Married to a Stripper

Chapter 6 – Ryan

The contract sat in the dead center of the desk. Square. Sharp-edged. Smug.

I leaned back in the leather chair, suit cut clean, black fabric sharp against the pale light of morning. The city stretched behind me, skyline hazed with dawn, lake water dull instead of blazing. Low clouds flattened the horizon. Chicago didn’t roar at eight a.m.—it cleared its throat. A siren far away. An early bus sighing three blocks down. The HVAC hummed through the vents like a controlled heartbeat.

The coffee on my desk had gone cold. I hadn’t touched it. Morning wasn’t for haze. It was for precision.

“You look like hell,” Tom said, sprawled in the visitor’s chair like it was his living room. Blazer tossed over the arm. Shirt open at the collar. Hair styled in deliberate chaos designed to look like he hadn’t tried. He always tried.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I asked.

Tom smirked. “Not when you’re about to marry a stripper for stock options. This is better than Netflix.”

I pressed a palm flat against the desk. The blotter gave under my hand, leather warm from the morning sun. “It’s not want. It’s need. One year. Then Carter Holdings is mine.”

Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mouth quirked. “So you cage her, parade her, and think the board won’t laugh?”

“They’ll choke on profit,” I said. “She’s a shield. Nothing more.”

“Careful,” Tom said, eyes bright with a private kind of pity he’d never admit to. “Shields cut, too.”

A knock cracked the morning quiet. Three deliberate taps.

I didn’t move. “Show her in.”

The door opened. The assistant’s heels retreated down the hall with the soft click of someone who knew not to listen. Then another set of heels, louder, unapologetic, cut across the marble.

The sound hit first. Then the air changed.

She stepped in.

Not the stripper in neon. A human version, though still rough. Black t-shirt with glitter letters that read cheap, jeans painted onto her legs, black boots that had seen better years. Even like this, she had something that hit under the ribs.

“See, Tom. White trailer trash as the future Mrs. Carter,” I said, dry.

Her jaw tightened, a muscle ticking once in her cheek. Anger first. Then words.

From the corner, Tom gave a low whistle without looking away. “Ouch.” He introduced himself to Amber, grin too loose, eyes lingering too long. When he glanced back at me, he caught the warning in my stare and only laughed. Bastard.

“If this is a joke, I’m gone,” Amber snapped. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do? f**k you, Carter. You don’t know me, so don’t call me trash.”

“Sit,” I said. For half a million, she could hear me out.

She dropped into the chair opposite. Nails tapped the armrest in a steady rhythm, same sound as the night before. A habit. Control disguised as poise.

“That how you talk to all your brides?” she asked.

“This isn’t a wedding. It’s survival. Don’t mistake it for attraction.”

“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t want your boredom confused with desire.”

Tom sprawled wider, hands laced behind his head. “If this is foreplay, I should probably leave the room.”

I slid the folder across the desk. “Read. Sign.”

She flipped it open.

Her finger traced the first line, dragging slow. Her eyes moved carefully, too carefully. Halfway through the paragraph, her breathing hitched.

Wtf, she was struggling. A flush climbed her neck, pink under morning light. Palms pressed against the paper. Silence leaned closer, waiting for her to lose.

“Slow it down,” Tom said, voice slipping toward human for once.

Her jaw locked. The folder snapped shut with a crack that startled even the air. “I don’t need a bedtime story. Tell me what matters.”

My eyes stayed on her face. Not pity. Never pity. But something under my ribs twisted anyway.

“You can’t even read your own contract,” I said. Flat. “Fitting.”

Heat flared in her cheeks; her mouth curved sharp. “Good thing I don’t plan on reading you either.”

Tom’s mouth twitched. “So, Amber…”

He lifted two fingers, counting terms like bullets. “No s*x obligation. No exclusivity on his side. Absolute exclusivity on yours. One year. Three payments: today, six months, end. Break a rule, lose everything. Galas, social events, wardrobe overhaul courtesy of Sophie—the Ice Queen—who’ll skin me alive if you’re late to the fitting.”

“And no stage,” I said. “Ever. One heel on it and this ends.”

Her lashes lowered, deliberate. “Jealous?”

“I don’t share assets I’ve purchased,” I said. “And you’re not temptation. You’re paperwork.”

She leaned back, eyes cutting toward Tom instead of me. “Add tuition. Pilates certification. I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

I let the silence stretch. Her chin stayed high, but the flicker was there—she didn’t think I’d give. “Don’t push it,” I said, clipped. Then, after a beat: “Fine. Program approved. Don’t miss appearances.”

Her gaze snapped back to mine—quick, disbelieving—but she masked it fast. No gratitude. Just defiance.

The tick of the wall clock carved through the room. Eight twelve. The board would be waiting at nine with condolences sharp enough to bleed.

She leaned forward, smile like broken glass. “So. Leash with a stipend. Classy.”

I leaned in, too. My shadow spilled across the desk, swallowing the edge of her contract. Her perfume cut through the room—a thin ribbon of cheap vanilla over smoke and sweat, and something cleaner underneath she hadn’t managed to kill yet. My cologne pushed back, spice and steel. Not a touch, but it felt like one.

The collision hit nerve endings I’d trained to ignore. My fingers twitched once on the desk—a muscle asking for trouble I refused to feed.

“Not a leash,” I said. “Ownership. Don’t mistake the two.”

Her chest stuttered once—barely there. She pulled her jacket closer like fabric could be armor. “Then pay me. I don’t move without proof.”

I slid the pen across, then an envelope with the transfer confirmation—numbers clean, already in her account. Proof, not promise.

Her fingers hovered over it. She didn’t tear it open. Didn’t touch it. Pride over proof. The pulse at her throat betrayed her.

Her nail scraped once against the desk, leaving a faint mark—a tiny rebellion.

She let the pen rest in her hand like a weapon. “One more thing,” she said. “You don’t touch me unless I say yes.”

The words shouldn’t have landed like that. But they did.

I stood. The chair whispered against the floor. I circled the desk and stopped close enough that the light broke across my shoulder and hit her knees.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“I don’t beg for no. And I don’t force yes.” The words came out rougher than I intended, control frayed at the edges.

Her breath caught. Lashes lowered a fraction too long. Her fingers flexed under mine, not pulling away, not leaning in. Just heat meeting heat. Her pupils widened. Lips parted. My body answered before my mind could catch up. I forced my pulse down, steadying it by habit.

I hated that it felt alive. I hated more that I wanted it.

“Don’t confuse this with want. You’re not wanted. You’re useful.”

Her smile sliced through the air. “Trust me, Carter. I wouldn’t mistake your emptiness for desire.”

Her line hit clean. But the silence after burned.

I set my hand over hers and closed her fingers around the pen. Her skin was cool. Mine wasn’t. The contact lasted a second too long because I let it. Then I lifted my hand—controlled, clean.

“Sign.”

She dragged the pen across the line. The ink bled a little where her pressure slipped, leaving a faint tear at the end of her name.

I snapped the folder shut. The sound cracked through the room.

“Now you’re mine,” I said. “Not because I want you. Because I own you.”

She leaned back. The jacket slipped off one shoulder, skin flashing like a dare. Her smile went thin and bright. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

I almost did.

Tom spread his hands, grin wide. “If those aren’t the prettiest vows I’ve ever heard, I’ll eat my tie. Carter, can we get engraved napkins? Ownership & Paperwork, est. today.”

I ignored him. My eyes fell to the coffee cup on my desk. The rim bore a perfect red crescent of her lipstick.

The sight hit like a bruise. Small. Permanent.

None of the board would see it. But I did.

Mine already. She just doesn’t know it yet.