UNTAMED CONTRACT

The rain outside Vance Tower was relentless, sheets of grey water slamming against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse suite on the fiftieth floor. Down below, the lights of Manhattan were blurred streaks of gold and red, but inside the office, the silence was heavy, suffocating, and thick with tension. I paused outside the heavy double mahogany doors, smoothing down the front of my black pencil skirt and taking a slow, steadying breath. It was 8:15 PM. The rest of the executive floor had been dark and deserted for hours, the lingering scent of floor wax and cold coffee the only reminder of the armies of analysts who worked here by day. When Julian Vance summoned his head executive assistant after hours, however, you didn't keep him waiting. I gripped the cold brass handle, turned it, and stepped inside. Julian was standing by the glass window, framed by the dark storm outside. He had discarded his charcoal suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing the strong, lean column of his throat. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing muscular skin and a glimpse of dark hair. In his right hand, he held a lowball crystal glass, the amber whiskey inside swirling slowly as he tilted it. At twenty-eight, Julian Vance was the undisputed apex predator of Wall Street. Broad-shouldered, standing easily at six-foot-two, with a razor-sharp jawline and eyes so dark they looked like endless obsidian, he ruled Vance Global with an iron fist. He was ruthless in negotiations, completely indifferent to public opinion, and notoriously cold. He was also the man who had occupied every single one of my late-night fantasies for the past two years—a secret I guarded more fiercely than my life. "You called for me, Mr. Vance?" I asked, keeping my voice strictly neutral, professional, and composed as I closed the heavy door behind me with a soft click. Julian didn't turn immediately. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching the rain hit the glass before turning on his heel to face me. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes slowly swept down my body—from the pale blue silk of my blouse to the curve of my waist, down to my black heels, and finally back up to my eyes. The weight of his gaze was like a physical touch, leaving a trail of fiery heat over my skin. "Close the distance, Maya," his deep baritone rasped through the quiet room, echoing off the high ceilings. I stepped forward, stopping precisely three feet from his massive mahogany desk, placing my hands behind my back to hide the tiny tremor in my fingers. "Is there an issue with the international acquisition reports for tomorrow morning’s board meeting? I double-checked the European figures before leaving my desk." "The figures are flawless, as usual," Julian said. He walked toward the desk with slow, deliberate strides, looking less like a CEO and more like a stalker taking his time. He set his glass down on the polished wood with a quiet sound. "The issue isn't the numbers, Maya. The issue is my grandfather." I raised an eyebrow slightly. Old Man Vance was the legendary founder of the company, a stubborn patriarch who still held thirty percent of the voting board. "What does your grandfather want?" "He wants me settled," Julian replied flatly, leaning his hip back against the edge of the desk and crossing his arms across his broad chest. The movement stretched the fabric of his shirt tight against his shoulders, and my eyes traitorously tracked the outline of his muscles before I caught myself. "The board refuses to grant me final approval for the expansion unless I demonstrate 'stability and strong personal character.' In short, my grandfather believes an unmarried man of twenty-eight is volatile. He wants a Luna—or in human terms, a wife." A faint, bitter smile tugged at my lips. "Then I suggest calling the city’s top matchmaking agencies first thing tomorrow morning. I’m sure half the socialites in New York would line up for the opportunity to marry Julian Vance." "I don't want a socialite," Julian interrupted smoothly, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register that sent a shiver down my spine. "I don't want a spoiled heiress who wants my money and my title. I want someone who knows how I work. Someone who can stand in a room full of sharks and not bleed." He reached behind him, picked up a sleek black leather folder resting on his desk, and slid it across the mahogany surface toward me. "I want you, Maya." The words hung in the air like a physical shockwave. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse hammering wildly against my ribs. "Excuse me?" "Open it," he commanded quietly. With trembling hands, I reached out and flipped the folder open. Inside was a single, densely typed document labeled PRENUPTIAL AND DOMESTIC PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT. My eyes scanned down the first page, skipping past the legal jargon until they locked onto a bolded line near the bottom: COMPENSATION UPON COMPLETION OF 90-DAY TERM: $10,000,000.00 USD. Ten million dollars. My vision blurred for a second as the sheer weight of that number hit me. Ten million dollars was a life-altering sum. It was enough to instantly wipe out the predatory five-million-dollar loan my father had stupidly taken from loan sharks to keep his manufacturing business afloat. It was enough to pay off my mother's long-term medical care, save our childhood home from foreclosure, and ensure I never had to worry about money ever again. "Ten million dollars," I whispered, staring at the figure. "For ninety days?" "A temporary contract marriage," Julian said, his voice unhurried. "Ninety days of public appearances, living in my penthouse, and playing the devoted couple until the board meeting approves my succession. After ninety days, we quietly file for an irreconcilable annulment. You walk away with ten million, completely clean." I forced myself to close the folder, looking up to meet his dark, unreadable eyes. "This is insane, Julian. We're boss and employee. We argue half the time. We barely tolerate each other outside of work." A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of Julian’s lips. He pushed off the edge of the desk, stepping around it until he was standing directly in front of me. The air between us instantly grew hot, heavy with the dark, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and costly bourbon. "We fight because you're the only person in this building who isn't afraid to look me in the eye," Julian murmured, taking one step closer until the tips of his leather shoes almost touched mine. He lowered his head, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear, his warm breath fanning over my neck and causing every tiny hair on my body to stand on end. "And because for two long years, Maya... you've been driving me completely out of my mind." My heart did a violent flip inside my chest. I tried to pull back, but my feet felt glued to the floor. "Public affection will be mandatory," Julian whispered, his thumb lightly reaching out to trace a slow, burning line along the side of my throat, sending a wave of electric heat straight down to my stomach. "Privately... well, that depends on how long you plan on fighting me."