The Billionaire's Debt Bride

The funeral wreath on the door mocked me with its perfect white roses. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since they found Dad's car at the bottom of Mercer Canyon, and I still couldn't breathe right. I pushed through the front door of our family home, ignoring the neighbors who'd gathered in the living room with their casseroles and pitying looks. Mom sat on the couch, spine straight, not a hair out of place even now. She looked up when I entered. "Samantha. Where have you been?" "The police station." I dropped my bag on the floor. "I had questions about the accident report." Her jaw tightened. "We've been through this." "No, you've been through this. You've accepted their story. I haven't." The room went quiet. Mrs. Patterson from next door suddenly found her coffee cup fascinating. "Not here," Mom said through her teeth. I didn't move. "The brake lines were cut, Mom. The report says mechanical failure, but I saw the photos. Those lines didn't just fail." "Enough." She stood, smoothing her black dress. "Your father lost control of his car. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident." "You're lying." The slap came fast. My cheek burned, but I didn't touch it. Didn't give her the satisfaction. "How dare you," she whispered. "Today of all days." I grabbed my bag. "I'm going back to my apartment." "You'll do no such thing. The memorial service is in two hours." "Then I guess you'll have to make excuses for me. You're good at that." I was out the door before she could respond. My hands shook as I unlocked my car. The older model sedan Dad had given me for graduation rattled to life, and I pulled away from the curb without looking back. My apartment was across town, a small studio I'd rented six months ago when I couldn't stand living at home anymore. Mom had called it my "rebellion phase." Dad had just smiled and helped me move. Now he was gone, and nothing made sense. I parked and took the stairs two at a time. My neighbor's door was open, music drifting out. College students. They probably didn't even know someone had died. Inside my apartment, I locked the door and leaned against it. The photos I'd printed from the police database were spread across my kitchen table. I'd called in a favor with Dad's old partner, Detective Morrison, who'd slipped me copies before the case was officially closed. Closed. Like Dad's death was just another file to shelve. I studied the images again. The car, crumpled at the bottom of the canyon. The brake lines, severed too cleanly to be wear and tear. And the business card they'd found in Dad's jacket pocket, partially burned. Dante Carver. CEO of Carver Industries. I'd googled the name a hundred times. Billionaire. Philanthropist. And according to several conspiracy forums, possibly connected to organized crime. Nothing proven, just whispers and deleted forum posts. Dad had been an accountant. A boring, methodical accountant who did taxes for small businesses and came home by six every night. Why would he have Dante Carver's personal card? My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer. But something made me press accept. "Hello?" Silence. Then breathing. "Who is this?" "Stop digging." The voice was male, distorted somehow. "Your father's death was an accident. Accept it." My heart hammered. "Who are you?" "Someone trying to save your life. Forget about Dante Carver. Forget about the brake lines. Go to the memorial service, cry for your daddy, and move on." "Go to hell." "You first, if you keep this up." The line went dead. I stared at my phone. They knew. Someone knew I'd been asking questions, and they cared enough to threaten me. Which meant I was right. I grabbed my jacket and the business card. If Dante Carver was involved in Dad's death, I'd get answers directly from him. The address on the card led to Carver Tower downtown. Forty-three floors of steel and glass that dominated the skyline. Traffic was light. I made it downtown in twenty minutes, my mind racing the whole way. What was I even going to say? Excuse me, Mr. Billionaire, did you murder my father? The lobby was all marble and chrome. A security guard looked up from his desk. "Can I help you?" "I'm here to see Dante Carver." He almost laughed. "Do you have an appointment?" "No, but—" "Then you can't see him. Mr. Carver doesn't take walk-ins." I pulled out the business card. "He'll want to see me. Tell him it's about James Montgomery." The guard's expression shifted. Just slightly, but I caught it. Recognition. "Wait here." He picked up the phone, turning away so I couldn't hear. The conversation lasted less than a minute. When he faced me again, his face was carefully blank. "Forty-third floor. Someone will meet you at the elevator." My stomach dropped. I hadn't actually expected this to work. The elevator ride felt like falling. Numbers climbed while my courage sank. What was I doing? This man might have killed my father. And I was walking straight into his office. The doors opened to a reception area that cost more than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. A woman in a sharp suit waited. "Ms. Montgomery. This way." She led me down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably cost six figures each. We stopped at double doors made of dark wood. "Mr. Carver is expecting you." She pushed the doors open. The office was massive. And there, behind a desk that could double as a boat, sat the man from the photos I'd found online. Dante Carver. He was younger than I'd expected. Early thirties, maybe. Dark hair, darker eyes. Expensive suit that fit like it was sewn onto him. Handsome in a way that made you think of predators. He stood as I entered. "Samantha Montgomery." His voice was smooth. Controlled. "I was wondering when you'd show up." My blood turned to ice. "You knew I'd come?" He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "Your father told me you would. Right before he died."