Married To The Ruthless Billionaire

"I need fifty thousand dollars. I'll marry him." The lawyer's office on the 52nd floor of Sterling Tower went silent. The air conditioning was so cold it hurt. Ella Johnson stood in the middle of the marble office in her worn sneakers, her waitress uniform still smelling like burnt coffee and cheap cleaning spray from the Midtown cafe. Her hands were shaking so hard the crumpled medical bill in her fist was turning to sweat. $50,000. That was the number on the bill. The number the hospital in Queens said she had to pay by tomorrow at 8 AM, or they would not operate on her mother. Mr. Carter, the senior lawyer, adjusted his glasses and stared at her like she was insane. "Miss Johnson, this is not a joke," he said slowly. "My client, Mr. Damien Sterling, is one of the most powerful men in New York. He needs a wife for ninety days to secure his grandfather's inheritance. This is a legal contract marriage. He will pay you $50,000. In return, you live in his penthouse, attend two events per week with him, and you divorce quietly after ninety days. No complications." "No complications," Ella repeated. Her voice was hoarse from crying all night. "I understand. Where is the paper? I'll sign. Right now." She would sign anything. She had called everyone. She had begged. No one had fifty thousand dollars for a broke 21-year-old waitress whose only family was dying. "She's desperate. Perfect." A deep, cold voice came from behind her. Ella flinched and turned around. And froze. The man standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at all of Manhattan like he owned it, was him. The man from the cafe. Customer table seven. The handsome, rude, impossibly rich customer who came every Tuesday and Thursday for black coffee, never tipped, never smiled, but always stared at her. The man whose suit alone cost more than her year's rent. Damien Sterling. Up close, he was even more terrifying. Six foot three, broad shoulders in a tailored black Tom Ford suit, dark hair perfectly combed back, jaw sharp enough to cut. But his eyes... his eyes were grey and cold like a winter storm over Central Park. His eyes swept over her slowly. From her messy ponytail, to her faded blue waitress dress, to her cracked sneakers. He didn't even try to hide his judgment. Then he smirked. "You? The waitress?" That smirk made Ella's cheeks burn with humiliation. For three months, she had served him coffee and he had never said more than "Black. No sugar." "Do you have a problem, Mr. Sterling?" she lifted her chin, even though her legs were shaking. "Yes," he walked closer. Each step was slow, deliberate. He towered over her. He smelled like expensive cologne and pure power. "My grandfather is old-fashioned. My wife should not look like she hasn't eaten in two days. Or like she shops at a thrift store on 8th Avenue." Tears burned Ella's eyes. She had not eaten in two days. She had given her last $20 to her mother for medicine. And yes, this dress was from a thrift store. But she did not look away. "My mother is dying," she said, her voice breaking but loud. "I don't care what I look like. Your lawyer said you need a wife and I need money. So I am here. That's business, right? Isn't that what you billionaires do?" Something flickered in Damien's cold eyes. For a second, the cruel smirk disappeared. Mr. Carter cleared his throat. "Mr. Sterling, perhaps we should consider Miss Vanessa - " "No." Damien didn't look at his lawyer. He kept looking at Ella. At the tears she refused to let fall. At her shaking hands holding that hospital bill like it was her life. He had seen many women in his life. Models, heiresses, socialites who threw themselves at him for his last name. None of them had ever looked at him like this girl did. Like she hated him, needed him, and was not going to beg him. Interesting. He leaned down, just a little, so his voice was only for her. Close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw. "But you need money. And I need a wife. So let's get married, sweetheart." Ella's heart stopped. Sweetheart. He said it like an insult. Like a possession. He reached out and, before she could react, gently took the crumpled medical bill from her tight fist. His fingers were warm. Hers were ice cold. He glanced at it. Mount Sinai Hospital. $50,000. Due tomorrow. Without a word, he walked to Mr. Carter's desk, picked up his black American Express card, and placed it on the table in front of her with a soft click. "Tomorrow. 10 AM. City Hall. Don't be late." Ella stared at the card. "What... what is this?" "An advance. $10,000. Pay your mother's deposit. Buy yourself a dress that doesn't look like it will fall apart. My wife cannot embarrass me at City Hall." It was not kindness. It was cold, arrogant, and business-like. But to Ella, it was a miracle. Her knees gave out. She grabbed the edge of the desk to stay standing. "You will pay for the surgery? Just like that?" "I don't repeat myself, Miss Johnson," Damien said, already walking back to the window, dismissing her. "You get the money. I get the wife my grandfather wants to see. For ninety days, you belong to me. You will live in my penthouse, you will wear what I buy you, you will go where I tell you to go. And after ninety days, you get the rest of the money and you disappear from my life. Understood?" "Yes," Ella whispered, clutching the black card like it was her mother's heartbeat. "Yes, I understand." "Good." He looked over his shoulder. "And one more rule for my contract wife." "What?" "Don't ever look at another man the way you just looked at me. I don't share." Ella's mouth fell open. "We... we aren't even married yet!" "Tomorrow, you will be," Damien said, and for the first time, he smiled. A real, slow, dangerous smile that made Ella's stomach flip. "And I am a very possessive husband, Ella." He knew her name. He had remembered her name from her name tag at the cafe. Ella walked out of that office with a black card in her pocket and tears streaming down her face. Outside, the New York rain was pouring. She didn't know if she had just saved her mother or sold her soul to the devil. All she knew was, tomorrow at 10 AM, she would become Mrs. Damien Sterling. And the ruthless billionaire of Manhattan had just called her his.