Bought By The Coldhearted Media Mogul

Gravity was a cruel mistress.

Cinthia hit the floor hard, her knees slamming into the rug, but her upper body didn't find the carpet. Instead, her hands landed on warm, firm fabric.

She was sprawled across Adrian Clemons's legs.

Her palms were pressed against his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath the immaculate wool of his trousers. The scent of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and something sharp like winter air-filled her nose, overpowering the stench of spilled alcohol.

For a split second, time suspended. She looked up, her chin grazing his knee.

Adrian froze. His entire body went rigid, as if he had been touched by something contagious.

Then, the reaction came.

It wasn't a gentle push. It was a shove, fueled by a visceral, almost violent rejection. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, his grip bruising, and he threw her back.

"Get off."

The words were a snarl.

Cinthia scrambled backward, landing awkwardly on her rear on the wet, alcohol-soaked rug. Humiliation burned her cheeks hotter than a fever. She pulled her coat tight around herself, trying to make herself smaller.

Adrian stood up abruptly. He brushed his hands down his thighs, a frantic, repetitive motion, as if trying to wipe away invisible filth. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Look at that," Yvette sneered, crossing her arms. "The Wise family women are just as cheap as the men. Throwing yourself at him? Really?"

Cinthia ignored her. She looked at Carter, hoping for... something. An apology? A defense?

Carter wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Adrian, and his eyes were wide. Not with fear anymore, but with a sudden, dawning realization.

"Miles," Adrian barked, not looking away from Cinthia. "Call the police. I want them all charged. Trespassing, assault, destruction of property."

A man in a sharp grey suit stepped forward from the shadows-Miles, his executive assistant. He pulled out his phone.

"No! Wait!" Carter lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Miles's trousers. "Please! Mr. Clemons! Don't call the cops! We can pay! We can make it up to you!"

Adrian looked down at Carter with a sneer that could strip paint. "You? You look like you couldn't afford the ice in that bucket."

"My sister!" Carter blurted out. "She'll do anything! Look at her! She's obedient. She's clean. She can work it off!"

Cinthia felt like she had been slapped. The air left her lungs. "Carter, stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Shut up, Cinthia!" Carter hissed at her, then turned his desperate grin back to Adrian. "She's never been in trouble. No record. She'll do whatever you want. Just don't send me to jail."

Adrian paused.

His hand, which had been reaching for his own phone, stopped mid-air.

He looked at the sobbing man on the floor, then shifted his gaze to the woman huddled in the mess of broken glass.

She looked pathetic. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her coat was cheap polyester, and she was trembling like a leaf. But her eyes...

They weren't begging. They were furious. Behind the fear, there was a spark of absolute indignation. She was biting her lip so hard it was turning white, refusing to cry.

Adrian's mind flashed back to the morning. His mother's voice on the phone, sharp and relentless. The trust fund vote is next week, Adrian. The board is nervous. They want stability. They want a family man, not a brooding widower. Get married, or Darryl gets the chair.

Darryl. His half-brother. The mistake his father had made with a secretary two decades ago.

Adrian needed a wife. Not a real one. God, no. He never wanted a real one again. He needed a prop. A mannequin. Someone who had no power, no connections, and no ability to fight him. Someone he could buy and discard when the contract was up.

He looked at Cinthia again.

She was desperate. Her brother was a criminal. They were drowning in debt; he could smell the poverty on them.

She was perfect.

Adrian lowered his hand. "Miles. Hold the call."

Miles froze, phone in hand. "Sir?"

Adrian stepped over the broken glass, his Italian leather shoes crunching on the shards. He stopped in front of Cinthia. He towered over her, blocking out the light from the chandelier.

"You're the sister?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion. It was a business transaction.

Cinthia looked up. Her neck hurt from the angle. "Yes," she managed to say.

Adrian turned his head slightly toward Yvette. "Get out."

Yvette blinked, her mouth falling open. "What? Adrian, honey, they attacked me-"

"I said get out," Adrian said, his tone dropping an octave. "Miles, escort Ms. Quinton to her car. And ensure she understands that if a word of this leaks to the press, her father's company will lose its credit line by morning."

Yvette went pale. She gathered her skirt and fled, Miles following her to the door before turning back.

The room was silent now, save for Carter's ragged breathing.

Adrian pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his hands again, though he hadn't touched anything, and then dropped the silk square into the trash can beside the sofa.

He looked at Carter. "You want to avoid prison?"

Carter nodded so hard his head bobbed like a toy. "Yes. Yes, sir. Anything."

Adrian pointed a long finger at Cinthia.

"Lend her to me."

Cinthia's heart stopped. "What?"

"One year," Adrian said, his eyes locking onto hers. They were cold, empty tunnels. "You give her to me for one year. I wipe your debt. I fix the damage here. No police."

Carter didn't even hesitate. "Done. Take her."