His Contract Bride, The Real Heiress

Serena waited five seconds. Then she turned the lock.

The mask dropped. She threw the heavy canvas bag onto the pristine white rug. She unlocked the false bottom of the bag, revealing the sleek, black matte surface of her equipment hidden within the rusted casings. She tapped the screen of a secure tablet.

Trust Portfolio Value: $5,000,000,000.00 [Access Restricted].

Available Liquid Funds: $42,000.00.

She checked the perimeter security feeds she had hacked into during the taxi ride. No cameras in the bedroom. Good.

She stripped off the flannel shirt, revealing a black tank top and arms that were toned, scarred, and dangerous. She walked into the bathroom-a space larger than her entire cabin in the cover story-and turned on the shower. She scrubbed the travel dust off her skin.

Once dried, she opened a small, unmarked jar from her bag. She applied a thin layer of translucent, texturizing gel to her hands and face. It dried instantly, leaving her skin feeling rougher, looking slightly sun-damaged and uneven. The "farm girl" complexion was as much a costume as the boots.

She deliberately put the flannel back on. The disguise had to be 24/7.

Her stomach growled. A low, angry sound.

She unlocked the door and padded out into the hallway. The penthouse was silent. She found the kitchen, a stainless steel laboratory that looked like it had never seen a crumb.

A maid was wiping down the counter. She looked up, startled.

I'm hungry, Serena said, leaning against the doorframe.

The maid, Martha, looked nervous. She glanced toward the living room where Victoria was likely holding court. "I... The kitchen is closed, Miss. Mrs. Sterling has strict schedules. Dinner isn't until eight."

I'm hungry now.

I can't cook anything without authorization.

Serena didn't argue. She walked over to a crystal bowl in the center of the island. It was filled with perfect, waxy green apples. Imported. Organic. Decorative.

She picked one up.

Don't! Martha gasped. "Those are for the centerpiece!"

Serena polished the apple on her flannel shirt. She took a massive, loud bite. Crunch.

Victoria appeared in the doorway, drawn by the noise. She stared at Serena, at the apple, at the juice running down Serena's chin.

That is imported fruit, Victoria hissed. "You are eating a decoration. You are disgusting."

Serena chewed slowly. She swallowed. She looked Victoria dead in the eye, her expression vacant but her posture defiant.

It tastes like an apple, Serena said.

She turned around and walked back toward the bedroom, taking another bite. Crunch.

Back in the Master Suite, the sky outside had turned to ink. Thunder rumbled in the distance, vibrating against the glass. Serena finished the apple and tossed the core into a trash can made of gold mesh.

She looked at the bed. Julian's bed.

She knew who he was. Julian Sterling. The Wolf of Wall Street. The man who had turned his family's legacy into an empire. The man she was contractually obligated to marry to access her grandfather's trust.

She was tired. The jet lag, the acting, the weight of the mission.

She climbed onto the bed. She didn't get under the covers-that felt like a violation too far. She curled up on top of the duvet, hugging a pillow.

The scent of sandalwood hit her again. It triggered a strange, cold shiver down her spine. A physiological reaction she couldn't place. It felt like danger, or perhaps safety, but her mind couldn't label it. It was just a scent.

Focus, she told herself. Get the money. Get out.

She closed her eyes.

Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed open. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs. A man's voice, low and exhausted, muttered something to the butler.

The Wolf was home.