Bought By The Coldhearted Media Mogul

Cinthia sat on the leather sofa in the corner of Adrian's office. It was Italian leather, soft as butter, but to her, it felt like a bed of nails.

She had her phone clutched in her hand under her coat. A text from Carter had come in five minutes ago: Did he transfer the money yet? Don't screw this up.

She felt sick. Physically sick.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. A man with sandy blonde hair and a grin that looked too relaxed for this room strode in.

"I hear congratulations are in order," the man said. "Or condolences. Depending on who you ask."

Spencer Hayes. The company's chief legal counsel. And, apparently, Adrian's friend.

Adrian didn't smile. He pointed at Cinthia. "Give it to her."

Spencer turned. He saw Cinthia huddled on the couch. He paused, blinking.

"Her?" Spencer looked back at Adrian. "Adrian, is she... legal? Like, voting age legal?"

Cinthia flushed. She knew she looked young without makeup, especially in her oversized thrift-store blazer.

"She's twenty-three," Adrian said impatiently. "Give her the damn papers."

Spencer sat down on the armchair opposite Cinthia. He placed a thick stack of documents on the low coffee table.

"Hi," he said, offering a charming, predatory smile. "I'm Spencer. I'm the guy who makes sure that when this ends-and it will-you leave with exactly what you came in with. Which, judging by the coat, is nothing."

Cinthia didn't respond to the jab. She reached for the documents.

The header read: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT.

She flipped the page.

Clause 1: Asset Separation. Total isolation of all assets acquired before and during the marriage.

Clause 4: Confidentiality. Absolute silence regarding the nature of the arrangement.

Clause 7: Behavioral Expectations.

Cinthia read the fine print. The Wife shall not engage in public displays of affection unless initiated by the Husband. The Wife shall attend all mandatory Clemons family functions. The Wife shall not speak to the press.

"What happens if I break a rule?" she asked, her voice small.

Spencer tapped the last page. "Clause 12. Penalty. You become liable for a liquidated damages sum of five million dollars."

Cinthia gasped. "Five million?"

"Plus," Adrian added from his desk, "I reinstate your brother's debt. And I press charges for the incident at The Onyx."

He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching her. "Save it, Spencer," he said, his voice flat. "This is just a signature to appease the trust board, nothing more. What's the matter?" he directed at Cinthia. "Did you think you hit the jackpot? Did you think you could divorce me in a year and take half?"

He thought she was calculating her payout. He didn't know she was calculating her survival probability.

Suddenly, the office door opened.

"Mr. Clemons, I have the-"

It was Giana. She walked in holding a file, not bothering to knock.

She stopped dead.

She saw Spencer. She saw the papers. And then, she saw Cinthia. Sitting on the VIP sofa. In the CEO's office.

Giana's jaw dropped. Her eyes darted from Cinthia to Adrian.

Cinthia instinctively held up the document to cover her face, panic seizing her chest. No. Not now.

Adrian slammed his hand on his desk. "Get out!"

Giana jumped. She scrambled backward, her heels slipping on the floor. "Sorry! So sorry!" She slammed the door shut.

But the damage was done. Cinthia knew that look. By lunch, the entire 14th floor would know Cinthia Wise was in the penthouse. By dinner, the rumors would be mutating into something monstrous.

"Great," Adrian muttered. "Another leak to plug." He looked at Cinthia with renewed irritation. "Sign it. Now."