The billionaire revenge marriage

chapter 2:The contract

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I didn’t go home.

I couldn’t. Not with $10,000 in my account and Dr. Ares Callahan’s voice in my ears: _Congratulations, Mrs. Callahan._

So I finished my shift. Mopped the blood out of the supply closet like it was coffee. Like I hadn’t just married a man who operated on mobsters at 3AM.

At 5:58AM, I clocked out. My phone had 14 notifications.

*Deposit: $10,000.00*

*Deposit: $50,000.00*

*Deposit: $100,000.00*

He was buying me in installments.

At 6:00AM sharp, a black SUV waited outside St. Michael’s. The back window rolled down.

Dr. Ares Callahan. No blood now. Charcoal suit. No tie. Two buttons undone. The tattoo on his collarbone showed. He looked like he’d slept for 10 hours. Not like he’d blackmailed a cleaner two hours ago.

“Get in, Mia.”

Not Mrs. Callahan. Mia.

I didn’t move. “I’m not—”

“Rosa’s dialysis is at 8AM. The clinic got a check for her full year. $187,000. It clears if you’re in this car in ten seconds.” He didn’t check his watch. “Nine.”

I got in.

A garment bag lay on the leather seat.

“We’re going to City Hall,” he said as we pulled away. “The paperwork I filed needs your signature. And a photo. My father monitors the courthouse.”

I unzipped the bag. Three white dresses. Silk. Tags on. One high-neck. One backless. One dangerous.

“You bought these at 4AM?”

“I have people for that.” His eyes were grey like a scalpel. “Pick one. Or we do this in scrubs. Your choice, wife.”

Wife.

I grabbed the long-sleeved one. “I need to change.”

“The tint is 90%. Change here.” He faced forward. “We’re on a schedule.”

I changed in the back of a moving SUV while a billionaire mafia surgeon pretended I wasn’t half-naked beside him. The dress fit.

He held out a velvet box without looking at me.

I opened it. Diamond. Solitaire. Heavy. Cold.

“For the the show,” he said. “But it’s real. Worth more than your sister’s life.”

He slid it on my finger. Clinical. No warmth. Same hands that held a clamp.

“It’s big,” I said.

“So is the lie.” He handed me a folder. *MARITAL CONTRACT: CALLAHAN/TORRES*.

Page one: *Asset Disclosure*. Too many zeros.

Page six: *Conduct Clause*. _The wife will not flinch when Husband initiates contact in public._

Page twelve: *Termination Clause*. Marriage dissolves upon the death of Richard Callahan, or after 24 months._

“Your father,” I said.

“My revenge,” he corrected. “He owns 51% of Callahan Medical. If I die, it goes to my spouse. He’s tried to kill me twice. Now he can’t. Not without making you a majority shareholder.”

“So I’m a human shield.”

“You’re a billion-dollar deterrent.” He took the folder. “Sign.”

I signed. Because $187,000 said Rosa would live.

City Hall smelled like disinfectant and regret. The clerk stamped without blinking.

“Do you, Ares Callahan, take Mia Torres to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“Do you, Mia Torres, take Ares Callahan to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

I thought of Rosa. Of CPS. Of his scalpel eyes.

“I do.”

“You may kiss the bride.”

I froze. That wasn’t in the contract.

Ares stepped in. Hand on my jaw. Thumb on my pulse. “For the cameras,” he murmured. “Make him believe it.”

Him. His father.

Then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a warning. Hard. Possessive. His teeth grazed my lip and I gasped. He swallowed the sound. Tasted like coffee and danger. His other hand pressed me into him.

I should have bitten him.

Instead, my hands fisted in his suit.

He ended it before I was ready. Eyes darker. Thumb wiped my lip.

“Better,” he said.

Outside, cameras flashed. Private security.

Ares checked his phone and went still.

Then he smiled. It never reached his eyes.

“My father saw the courthouse feed,” he said. “He knows I married the cleaner.”

He opened the SUV door.

“And he’s already sent someone for you.”

The door slammed.

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