Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire Boss

The Maybach glided silently into the private underground garage of the tallest residential skyscraper in Manhattan.

The exclusive elevator doors opened directly into Justice's penthouse.

Cordelia stepped out, her heels sinking into the thick, imported rug. The space was massive, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the storm raging over the city.

She clutched the glass of water he had given her in the car. Her knuckles were white again.

"Thank you for getting me out of there," Cordelia said, her voice tight. She stayed near the elevator, refusing to move further into his territory. "How exactly do you expect me to repay this favor, Mr. Duncan?"

Justice walked past her toward the windows. He unbuttoned his suit jacket with one hand, his movements slow and deliberate.

He turned around and picked up a thick manila folder from a glass coffee table.

He tossed it. The folder slid across the smooth glass and stopped right at the edge, inches from Cordelia.

The seal of the most ruthless law firm in New York was stamped on the cover.

"I need a wife," Justice said. His tone was as cold and sterile as a surgeon's scalpel. "Someone with a spotless background. Someone who looks perfect in front of the cameras."

Cordelia's lungs forgot how to pull in air. She stared at the folder, then up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Open it," he commanded.

Cordelia set the water glass down. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal and pulled out the thick stack of papers.

It was a marriage contract.

Her eyes scanned the bold print. The terms were brutal but incredibly lucrative. A five-year marriage. In exchange, he would legally force her father to release her mother's trust fund to her, and he would inject fifty million dollars into her architectural firm by tomorrow morning.

Cordelia felt a bitter laugh bubble up in her throat. "This is absurd. You are Justice Duncan. You could have any woman in the world. Why do you need a contract marriage?"

Justice reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a glossy photograph and dropped it onto the table next to the contract.

"Because of him," Justice said.

Cordelia looked down.

It was a picture of a little boy, no older than four. He was wearing a tiny tailored suit. He had jet-black hair and striking, icy blue eyes. But it was his expression that caught her off guard-he looked entirely too serious, too guarded for a child.

"My heir. Leo," Justice stated, his voice devoid of any paternal warmth. "The family trust dictates that I must provide a stable, two-parent household for him before my thirty-fifth birthday, or I forfeit my voting rights on the board. He needs a mother. You need protection and capital. It is a mutually beneficial transaction."

The moment Cordelia's eyes locked onto the boy's face in the photo, a violent, physical reaction tore through her body.

Her chest tightened so painfully she gasped. A sharp, inexplicable ache bloomed right behind her ribs. Her fingers twitched, an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the glossy paper washing over her.

She swallowed hard, forcing the bizarre emotion down. She couldn't let him see her crack.

"Marriage isn't a business transaction to me," Cordelia said, her voice shaking slightly. She dropped the contract back onto the table. "I need time to think."

Justice didn't argue. He didn't push.

He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out an unlimited black titanium credit card, and placed it on top of the contract.

"My driver will take you to a secure penthouse I own in Tribeca," Justice said, turning his back to her to look out at the rain. "Take the night."

Cordelia didn't touch the card. She turned and pressed the elevator button.

The ride down to the garage felt like descending into a grave.

As the elevator dropped, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit her. The walls seemed to spin. Her stomach lurched, much worse than the nausea she felt at the hotel.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, leaning heavily against the cold metal wall.

She thought it was just the adrenaline crashing, the stress of the ruined engagement. But as the nausea persisted, a cold dread began to pool in her gut.

The elevator doors opened. The driver was waiting by the Maybach.

"Miss Nguyen, to Tribeca?" the driver asked respectfully.

Cordelia shook her head, swallowing the bile. "No. Take me to the Upper East Side. Dr. Aris's private clinic."

The clinic was completely empty at this hour. The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol and bleach made Cordelia's stomach churn even more.

She sat in the private waiting room, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. They had drawn her blood twenty minutes ago.

The door clicked open. Dr. Aris, an older woman with kind eyes, walked in holding a tablet.

She smiled. "Congratulations, Cordelia."

Cordelia's brain short-circuited. "What?"

"Your HCG levels are very high," Dr. Aris said, turning the tablet to show her the graph. "Based on the HCG levels, you are roughly six weeks pregnant. The fetal development looks perfectly normal."

Six weeks.

The words hit Cordelia like a physical blow to the head. The room tilted.

A loud ringing started in her ears, drowning out the doctor's voice.

Six weeks ago.

Her memory violently ripped her back to a business trip in Las Vegas. She had been desperate to secure an investor for her firm. She had drank too much champagne at the casino bar.

She remembered stumbling into a dark hotel suite. She remembered a man.

She couldn't see his face in the dark, but she remembered his scent. Cedar and rain. She remembered the sheer size of him, the rough texture of his hands, the absolute, terrifying dominance in the way he touched her.

The scent. The hands.

Cordelia stopped breathing.

The silhouette of the man in the dark Vegas room perfectly, horrifyingly aligned with the man who had just handed her a marriage contract thirty minutes ago.

Justice Duncan.

Cordelia slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. She fell back into the chair, her legs completely giving out.

She had just rejected a marriage proposal from the most dangerous man in the city. And she was carrying his child.

She grabbed the printout of the lab results, crushing the paper in her fist until her nails cut into her palm. Panic, thick and suffocating, dragged her under.

Suddenly, the silence of the clinic was shattered by a sharp vibration.

Her phone was buzzing in her clutch.

Cordelia jumped. She reached in with trembling fingers and pulled it out.

The caller ID flashed brightly on the screen.

Justice Duncan.

He shouldn't have this number. She had never given it to him.

Cordelia stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her throat. She took three deep, ragged breaths, trying to force her vocal cords to work.

She swiped to answer and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Have you signed the contract yet, Cordelia?" Justice's deep, cold voice vibrated through the speaker. He sounded completely calm, a stark contrast to her spiraling panic. "Did you really think you could walk into a clinic on the Upper East Side without my knowledge? Dr. Aris is an old family friend. Her private practice has been quietly funded by Duncan Capital for a decade. She keeps me thoroughly informed."