CONTRACT WITH THE RUTHLESS CEO.

His hand closed over mine before the pen finished the last zero. That is my signature, Miss Vance. Calder Thorne's voice was low against my ear, calm, almost bored. His chest was warm against my back. He had been standing behind me in his own dark office for God knows how long, watching me forge a forty-three million dollar check with his name on it. I did not drop the pen. I did not scream. I finished the last loop on the R in Thorne, set the pen down neatly, and turned my head. He was close enough that I could see the gray in his blue eyes. Custom black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms at midnight on a Tuesday. Calder Thorne did not look surprised to find his senior developer committing federal wire fraud at his desk. Mr Thorne, I said. You are early. I live upstairs, he said. You are in my chair. He was right. I was sitting in the CEO chair of Thorne Holdings, fortieth floor, Manhattan spread out behind me like a circuit board. The check was drying on his blotter. Forty-three million dollars. Mercy Ridge Hospital. Experimental gene therapy. Patient, Valery Vance. My sister. Nineteen years old. Forty-eight hours to live without that money. Security cameras? I asked. Turned them off myself, he said. His hand was still over mine. Three hours ago. When you badged in. My stomach dropped. He knew,He had been watching. Are you going to call the police? I asked. He finally let go of my hand. He picked up the check, studied my forgery. This is good, he said. The loop on the T is a little heavy. But the bank will clear it. "Calder—" Twenty years, he said, looking at me. Federal prison. Forgery, wire fraud, identity theft of a Fortune 500 CEO. That is what this is worth, Sloane. My name in his mouth did something stupid to my spine. I had worked at Thorne Holdings for three years. He had never said my name out loud before. My sister will die without that treatment, I said. My voice was flat. I had practiced this in the mirror for a week. I will pay it back. Every dollar with interest. Put me on a payment plan, garnish my wages, I do not care. Just let the check clear. He set the check down. No. The word hit harder than it should have. Valery's face flashed in my head, thin from chemo, smiling anyway, telling me not to do anything stupid. Too late. Please, I said, and I hated how that word sounded coming out of me. She is nineteen. I know how old Valery is, he said. I froze. He smiled, and it was not a nice smile. I know she was diagnosed fourteen months ago. I know Mercy Ridge rejected her insurance three times. I know Dr. Arman Patel is the only surgeon in the country who can do the procedure, and he charges forty-three million dollars cash upfront because he can. I know you sold your apartment in Queens six months ago and moved into a studio in Jersey to pay for the first round. I know you have not slept more than four hours a night since March. My mouth was dry. "How—" I know everything about you, Sloane Vance, he said. I have known for three years. The office tilted. That is insane, I said. Is it? He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. The check was between us. You hacked a zero-day exploit on your first day here and saved this company two hundred million dollars. You did not tell anyone. You fixed it, logged it, went home. I pulled your file that night. I remembered that day. I remembered fixing the breach in twenty minutes and thinking no one would notice. He noticed. So what now? I asked. You turn me in? Make an example? No, he said, I make a deal. My hands were shaking. I put them behind my back. What kind of deal? He pushed off the desk. He was tall. I had to tilt my head back to look at him. One month, he said. You belong to me. My bed. My rules. My schedule. At the end of thirty days, the debt is cleared. Valery gets her surgery. The check clears tonight. No police. No record. I laughed, a sharp ugly sound. You want to buy me. I want to own you, he corrected. There is a difference. And if I say no? He picked up the check again, held it between two fingers. Then I shred this, call security, and you watch your sister die from a prison visiting room. Bastard. Brilliant, cruel bastard. Fine, I said. But I have conditions. That made him raise an eyebrow. Most people do not negotiate with Calder Thorne while holding a forged check with his name on it. Four rules, I said. Rule One: never at the office. I work here. I am not your office girl. Rule Two: no kissing on the mouth. That is intimate. This is not intimate. Rule Three: no sleepovers. You get what you paid for, then I leave. Rule Four: no feelings. This is a transaction. Thirty days, debt cleared, we never speak again. He was quiet for a long time. Then Agreed. With one addition. What? Clause One A, he said. You break a rule, I get to add a rule. Deal, I said too fast. He smiled again. That not a nice smile. Sign it. He pulled a contract from his desk drawer. Already printed. Already with my name on it. Sloane Vance Personal Services Agreement Thirty Days. He had written this before tonight. You knew I would come, I said. I knew you would run out of options on July first, he said. Valery's surgery window closes July third. You had tonight or never. He had been counting down with me. I signed. Sloane Vance, shaky but legible, under Calder Thorne, which was already signed in that heavy looped T I had spent a week perfecting. He took the contract, slid it back in the drawer, then picked up the forged check. He pulled out his phone, took a photo of it, and hit send. Wire is processing, he said. Mercy Ridge will confirm in twenty minutes. Just like that. Forty-three million dollars. My sister lives. Get undressed, he said. What? Now? Here? Rule One Rule One is never at the office, he said. We are not at the office. We are at my home. This building is mine. Every floor is mine. "You—" Clause One A, Sloane. You just broke Rule One by arguing about Rule One. My new rule: when I tell you to get undressed, you get undressed. My face burned. You are insane. you owed me forty-three million dollars worth of obedience, he said, and stepped closer. Take off the jacket. I hated him. I hated that my hands were shaking for a completely different reason now. I hated that part of me, a terrible, exhausted, desperate part of me, was relieved someone else was making decisions for once. I took off the blazer. Dropped it on his chair. Better, he said, voice lower now. Turn around. Why? Because I want to. I turned slowly. My black silk blouse, my pencil skirt, the stupid heels I wore because Valery told me to dress like I belonged in a tower like this. His hands settled on my hips. Warm through the fabric. Possessive. Thirty days, he murmured against my neck. Try not to fall in love with me, Sloane. I do not fall in love, I said, and my voice shook. Rule Four. We will see, he said, and his teeth grazed my throat. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Mercy Ridge Hospital. Payment received. Patient Valery Vance confirmed for surgery. Report at 06:00 hours. I closed my eyes. She lives. She lives. Calder felt me sag and turned me around, hands firm on my waist. "Good news?" She lives, I whispered. She lives, he agreed. His thumb brushed my cheekbone. Almost tender. Now. Where were we? His phone rang,Loud.,Unknown number flashing. He ignored it. Leaned in. It rang again. And again. Third time. With a curse he answered. Thorne. A woman's voice, crisp, amused, loud enough that I heard it: Darling, did you forget to tell your new pet about me? This is Miranda. Your fiancee. We need to talk. Calder went still. I stepped back out of his hands. Fiancee? I said. Rule Four was already in trouble, and it had been twelve minutes.