The Billionaire's Contract Bride

The bank called at 8:03 AM. “Ms. Reed? This is First National. We’re calling about your father’s outstanding loan.” By 8:15 AM, I knew the number: $2.4 million. By 8:30 AM, the debt collectors were at my door. “Ms. Ava Reed?” The man in the charcoal suit didn’t smile. He handed me an envelope. “You have 30 days to settle your father’s debt, or we begin foreclosure proceedings on this property.” I stared at the mansion behind me. 12 bedrooms. Marble floors. And a mountain of gambling debts my father left behind when he died 3 months ago. “30 days,” I whispered. “I don’t have—” “Not our concern.” The man turned. “Good day, Ms. Reed.” I closed the door and slid down it. The envelope fell from my hands. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer. “Ms. Reed.” The voice was deep. Cold. Used to giving orders. “Damian Black.” “Who?” “CEO of Black Holdings.” A pause. “We were in final talks to acquire your father’s company before he… overleveraged himself at the casino.” My chest tightened. “How did you get my number?” “I get what I want, Ms. Reed. And right now, I want to discuss your father’s debt.” “I don’t have $2.4 million.” “I know.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Come to Black Tower. 12 PM. Penthouse office. We’ll discuss terms.” The line went dead. I shouldn’t have gone. A billionaire CEO doesn’t call a broke designer out of kindness. But I did. Black Tower cut through the Manhattan skyline like a blade of glass. I took the private elevator to the penthouse. My hands shook the whole ride up. The doors opened to an office bigger than my entire house. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble desk. And him. Damian Black. 6’3. Black tailored suit. Dark hair with a hint of grey at the temples. Grey eyes that looked through me like I was made of glass. “You’re late,” he said without looking up from his laptop. “It’s 11:58.” He finally raised his head. His gaze dragged over me. My thrift-store dress. My worn-out heels. The desperation I couldn’t hide. “You’re desperate,” he concluded. “Good. Desperate people don’t waste my time.” “I’m not desperate,” I lied. “You are.” He stood. Tall. Broad shoulders. Power in every step as he walked around the desk. “Your father owed Black Holdings $2.4M. The debt transfers to his estate. That means you.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “I know.” “So I’m offering you a way out.” He stopped 2 feet from me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Dangerous. Like cedar and smoke. “A way out?” He pulled a folder from his desk and slid it across the marble. A contract. Thick. Legal. “Marry me,” he said flatly. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “Marry me. 6 months. Public appearances, photos, the role of Mrs. Black. You play the perfect wife at galas, board meetings, family events.” He ticked each point off his fingers. “In return, I pay your father’s debt. $2.4 million. Wire transfer today.” I stared at the contract. My name was already typed at the bottom. “Marriage?” My voice came out strangled. “Are you insane? I don’t even know you.” “No.” He leaned on the desk. His grey eyes locked on mine. “I need a wife to secure a merger. My board thinks I’m ‘too cold’ and ‘unstable’ to lead long-term. A wife proves I’m settling down. You need money. We both get what we want.” “And after 6 months?” “Divorce. Clean break. You keep the money. I keep my merger.” He straightened. “But there are rules, Ava.” He said my name like he’d known it for years. “Rule 1: No touching. We are married on paper only. Separate bedrooms.” “Rule 2: No feelings. This is business. You don’t fall in love with me.” “Rule 3: In public, you obey me. You smile when I tell you to smile. You leave when I say leave. You don’t speak unless spoken to.” Each rule landed like a slap. “Obey you?” I stepped back. “I’m not some—” “Dog?” His mouth curved. Not a smile. A warning. “No. You’re my wife. On paper. And my wife follows my orders when cameras are watching.” He moved closer. Invading my space. I could feel the heat from his body. “Do we have a deal, Ms. Reed?” I should’ve said no. I should’ve walked out. But the image of debt collectors taking my father’s house flashed in my mind. The only thing he left me. I swallowed. “Deal.” His hand shot out and lifted my chin. His thumb brushed my jaw. Rough. Claiming. “Good girl,” he murmured. My pulse jumped. Rule 1: No touching. But his touch burned. He dropped his hand and turned back to his desk. “Lawyers will meet us at City Hall in 3 hours. Pack a bag. You’re moving into my penthouse tonight.” “Wait—3 hours?” “You have debt, Ava. I don’t do waiting.” He didn’t look up. “Don’t be late. I hate waiting for women.” I grabbed the contract with shaking hands. As I reached the elevator, his voice stopped me. “Ava.” I turned. His grey eyes met mine. Cold. Calculating. And something else I couldn’t name. “Rule 4,” he said quietly. “Don’t look at other men when you’re on my arm. Understood?” That wasn’t in the contract. I nodded anyway. The elevator doors closed on him. Rule 1: No touching. Rule 2: No feelings. Rule 3: Obey him. Rule 4: Don’t look at other men. I was already breaking them. And we weren’t even married yet. ---