Jilted At City Hall, Married A Zillionaire

Jefferson reached out, his long, pale fingers pinching the corner of the dirty bill. He lifted it as if it were contaminated.

"Twenty dollars," he murmured. "My appearance fee is usually higher."

Harper tilted her head, trying to focus on his face. He was even better looking up close. "Okay, then. Venmo? Or WeChat?"

She plopped down onto the leather sofa opposite him, crossing her legs. She leaned forward, invading his personal space.

"What's your name?" she asked. "I'm... Negative Asset." She let out a short, bitter laugh.

Jefferson stared at her. "Jefferson."

"Jeff? Nice. Sounds like a good guy." Harper pulled her phone out and waved it aimlessly.

She leaned closer. Her face was inches from his.

Jefferson could smell her. Beneath the sharp scent of cheap tequila, she smelled like citrus and rain. It was disarming.

He didn't pull back. He held her gaze, his dark eyes searching hers. "You aren't afraid of me?"

Harper blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering. She looked at his mouth. "Why? Are you going to bite?"

Jefferson's throat bobbed. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

Harper decided she needed a drink. She reached for the crystal decanter on the table between them.

Her heel caught the edge of the thick Persian rug.

"Whoa-"

She pitched forward.

Jefferson's hands shot out. It was instinct.

Harper landed hard. Not on the floor, but in his lap. She straddled his legs, her hands flying up to wrap around his neck to steady herself.

The wheelchair rolled back a few inches with a squeak of rubber on wood.

Harper froze. She was sitting on him. Her chest was pressed against his. She could feel the heat radiating from him through the black turtleneck.

The bodyguards surged forward. "Sir-!"

"Stand down," Jefferson barked, his voice rough. He didn't look at them. He was looking at Harper.

Harper looked down at her legs, draped over his. Then she looked at him, wide-eyed. "Wow. Your legs... they're actually really solid." She squeezed his thigh muscle. It was firm, yes, but with an unnatural, cold density that felt more like marble than living muscle.

Jefferson's entire body went rigid. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging in. His ears turned a shade of pink.

"Get. Off." His voice was a low growl, dangerous and intimate.

Harper scrambled to move, but suddenly, the ambient lighting in the box vanished, replaced by harsh, blinding white overhead lights.

From the floor below, screams erupted.

"NYPD! Nobody move! Hands where we can see them!"

The voice boomed over a megaphone.

Jefferson's face went pale. Genuine fear flashed in his eyes for the first time. He looked at the door, then at his watch. It was 11:15 PM.

His parole conditions were strict. No presence in entertainment venues past 9:00 PM. If he was booked tonight, the DOJ would revoke his bail. Montgomery Holdings stock would tank by morning.

He was trapped.