Fifty Million Dollar Contract: My Enemy Husband

The moving truck idled outside the massive glass-and-steel residential tower on Fifth Avenue. The sun had already set, and the city lights reflected off the polished marble of the lobby.

Eloise dragged two medium-sized suitcases across the floor. The wheels clicked loudly against the stone. She stepped into the private elevator and swiped the keycard Cameron had given her. The doors slid shut, and the elevator shot upward, making her stomach drop.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse.

Eloise stepped out. The space was massive. It was a duplex, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying, unobstructed view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. The furniture was all sharp angles, black leather, and cold grey steel. There were no pictures. No plants. It looked like a high-end hotel lobby, completely devoid of human warmth.

She pulled her suitcases onto the thick rug. The sound of the wheels was swallowed by the fabric.

From the deep shadows near the window, a small red light flared. The sharp click of a heavy metal lighter echoed through the massive room.

Eloise gasped and froze. She peered into the darkness.

Christian was sitting in a low leather armchair. He wasn't wearing a tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He held a thick cigar between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the dim light coming from the city outside.

He didn't turn on a lamp. He just sat there, watching her.

Christian exhaled a cloud of smoke. "There is a piece of paper on the kitchen island," he said. His voice was a low rumble that carried easily across the quiet room. "Read it."

Eloise let go of her suitcases. She walked over to the massive black marble kitchen island. A single sheet of printer paper sat under a glass paperweight.

She picked it up. It was a list of typed rules.

1. This marriage is strictly confidential. No media leaks.

2. Your access is restricted to the guest bedroom and common areas. You are never to enter the master suite.

3. No scandals. Any damage to the Clarke Group stock price will be dealt with severely.

Eloise read the words twice. A bitter, angry laugh bubbled up in her throat. She tossed the paper back onto the marble counter.

She turned to face the shadows where Christian sat. "Do you have paranoia, or are you just naturally this arrogant?" she snapped. "I have absolutely zero interest in your personal life or your bedroom."

The red tip of the cigar glowed brightly as Christian took a sharp drag. He pressed the cigar into a crystal ashtray, crushing it out. He stood up.

He walked slowly out of the shadows. The neon lights from the city illuminated the hard, furious lines of his face. He stopped right in front of her.

"Remember what you are," Christian said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You are a fifty-million-dollar ornament. Don't speak to me like we are equals."

The cruelty in his words felt like a knife twisting in her gut. Eloise bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She refused to let him see her cry again.

She tilted her chin up, forcing a fake, bright smile onto her face. "Well, since I'm just an ornament, shouldn't my owner provide a clothing allowance? I wouldn't want to embarrass you in public."

Christian's jaw clenched. The muscle ticked violently under his skin. Hearing her ask for money, acting exactly like the gold-digger he thought she was, made his chest burn with a sickening mix of rage and heartbreak.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a solid black Centurion card. He didn't hand it to her. He flicked his wrist, throwing the card. It hit her chest and clattered onto the floor at her feet.

"Buy whatever you want," Christian said, his voice dripping with disgust. "Just stay out of my sight."

He turned his back on her and walked toward the floating glass staircase leading to the second floor.

Eloise stood frozen until she heard a door slam upstairs. Slowly, her fake smile collapsed. She crouched down and picked up the cold plastic card from the floor. Her hands shook violently. She felt completely, utterly worthless.

She grabbed her suitcases and dragged them down the hall to the guest room. She pushed the door open. The room was perfectly clean and entirely lifeless.

She left the bags by the door and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text from her father.

The transfer cleared. The bank backed off. We are safe, Ellie.

Eloise stared at the glowing words. The tension that had been keeping her spine straight suddenly snapped. She dropped the phone onto the bed. She buried her face in the pillows and began to sob. Her shoulders shook as she cried out all the fear and humiliation of the last forty-eight hours.

Upstairs, the heavy oak door to the master suite remained tightly shut. The entire second floor was dead silent, the shadows stretching long and unbroken across the polished hardwood. There was no sound of footsteps, no sliver of light from beneath his door, as if he didn't even exist in this space. He had left her entirely alone in the sprawling, cold penthouse, letting the suffocating isolation of her new reality press down on her.