The CEO's Forbidden Contract: 30 Days To Seduce Me

The first time I saw Adrian Blackwell, my lungs forgot how to breathe. Everyone in the ballroom at The Plaza knew his name. Adrian Blackwell. Thirty-two. Billionaire. CEO of Blackwell International in Manhattan. The Wall Street Journal called him The Ghost CEO because he never gave interviews. But it was not his name that made me stare from beside the champagne table. It was him. He stood beneath the crystal chandelier, surrounded by older men in tuxedos who wanted his attention. He looked bored. Untouchable. His black tuxedo fit his broad shoulders perfectly, showing the hard chest beneath it. He was built like a man who boxed in private clubs. Dark hair, sharp jaw with faint stubble, and storm-gray eyes that missed nothing. And those eyes were looking at me. Heat shot up my neck. I looked down. I did not come to stare at billionaires. I came because my mother was dying. My dress was second-hand from my roommate. Not designer, but tonight it hugged my small waist and full hips, showing curves I usually hid under big sweaters. Borrowed heels, too big. Cheap studs. Old clutch from Target with peeling leather. But the way he looked at me made me feel seen as a woman, not as a poor girl from Queens. "You have been staring at me." I nearly dropped my glass. He was behind me. Up close, he was more dangerous. Tall enough that I had to tilt my head. Expensive cologne, dark and clean, made my stomach flip. "I was not staring," I whispered. "You were. For three minutes." "That is creepy." "It is observation. I notice things that interest me." His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. "What is your name?" "Why?" "Because I want to know it." "Emma. Just Emma." He extended a large, warm hand. "Adrian Blackwell." I put my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine, swallowing my hand completely. A shock went up my arm. We both froze. He let go slowly. "So, just Emma, why does a girl who checks her phone every thirty seconds come to a gala she does not want to be at?" My clutch vibrated. UNKNOWN: FINAL NOTICE. MANHATTAN GENERAL HOSPITAL. $47,000 DUE BY 9 A.M. TOMORROW OR TREATMENT TERMINATED. My hands started to shake. He saw my face go pale. "You need money." "That is none of your business." "How much?" "$47,000," I snapped. "My mother is dying, and I have $112 in my account. Happy now?" Something flashed in his gray eyes. He pulled out a black card with only a silver number. "Call me tomorrow." "I do not want charity." "It is not charity. It is business. Thirty days." "Thirty days of what?" "Make me fall for you." I stared. "You want me to seduce you?" "No. I want you to make me feel. My fiancée left me six months ago, saying I cannot love. Prove her wrong. And I will pay you." "How much?" "Five million dollars." The room tilted. Five million. My mother's treatment. Freedom. "And if I fail?" "You walk away with nothing." He pressed the card into my palm. His fingers lingered, possessive. "Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Seventy-second floor. Read the contract." He turned and walked away. I looked down at the card. On the back, in small silver letters: I KNOW ABOUT YOUR MOTHER. My blood went cold. My mother had been in Manhattan General for three months. Kidney failure. First dialysis; now they said she needed a transplant. I sold everything. My laptop. My books. I borrowed from everyone. My account had $112.37. My mother had no secrets. She was a retired nurse. Quiet. Praying. She made soup on Sundays. What could he possibly know about my mother that I did not? At six a.m. I still had not slept. At nine twenty-five, I stood in front of Blackwell Tower on Park Avenue. Seventy-two floors of glass. I felt small. The receptionist smiled as if she expected me. "Miss Emma? Mr. Blackwell is expecting you. Private elevator. Top floor." The elevator opened directly into his office. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Black marble. And him. Adrian stood with his back to me, on a phone call, wearing a charcoal gray suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar. Morning light on his dark hair. He hung up and turned. His gray eyes swept over me slowly. "You came." "You left me no choice. What do you know about my mother?" He walked to his desk and picked up a brown file. He slid it toward me. I opened it. Inside was my mother's record. Her bills. And a photo. My mother, younger, standing next to a woman with the same gray eyes as Adrian. On the back: Manhattan General Staff 2018 - Elena and Clara. "Who is Clara?" "My mother. Dr. Clara Blackwell. Head of Surgery." "Your mother was my mother's boss?" "More than a boss. Friends. Until your mother was fired." "Fired? She said she retired." "She was caught stealing medication. For you. You were fourteen and had severe pneumonia." My world stopped. "Why show me this?" "Because my mother died six months ago. Before she died, she told me Elena saved her life in 2019. I owe her." "So pay her bill. Why this game?" "Because my fiancée left me at the altar saying I cannot love. I want to prove her wrong. You are the only woman who looked at me last night like I was a man, not money." He placed a thick document on the desk. CONTRACT. Rule 1: You will live in my penthouse for thirty days. Rule 2: You will try to make me fall in love. Rule 3: You will not fall in love with me. Rule 4: No intimacy without mutual consent. Rule 5: Five million dollars if you succeed. Your mother's $47,000 is paid even if you fail. "And if I say no?" "Then you walk out. Your mother's treatment stops at nine a.m. tomorrow. In seventeen minutes." My phone buzzed. HOSPITAL. I grabbed the pen. My hand shook as I wrote Emma Carter. "One more rule not written," he whispered near my ear. "Do not wear that dress again. You deserve better." He pressed a key. A woman entered with three garment bags. "Go change. Your room is ready." "My room?" "Our penthouse, just Emma. For the next thirty days, you belong to me." I should have said no. Every sensible part of my brain screamed no. This man was dangerous, like a storm. The kind of man who could ruin your life without trying, simply by making you want a life you could never afford. But when I looked into his eyes, I did not see cruelty. I saw loneliness that matched my own. For months since my mother got sick, I had felt alone in New York. No family except her. My bookstore job was gone. Friends who stopped answering. He was alone at the top of a tower that owned the skyline. Perhaps loneliness recognized loneliness. "You are staring again, just Emma," he said quietly. "You make it hard not to." "Good. I want you to look. For the next thirty days, you will have plenty of time to look." My cheeks burned. "You are very arrogant." "I am honest. People confuse the two." He stepped back, giving me space to breathe. He gestured to the contract. The pages were thick, cream colored. "Read it before you sign. I do not want you to say later that you did not understand." "I understand enough. You want me to be your fake girlfriend who tries to make you fall in love." "Not fake. Real attempt. Fake is useless. I need to know if I can feel something." The way he said it, so quietly, made my chest ache. This billionaire who had everything was worried he was broken inside. And for some reason, I wanted to fix that. "Seventeen minutes is almost up," he said softly. "Your mother." I thought of my mother in that white hospital bed. Small. Tired. Smiling even when in pain, telling me not to worry, that God would provide. She had stolen medicine for me when I was fourteen. She risked her job, her pension, everything, because I could not breathe. Now it was my turn to risk something for her. I signed. Emma Carter. The ink bled slightly where my hand shook. When I looked up, Adrian was watching my hand, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, but his breathing was not steady anymore. He reached out, hesitated, then tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles brushed my cheek. Warm. "Good girl," he murmured. Two words. Yet my whole body reacted, heat flooding my neck. I should have been offended. I was twenty-four and had taken care of myself and my mother for years. But the way he said it, low and possessive and almost relieved, did something to me. He let his hand drop. "Welcome home, just Emma."