His Collateral Bride:A Billionaire Romance

Two weeks later

"Dave Wilson, do you take Layla Corbett to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"Yes, I do." Dave's voice was steady, his gaze never wavering from Layla's face.

"Layla Corbett, do you take Dave Wilson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Layla looked up at him, a cold shiver racing down her spine. She felt as though she were signing her soul over to the devil, even if the devil did look breathtaking in a custom-tailored tuxedo. It had been only fourteen days since that night in the alley, and she still knew next to nothing about the man standing across from her.

The silence stretched. Dave's expression shifted, a questioning glint in his eyes that snapped her back to the altar. Her fingers tightened around her bouquet until the stems bit into her palms.

"I, yeah. Yes, I do," she stammered.

The priest didn't miss a beat, moving forward as if Layla hadn't just spent two minutes teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "I pronounce you husband and wife."

Layla's first instinct was to hike up the hem of her lace gown and bolt for the exit. But there was no escape. She had made a vow in front of God and a hall full of people. This was a contract, a cold-blooded business arrangement, yet Dave had still not disclosed his true endgame. 'I just need a wife,' he had told her that night.

As they walked down the aisle, Dave's hand was firm on hers. He looked every bit the victor. He was easily one of the most powerful men in the city, with dark, wavy hair and piercing light-brown eyes that seemed to read her every jagged thought. At six foot four, he towered over her, forcing her to tilt her head back just to catch the edge of his chiseled jawline.

While Dave was a picture of serene satisfaction, a storm was howling inside Layla.

At the reception, the performance continued. Dave was the perfect gentleman, pulling out her chair and leaning in close to whisper pleasantries that meant nothing. At one point, he fed her a small piece of cake with his mouth, his teeth grazing her lower lip in a move so practiced, so delicately romantic, that Layla felt her breath hitch.

Was it a show for the guests? Or was there a flicker of something real behind those light-brown eyes?

The drive home was a different story. The "doting husband" vanished the moment the car door clicked shut. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the luxury sedan. Dave sat as far from her as possible, his jaw tight, fidgeting as if her very proximity irritated him. Layla stared out the window at the grand architecture of this part of the city she rarely had the opportunity to see, the exclusive region for the ultra-wealthy. She was entering a world of gold and glass, but it felt like a prison.

When they arrived at the estate, Dave didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He surged out of the car and disappeared inside before Layla could even gather her train of dress.

By the time she stepped into the grand foyer, the wedding was officially over. Dave was sprawled on a navy velvet sofa, his tie discarded and a tumbler of amber whiskey gripped in his hand. He was staring at his phone, the flickering light of the screen casting sharp shadows across his face.

"When were you planning on telling me you usually have mood swings like a lady about to start her menstrual cycle?" Layla asked, her voice echoing in the vast, marble hall. She crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the polished floor.

A soft snort came from the shadows. Layla turned to see a woman in a crisp uniform watching them.

"That is Linda, the head housekeeper," Dave said, not looking up from his screen. "She'll show you to your room. If the decor isn't to your taste, you can go ahead to hire someone to change it tomorrow."

Layla felt the sting of his indifference. He had been the one to hunt her down. He had been the one to offer the deal: 'Marry me, and your father's debts vanish.' "Dave," she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more dangerous register. He finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "Why me? Why did you really want this? Why did you choose to marry me?"

He shrugged, a cold, elegant movement. "You are a means to an end, Layla. You read the contract. Don't waste my time with silly questions."

Before she could retort, the front doors swung open. A redhead woman swept into the foyer, her heels clicking like gunfire on the marble. Behind her, a middle-aged man struggled under the weight of several designer trunks.

"Be careful with those!" the woman snapped, spinning around so quickly the porter nearly tripped. "Nothing you own could ever pay for what's in those boxes."