Bound by His Contract

I never thought I’d walk into a billionaire’s penthouse wearing a $5 thrift-store dress and a cracked phone in my pocket. But desperation has a way of making anything possible. The lobby guard hadn’t even blinked when I gave him my name. Apparently, Damien Blackwood didn’t do small talk. He simply sent down clearance and let the elevator carry me straight to the 54th floor. No security check. No assistant. Just marble floors, eerie silence, and a penthouse that looked like it belonged in an art museum. I stepped inside. No welcome. No butler. The air was cold—emotionless, like the man who lived here. A massive oil painting dominated the far wall. A stormy sea, dark clouds boiling above it. A gold plaque beneath read: "Chaos is the truth." That should’ve been my first clue. Behind me, the elevator hissed shut. And then I heard his voice. Deep. Unbothered. Dangerous. “You’re late.” I turned—and froze. He stood at the window, city lights casting long shadows across his frame. Damien Blackwood. In the flesh. The online articles hadn’t done him justice. Sharp jawline. Crisp, tailored black suit. Gray eyes cold enough to freeze fire. Everything about him said power—and the danger that came with it. “You’re smaller than I expected,” he added, not moving from the window. “That might work in your favor.” I frowned. “Excuse me?” He turned then, slow and deliberate. He didn’t look me up and down like most men would. His eyes didn’t linger on my cheap dress or my nervous hands. They just locked onto mine, calm and unreadable. “Sit.” I didn’t. “I’m not a dog,” I said. His lip curved slightly. Almost amused. Almost. “Good. I don’t like obedient women. They’re too easy to break.” The silence stretched. I crossed my arms. “Why am I here?” He walked to the coffee table, picked up a sleek black folder, and slid it toward me. “$500,000. One year. No s*x. No emotional attachments. Just be my wife in public. That’s it.” I stared at him. Then I laughed. “You’re joking.” “I don’t joke.” “Right.” I shook my head. “And why would you need a fake wife?” He sat, elegant and composed. “My grandfather’s will. His lawyers are archaic. To receive my full inheritance, I need a legal spouse by the end of this month. Appearances must be maintained for at least one calendar year.” “And I’m just…what? Conveniently plucked from a hat?” “You were recommended,” he said. “By who?” He didn’t answer. Of course not. “And if I say no?” He leaned forward. “You won’t.” “Oh really?” He pulled out a paper. Dropped it in front of me. It was a printout. A hospital bill. My stomach dropped. St. Mary’s Medical Center. Patient: Rebecca Brooks. Status: Awaiting heart surgery. Total due: $87,400. “How did you—” “I have resources. Your mother’s condition is worsening. You’ve maxed out your cards, and your job at Bruno’s Café pays you barely enough to cover rent—which, by the way, you haven’t paid in two months.” My cheeks flushed. “You investigated me.” He didn’t blink. “I needed someone with nothing to lose. Someone desperate enough not to ask questions.” “Someone easy to control?” He met my eyes. “Someone who wouldn’t get attached.” The silence throbbed. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But his words clung to my ribs like chains. “You’ll pay for her surgery?” I asked. He nodded. “In full. Today.” “And I just pretend to be your wife?” He opened the folder. Inside was a contract. Twenty pages. Legal jargon. Clause after clause. Half a million dollars. One year. “Do we live together?” “Occasionally. Public appearances will require joint residency at times.” “No s*x?” “Not unless initiated by you. I’m not in the habit of taking what isn’t offered.” I stared at the paper. My fingers trembled. “And after a year?” “We part ways. Amicably. Quietly. You walk away with your money, your mother’s life, and a new identity if needed.” “A new identity?” He poured a drink. “Sometimes, being my ex-wife can attract attention. This is a clean exit plan.” I should’ve said no. He raised an eyebrow. “Time-sensitive,” he said. “The offer expires in ten seconds.” He started counting. “Ten. Nine. Eight…” “Wait!” “Seven.” “Dammit.” I grabbed the pen. My signature came out shaky. Slanted. I’d just sold a year of my life. “Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, clinking his glass. “Your nightmare begins tomorrow.” I opened my mouth to respond—but stopped. A woman stepped out of the hallway. She was beautiful. Striking. Raven hair, red lips, and a slight bump beneath her designer dress. Pregnant. And smiling. “Hello, darling,” she purred, eyes locked on Damien. “Miss me?”