MARRIED TO MY BROTHER'S BILLIONAIRE RIVAL

## Chapter 1: The Price of a Name The man who destroyed my brother was standing in my father's office, drinking my father's whiskey, and looking at the city like he'd already bought it. "Miss Hart." Adrian Blackwood didn't turn around. "You're four minutes early." "I'm told punctuality is a virtue." "It's a weakness. It tells people how badly you want to be in the room." I wanted to throw something at him. Instead, I closed the door and walked to the desk where my father had built Hart Shipping for thirty-one years, one container at a time. The brass nameplate was still there. Everything else was boxed, tagged, and listed for auction on Friday. Three days. That was all we had left. "You asked to see me," I said. "Say what you came to say, Mr. Blackwood, and then get out of my father's office." Now he turned. I'd seen his face in business magazines: the sharp jaw, the cold gray eyes, the kind of mouth that didn't waste smiles. The magazines hadn't mentioned how the room seemed to rearrange itself around him. Adrian Blackwood, thirty-four, CEO of Blackwood Global. Two years ago, he had pulled his funding from my brother's startup eleven hours before launch and watched it burn. Daniel hadn't said his name since. He just said *him*, the way you'd say the name of a disease. "Your family owes four hundred and twelve million dollars," Adrian said. "Your father's heart condition means he can't negotiate. Your brother is working nights in a Singapore kitchen rather than call anyone for help. And you, Elena..." He paused, as if tasting my name. "...have emailed every bank in this city for six weeks and received the same answer." "You've been reading my email?" "I've been reading the answers. Banks talk." My hands curled against the desk. "Why are you here?" He crossed the room and set a folder in front of me. Cream paper. Forty pages, at least. "I'm offering to clear every cent. Your father's debts, the auction, the pension fund. Gone by morning." My pulse stumbled. "In exchange for what? The company? Take the ships. I don't care." "I don't want the ships." "Then what?" "You." The silence stretched. I laughed, thin and disbelieving. "I need a wife," he said, perfectly calm. "My grandfather's will withholds my controlling shares until I've been married twelve months. The board is circling. I have four weeks before they vote me out." He tapped the folder. "Marry me. Live in my house. Smile at the right dinners. In one year, you walk away free, debt-free, with your family's name intact." "You ruined my brother." "Yes." He didn't flinch. He didn't explain. That single word lay between us like a blade on the desk. "Find someone else," I said. "I don't want someone else." Something flickered in his eyes, there and gone so fast I thought I'd imagined it. "I want a Hart." I walked out before I could do something stupid, like hit him. Or worse, consider it. --- My phone buzzed in the elevator. *Mr. Hart saw the foreclosure notice. He collapsed. St. Catherine's. Come now.* By the time I reached the hospital, my father was awake, gray against the white pillows, an oxygen line under his nose. He looked smaller than he had that morning. Smaller than I'd ever seen him. "Ellie." He found my hand. "Don't you dare sell yourself to save this old man's pride. Promise me." I smiled so he wouldn't see my eyes. "I promise, Dad." It was the first lie I'd ever told him. At midnight, I sat on the cold floor of the hospital stairwell and dialed the number printed at the bottom of the contract. He answered on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting with the phone in his hand. "Elena." "I'll sign." My voice shook, and I hated it. "But I have terms." "Name them." "One: my brother never finds out why. He thinks I'm marrying for love, or for convenience, or for anything but this. Two: you never touch my father's company. It stays his. Three..." I swallowed. "Three, you don't pretend to be something you're not. Not to me. Not in private." A long pause. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost rough. "Mine are shorter. No lies inside my house. And you don't fall in love with me." "That won't be a problem." "Good." Another pause. "Wear white." "Why?" "Because the board will be watching. And because..." He stopped himself. "Never mind. Goodnight, Elena." The line went dead. I stared at the phone, and an uneasy feeling crawled up my spine. *Because.* Because what? --- We were married on Thursday, in the rain, at the city clerk's office. No flowers. No guests, except his assistant, a silver-haired woman named Margaret who held an umbrella over my head and whispered, "He's not what you think, dear," before I could ask what she meant. The dress was simple ivory silk. Adrian had sent it to my apartment with no note, and it fit as if it had been made for me. I tried not to think about how he'd known my size. The ring was cold on my finger. The pen was colder. I signed my name beneath his and felt something inside me close like a door. "By the authority vested in me," the clerk droned, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." I'd forgotten that part. So had my body, apparently, because my knees locked. Adrian stepped close. Rain clung to his dark lashes. For a moment, he looked at me not like a contract, but like something he was afraid to break. "Elena," he said quietly. "Permission?" Of all the things I'd braced for, I hadn't braced for *that*. I gave the smallest nod. His lips met mine, brief, careful, barely a touch. And still, heat shot through me so fiercely that I gripped his lapels before I knew what I was doing. He pulled back first. His voice was hoarse. "That was not in the contract." "Then maybe," I whispered, "your contract needs better terms." Something unreadable crossed his face. He turned away, and I could have sworn his hand was trembling. --- The Blackwood estate sat above the city like a fortress: glass, black stone, and silence. Adrian showed me to a bedroom twice the size of my apartment, with a view of the water. "Mine is at the end of the hall," he said from the doorway. "You'll never need to knock. You'll never need to fear me." "I'm not afraid of you." "You should be." The words came out almost like a plea. "Goodnight, Mrs. Blackwood." Mrs. Blackwood. The name felt like a costume belonging to someone braver. I didn't sleep. Around two in the morning, I padded down the dark hallway for water, and froze. Adrian's car was gone. Margaret had mentioned an emergency flight to Tokyo, back by dawn. The house was empty, but a thin line of light spilled from under the study door. I told myself I wouldn't. I had a right to know who I'd married. I had a right to read page thirty-eight of the contract, which I was almost sure was missing a clause. The door wasn't locked. The study smelled of cedar and rain. A massive desk dominated the room, and one drawer sat slightly open, as though closed in a hurry. Inside lay a thick manila folder. On the tab, in Adrian's slanting handwriting, was my name. *HART, ELENA.* My hands went cold. I opened it. A photograph of me at my college graduation, squinting into the sun. Another of me outside the coffee shop where I'd worked at twenty. Another, me laughing on a street corner, a face I barely recognized as my own. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Each stamped with a date. The oldest was seven years old. *Seven.* Daniel's startup hadn't even existed seven years ago. There had been no feud. No betrayal. No reason for Adrian Blackwood to know my name. Beneath the photographs lay bank statements, my student loans, marked *PAID*, by an account I didn't recognize. A tuition receipt I'd always thought was a scholarship. A medical bill for my father's first surgery, years ago, also marked *PAID*. My breath came in shallow, broken sips. *Who are you?* At the very bottom of the folder was a single sheet of yellowed paper, folded in thirds. I knew the handwriting before I read a word, because I'd grown up with it on birthday cards and grocery lists. It was my brother's. *Adrian,* *If this goes wrong, they'll come after Ellie. Whatever it takes, keep her out of it. Burn me if you have to. Just keep her safe.* *Promise me.* *D.* The date at the top was eight months before the night Adrian supposedly destroyed Daniel's life. The paper slipped from my fingers. Behind me, downstairs, the front door opened. Slow footsteps crossed the marble floor. Then a voice, deep, tired, and terrifyingly gentle, drifted up the stairs. "Elena?" I turned. He was standing in the doorway, rain on his coat, his eyes on the folder in my hands. "You weren't supposed to find that yet," said Adrian Blackwood.