence, and let me rest my head against his shoulder in silence.

I thought he was finally adjusting.

Giddy with relief, I brewed him a warm pot of pear and honey tea.

"You're so good today, Danny." I crouched before him, my fingers lightly tracing the sharp line of his brow.

He didn't flinch away.

"Are you still mad at me?"

He looked down at me. His lips were chapped, but they curved into a slight, mocking tilt.

The smile sent a brief, icy shiver down my spine.

But a second later, the warped wiring in my brain smoothed it over. The uneasiness faded, replaced by a rush of affection. He smiled. He finally smiled at me.

"Isla."

It was the first time he had ever spoken my name.

I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs, erratic and wild.

"What did you call me?"

"Isla," he repeated. His voice was low, the final syllable lingering in the air like a caress.

Tears spilled over my lashes instantly. I threw myself into his arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

"Danny... you finally said it. You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you call my name."

His body went rigid for a heartbeat.

Then, slowly, his hand rose and settled on the back of my head. He stroked my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, rhythmic.

I cried harder, completely blind to the fact that his other hand, draped at his side, was stealthily feeling for the phone in my coat pocket.

That night, I fell asleep wrapped in his arms. I pressed my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Danny, I'm so scared you'll leave me again."

He didn't answer. He only tightened his grip around me.

He held me so tightly it was almost hard to breathe, but to my fractured mind, it felt like absolute safety.

Day forty-two.

I was washing his hair when he suddenly spoke.

"Isla, these chains are too tight. Can you loosen them?"

I hesitated. I looked down at his wrists, raw and bruised where the gold cuffs had rubbed against his skin, and my heart squeezed with pity.

"Okay. I'll get you a longer chain."

I turned to rumble through my toolbox.

For those few seconds, my back turned to him, the basement was suffocatingly quiet.

When I turned back, he was in the exact same position, leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, that faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips.

"You're so good to me, Isla."

I smiled back and swapped the chains. The new one gave him an extra two feet of movement.

He stood up, stretching his stiff joints. His bones popped in the quiet room.

Standing at his full height, he towered over me by a head. His shoulders were broad, his waist lean. Even though he had lost weight during his captivity, his frame still carried an imposing, dangerous weight.

He looked down at me.

"Isla, come here."

I stepped forward obediently.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingered on my temple, applying a fraction of pressure.

"Does it still hurt here?"

I shook my head. "Not anymore. As long as you're here, nothing hurts."

His thumb kept pressing gently against my temple.

"Isla," he whispered. "When you're better, we'll go outside. Together. Okay?"

I nodded eagerly.

I had no idea that his version of "better" meant something entirely different.

Day fifty-eight.

The headaches began.

It wasn't a dull ache; it was a blinding, drilling agony that seemed to claw its way out from the deepest recesses of my skull. It hit me so hard I collapsed onto the floor, curling into a ball, my fingernails digging into my palms.

"Isla?"

His voice drifted down from above.

The gold chains rattled violently as he moved to the absolute limit of his leash. He was still two paces away from me.

"Isla, what's wrong?"

The pain was too intense for words. I could only shake my head as my vision fractured.

The warm, blurry memories in my mind were beginning to splinter.

I saw a face.

A gentle face. Round wire-rimmed glasses, a soft, permanent smile.

That was Danny.

I reached my hand out, trying to grab the person in front of me.

But my eyes were playing tricks. The face before me kept shiftingone moment soft and kind, the next cold and razor-sharp. Two entirely different men, overlapping, tearing apart, and fusing back together.

"Isla!"

His voice turned sharp, urgent.

The metal chain groaned as he strained against it. I felt a strong hand clamp onto my shoulder, dragging me toward him.

I tumbled into his lap. The solid thud of his heartbeat vibrated through his thin shirt.

"Don't fear," he murmured, his voice incredibly low.

I clutched at his shirt, my entire body trembling from the pain.

"Danny, my head... it hurts so bad..."

"I know."

His palm cupped the back of my head. His skin was cool, but it offered a strange, grounding relief.

"It'll pass soon."

There was a strange tone in his voice when he said those words. It didn't sound like comfort.

It sounded like a promise.

After that day, the headaches grew more frequent. And with each episode, the fog in my mind cleared a little more.

Real memories began to piece themselves back together.

My first love was Daniel.

He wore round glasses. He had a gentle laugh.

And he had died instantly in a car crash two years ago.

I had been so consumed by grief, compounded by a head injury from the same accident, that my mind had fractured. I had spent two years looking at strangers and seeing his ghost.

But...

I stared at the man sitting in front of me.

Sharp brow, deep-set dark eyes, thin, cruel lips. There wasn't a single soft line on his face.

He looked absolutely nothing like Daniel.

How on earth had I confused the two?

Day sixty-three.

Another headache tore through me.

When the pain finally subsided, I looked at his face and felt a cold wash of unfamiliarity.

"Danny?"

He looked up. "Yeah?"

I stared at him for a long time.

A voice in my head whispered: No, he isn't. He isn't Daniel.

But another, louder voice... Yes, he is. He has to be.

I shook my head, trying to quiet the noise, and stepped forward to feed him his porridge.

He ate quietly.

When the bowl was empty, he suddenly grabbed my hand, still holding the spoon.

"Isla."

He locked eyes with me. "Are you starting to remember?"

I froze. "No."

He kept staring, his dark eyes drilling into mine with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Remember this, Isla," he said, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. "No matter what you remember, don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

His smile was beautiful.

But it didn't feel comforting.

It felt like a predator watching his prey wander straight into the trap.

Day eighty-nine.

3:00 AM.

I woke up shivering, drenched in cold sweat from a nightmare.

The fog in my head was gone. The puzzle was complete.

My memories came rushing back like a broken dam.

Daniel's funeral.

The pouring rain as I collapsed against his gravestone, screaming until my throat bled.

The hospital room, where the doctor explained that the old trauma to my temporal lobe, triggered by severe emotional shock, had caused a profound delusion.

And then...

I remembered three months ago.

I had spotted a man on the street.

Tall, dark hair, an imposing silhouette.

My broken brain had misfired, screaming: It's him. Danny didn't die. He's back.

I had used my family's resources to drug him and drag him down into my basement.

I had chained him.

And for ninety days, I had treated the most dangerous billionaire in the country like a captured pet.

I sat up abruptly.

I turned my head.

The pale moonlight filtered through the single high window of the basement.

He was sleeping right beside me on the mattress.

His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. The gold chain around his wrist gleamed coldly in the dim light.

I looked at his face. Really looked at it.

There was no resemblance to Daniel. None.

High cheekbones, shadowed eyes, a faint, thin scar cutting through the tail of his left brow.

This was Beckett West.

Beckett West.

The man rumored to make his enemies vanish overnight.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

My hands and feet went completely numb, and my teeth began to chatter.

For three months, I had fed this man. I had washed his hair. I had wiped down his skin.

I had slept in his arms.

I had called him Danny.

And when he had threatened to tear my life apart, I had simply leaned down and kissed his forehead.