A Contract Marriage With My Nemesis

Elena's eyes snapped open.

She gasped, pulling in a violent, ragged breath as if she had just broken the surface of a freezing ocean. Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers desperately clawing at her own skin, trying to rip away the phantom sensation of the pillow that had been pressed over her face just moments ago. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it felt like it might crack her chest open.

She wasn't dead.

Her palms slapped against the mattress, her fingers digging into the cool, slippery fabric. Silk. It was real. The physical friction of the expensive sheets against her skin grounded her spinning mind.

Slowly, her vision cleared. The suffocating darkness of her bedroom was gone. Instead, her eyes focused on a massive, custom-made crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. The light was dim, but it was enough to tell her she was not in her own home.

She inhaled sharply. The air didn't smell like the metallic tang of her own blood anymore. It smelled of stale champagne, expensive bourbon, and a sharp, woodsy cologne that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

A sudden, piercing pain shot through her temples. Elena let out a low, muffled groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her stomach twisted into a tight, nauseating knot.

She turned her head to the side.

A man was lying next to her, face down. His broad, muscular back was completely bare, the tanned skin marred by several long, angry red scratch marks.

Elena's breath hitched in her throat. Her pulse flatlined for a fraction of a second.

Right between his shoulder blades was a distinct, intricate black ink tattoo. She knew that tattoo. Everyone on Wall Street knew that tattoo. It belonged to Johnathan Chase. Her family's biggest corporate rival. The man who had spent the last five years trying to tear her company apart.

A violent wave of nausea hit her as the memories crashed into her brain. The scandal. The paparazzi. The look of fake pity on her sister Haylee's face. The cold, dead eyes of her fiancé, Darron, as he held the pillow over her face. The realization that they had orchestrated everything to steal her trust fund.

She scrambled backward, her back hitting the solid oak headboard. Her eyes darted to the nightstand. A sleek, late-model smartphone sat next to a half-empty glass of water. She snatched the phone, her fingers trembling so violently she almost dropped it.

She tapped the screen. The glaring white light illuminated the date.

It was exactly one year ago. The morning of the hotel scandal. The day her life had started to unravel.

Elena closed her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath through her nose, forcing the oxygen into her panicked lungs. She held it for three seconds, then exhaled. She shoved the shock and the boiling, acidic rage down into the pit of her stomach. There would be time to kill them later. Right now, she had to survive the next ten minutes.

She slid her legs out from under the heavy duvet, trying to be completely silent.

The moment her bare feet touched the thick carpet, her knees buckled. A sharp ache shot up her thighs, a physical reminder of exactly what had happened in this bed hours ago. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper, and grabbed the edge of the nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She scanned the floor. The suite was a disaster zone. Clothes were scattered everywhere.

She spotted her torn haute couture dress near the sofa. She bent down, her muscles screaming in protest, and snatched the fabric. Her eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown as she saw the ripped seam along the waist.

She pulled the dress over her head, her movements jerky and rushed. She reached behind her back, pulling the zipper up as far as it would go before it caught on the torn fabric.

As she turned to grab her heels, her foot clipped an empty champagne bottle lying on the rug.

The heavy glass spun across the floor, colliding with the wooden leg of the coffee table with a sharp, ringing crack.

The sound echoed through the silent suite like a gunshot.

The man on the bed shifted.

"Going somewhere?"

Johnathan's voice was thick with sleep, low and vibrating with a dark, gravelly edge.

Elena froze. Her spine locked into a rigid line. She didn't turn around.

She heard the rustle of the silk sheets. Johnathan sat up slowly. The thin blanket pooled at his waist, exposing his heavily muscled chest.

His dark, piercing eyes cut through the dim light of the room, locking onto her back with the intensity of a predator.

"Are you planning to run away like a coward?" he mocked, a cold smirk playing on his lips.

Elena's jaw tightened. She forced her breathing to steady, locking her emotions away behind a wall of ice. She turned around slowly, her face a completely blank, unreadable mask.

She looked straight into Johnathan's eyes, refusing to shrink under his heavy stare.

"I'm leaving because I have a company to run, Johnathan. Not because I'm afraid of you," she said, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Johnathan's eyes narrowed slightly. The smirk faded from his lips. He tilted his head, clearly caught off guard by her unnatural calm. He had expected tears. He had expected panic. He hadn't expected this dead-eyed composure.

He threw the blanket aside and stood up. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dark suit trousers. The sheer physical size of him seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

Elena's instincts kicked in. She took a half-step back, her shoulder blades hitting the cold, hard plaster of the wall.

Johnathan didn't stop. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He lifted his hand and planted his palm flat against the wall, right next to her head. His body caged her in, his chest inches from hers. He leaned down, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Before he could speak, a violent, aggressive pounding erupted on the heavy wooden door of the suite.