His Contract Bride, The Real Heiress

She didn't.

Sunlight hit the room like a nuclear blast.

The floor-to-ceiling windows, devoid of curtains because Julian demanded absolute visibility, channeled the morning sun directly onto the bed.

Julian woke up with a gasp. The headache was gone, replaced by a dry mouth and a sense of disorientation. He felt heavy. Rested. For the first time in months, he hadn't woken up screaming.

He shifted. His arm was numb. He looked down.

There was a woman in his bed.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his chest. He scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

What the hell?

He kicked out, a reflex born of fear. His foot connected with the woman's hip.

Get out!

Serena, who had been in a light doze, didn't scream. She didn't flail. She simply rolled with the force of the kick, falling off the edge of the massive mattress and landing on the thick carpet with a muffled thump.

She sat up immediately. She didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. She rubbed her elbow, her hair a messy halo around her face.

Julian stared at her, his chest heaving. He recognized her now. The flannel shirt on the floor. The dossier photos.

You, he breathed. "The charity case."

He pulled the sheet up to cover his bare chest, feeling absurdly exposed. "What are you doing in my bed? Did you sneak in? Is this some kind of... seduction attempt to secure the alimony before the wedding?"

Serena stood up. She was fully dressed in her flannel and jeans, which made his nakedness even more ridiculous. She looked at him with eyes that were far too calm for a girl who had just been kicked out of bed by a billionaire.

Your sister, Serena said, her voice flat. "Stella. She told me this was my room."

Julian froze. The pieces clicked into place. Stella. The prank. The humiliation.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stella," he muttered. A vein throbbed in his temple. He didn't apologize. Sterlings didn't apologize for being tricked; they managed the fallout.

He reached for the intercom on the nightstand.

Martha, he barked. "Guest room. Prepare it. Now."

He glared at Serena. "Get your things. Get out. If I ever find you in here again, the contract is void."

Serena bent down and picked up her canvas bag. She slung it over her shoulder. She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his waist, then back to his eyes.

Nice boxers, by the way, she drawled. "Very... executive."

She turned and walked out, closing the door with a soft click.

Julian sat there, stunned. She hadn't cried. She hadn't begged. She had mocked him.

He looked down at his Calvin Kleins. He felt a strange heat rise up his neck.

Downstairs, Stella was waiting in the breakfast nook, sipping coffee, waiting for the screaming match. She had her phone ready to record the audio of the "hillbilly" crying.

Instead, Serena walked down the grand staircase. She was calm. She looked bored.

Morning, Serena said, walking past Stella to the coffee pot.

Stella blinked. "Did... did you sleep well?"

Like a log, Serena said, pouring a cup of black coffee. "Julian is a very... aggressive cuddler."

Stella choked on her latte.

Five minutes later, Julian descended. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair wet and slicked back, his face a mask of icy indifference. He walked into the dining room, the temperature seeming to drop ten degrees.

He stopped behind Stella's chair. He didn't raise his voice.

We need to talk about boundaries, Stella, he said softly.

Stella went pale. She looked from Julian to Serena. The plan had backfired. The mouse hadn't been eaten by the snake. The mouse was drinking their coffee.