THE BILLIONAIRE'S BARGAIN BRIDE

Chapter One: The Wrong Elena Elena Reyes was eleven minutes late, her heels were pinching, and she was about to beg a stranger for money. Not begging, she corrected herself, striding through the marble lobby of Cole Tower like she belonged there. Pitching. There was a difference, even if her bank account couldn't tell you what it was. "Ms. Reyes to see Mr. Cole," she told the receptionist, flashing the kind of smile she usually saved for brides who wanted peonies in December. "I have a meeting." The receptionist young, polished, faintly amused glanced at a screen. "Of course. He's expecting you. Fifty-second floor." He's expecting you. Elena felt a flicker of relief. Her assistant Priya had practically threatened her with bodily harm if she missed this meeting. The Cole Foundation's winter gala was the single biggest event contract left in the city, and Reyes Events needed it the way a drowning woman needed a life raft. One bad review one client who'd decided to blame her for his own missing centerpiece budget had nearly sunk five years of work in five weeks. She stepped into the elevator, smoothed her blazer, and rehearsed her pitch one more time under her breath. Elegant. Understated. Unforgettable. That's what I do. The fifty-second floor was all glass and cold light, the kind of office designed to remind you that you were very small and very replaceable. A woman in a sharp suit approached before Elena had even cleared the elevator doors. "You must be Elena," the woman said, taking her hand in both of hers, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like relief. "Thank God. I was beginning to think the agency sent the wrong file entirely. Come, come he's waiting, and he does not enjoy waiting." The agency? Elena opened her mouth to correct her she'd come through Reyes Events, not any agency but the woman was already steering her down a hallway with the brisk efficiency of someone paid handsomely to move people through buildings. "I have to say," the woman continued, lowering her voice like they were sharing a secret, "the photo did not do you justice. He's going to be pleasantly surprised. He said he wanted someone practical, not well. You'll see what I mean." Elena's stomach did a small, uneasy flip. This did not sound like a gala planning meeting. The doors to a corner office slid open, and there he was. Damian Cole stood at the window with his back to the room, tall and still in a way that made the space around him feel smaller. When he turned, Elena forgot, briefly, what she'd come to say. He was younger than she'd expected from the tabloids early thirties, maybe with the kind of face that belonged on the cover of a magazine about men who didn't smile. Dark hair, sharper cheekbones than should be legal, eyes the gray of a sky before rain. He looked at her the way you'd look at a contract you hadn't finished reading. "You're late," he said. "Eleven minutes," Elena said, before she could stop herself. "I timed it. There was a delivery truck blocking Fifth." Something flickered at the corner of his mouth not quite a smile and vanished. "Sit." She sat. He didn't. "I'll be direct," Damian said, "because I understand that's what the agency promised you I'd be. I need a wife within six months. My grandmother's will is specific and, frankly, absurd, but I don't have the luxury of contesting it. You'll receive full compensation, a generous monthly allowance, and a settlement at the end of the arrangement. In exchange, you attend events, you play the part convincingly, and you do not embarrass this family in the press. Are those terms acceptable?" Elena stared at him. Then she laughed a short, startled bark of a laugh that clearly was not the response he'd been expecting, because his jaw tightened in something like offense. "I'm sorry," she said, holding up a hand, still fighting a grin. "I think there's been a … I'm not from a matchmaking agency, Mr. Cole. I'm an event planner. I'm here about the winter gala." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the glass desk like a peace offering. "Reyes Events. We spoke on the phone with your assistant on Tuesday?" The silence that followed was, in Elena's professional opinion, the longest of her life. Damian looked at the folder. Then at her. Then, very slowly, sat down across from her for the first time, some of the ice in his expression cracking into something that might have been embarrassment, if a man like him allowed himself such a thing. "Deborah," he said, without raising his voice, though Elena suspected the woman outside the door heard it anyway, "get me the correct Elena. Immediately." "There's another one?" Elena asked, unable to help herself. "Apparently the agency sent two files under the same first name," he said, dragging a hand down his face in the first genuinely human gesture she'd seen from him. "I apologize, Ms. Reyes. This has been a waste of your time." "Not entirely," Elena said, standing, straightening her blazer with as much dignity as she could gather. "I did get to watch a billionaire propose marriage to a total stranger like he was ordering a sandwich. That's a story I'll be dining out on for weeks." For the first time, Damian Cole almost smiled a real one, brief and startled out of him, like he wasn't sure his face still remembered how. "About the gala," he said, as she reached the door. Elena turned. "Leave the folder. I'll look at it tonight." It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no, either and Elena Reyes had built a business on turning maybes into yeses. "You do that," she said, and let herself out before he could see how hard her heart was still pounding.