Married To My Enemy

New York City — Midnight Elara Quinn stood beneath the towering glass monolith of Voss Holdings, her manuscript clutched tightly in one trembling hand. Rain pelted the pavement like bullets, soaking her hair, her clothes, and the dreams she'd stitched into every page she now held. She had waited six years for this moment. Six years since he ruined her career with one phone call. Six years since her debut novel was pulled from shelves, her name smeared in publishing circles, and her hopes crushed like ash beneath a Prada loafer. Now he owned the very building that symbolized her downfall. Damon Voss. The man who made billions breaking companies and bending people. The man whose name came with a chill in every boardroom. And now—he owned her father’s failing media company too. The automatic doors opened with a hiss as she stormed into the marble lobby, ignoring the shocked receptionist and the “Closed After Hours” sign. Her heels echoed like gunshots as she made her way to the elevator, dripping rain onto polished floors. She didn’t care. This wasn’t a scheduled meeting. This was war. Damon Voss barely looked up when the elevator chimed. His office was dim, lit only by the Manhattan skyline stretching like a galaxy behind him. He sipped whiskey, long fingers wrapped around the glass, until the voice broke through the silence. "You destroyed my life." He looked up, slowly. Calm, calculated. Cold. “Elara Quinn,” he said, as though tasting the syllables. “To what do I owe this dramatic entrance?” She threw the manuscript on his desk. Wet pages scattered like fallen soldiers. “That’s the book your company rejected—again. Even after I changed the ending, toned down the character flaws, and did everything your editor asked.” Damon’s eyes flicked over the pages. He said nothing. Didn’t need to. His silence was louder than a thousand rejections. “This is the third time,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why? Because of me? Because you can’t stand that I didn’t sleep my way to the top like everyone else in your world?” He stood slowly. Tall. Imposing. “Elara,” he said, voice low and unreadable. “You have no idea how this world works. But I’ll give you a crash course—starting now.” Her heart raced. “What the hell does that mean?” He poured another glass of whiskey, then set it on the table beside her manuscript. “I need a wife.” She blinked. “Excuse me?” “For one year. Contractual. Clean. You’ll get your publishing deal, your father’s company will survive, and I’ll get what I need.” She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’re joking.” He stepped closer. “I don’t joke. Especially not about billion-dollar inheritances.” She laughed, bitter and breathless. “Why me?” Damon’s gaze darkened. “Because you hate me enough not to fall in love. And that makes you perfect.”