Ruthless Tycoon: Protecting My Contract Wife

Amira yanked the heavy apartment door shut, cutting off Agnes's screeching voice.

She took the three flights of dim stairs at a dead sprint. She didn't stop until she burst out of the decaying brick building, gasping for the crisp, early autumn air of New York.

Fat, freezing raindrops suddenly slammed against her forehead. A sudden downpour washed over the street.

Amira didn't have an umbrella. She zipped her jacket all the way up to her chin, tucked her chin down, and ran toward the subway station three blocks away.

Sitting in the swaying, mildew-scented subway car, she pulled out her phone with trembling fingers. The screen was cracked.

She scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb hovered over her boyfriend Angelo's name. She hesitated. Calling Angelo would mean a lecture, a condescending sigh, and maybe he'd toss a few hundred dollars at her like she was a charity case. The humiliation would be worse than the cold. Aria, at least, had always pretended to be on her side.

Her thumb stopped on Aria Fuller. Her best friend. She pressed dial.

It rang for a long time. When it connected, soft jazz and the clinking of crystal glasses drifted through the speaker.

"Hey, Amira," Aria answered.

Amira swallowed the lump in her throat. She quickly explained that she had been kicked out and desperately needed a loan to cover her NYU tuition to avoid being dropped from her classes.

Aria was silent for two seconds. Then, her voice dripped with soft, overwhelming sympathy. "Oh my god, Amira. Come to my apartment right now."

Forty minutes later, Amira stood completely soaked in front of the security desk of a luxury Upper East Side high-rise.

The doorman stared at the puddle forming around her worn sneakers until Aria called down to authorize her entry.

The elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor. Aria stood in the doorway, wearing an expensive silk slip dress, holding a half-full glass of red wine.

Aria gave Amira a brief hug, carefully keeping her silk dress away from Amira's dripping jacket.

Amira stepped into the overly warm, massive living room. She sat rigidly on the very edge of a pristine white leather sofa, feeling entirely out of place.

Aria handed her a small hand towel, then elegantly sank into the opposite armchair, crossing her long legs.

Amira took a deep breath. Her chest ached. She humbled herself, asking Aria to lend her twenty thousand dollars just to secure her enrollment.

"I'll work three jobs in the Hamptons," Amira promised, her voice tight. "I'll pay you back with interest the second I graduate. I swear."

The warm smile vanished from Aria's face. A look of condescending difficulty replaced it.

Aria sighed heavily and set her wine glass on the marble table. "Amira, my allowance just went to that limited-edition Birkin. I literally have no cash right now."

Amira froze. Her lungs stopped pulling in air. She knew for a fact Aria's father had just wired her a hundred-thousand-dollar birthday gift two days ago.

"Aria, please," Amira's voice cracked. "This is life or death for me."

A hidden flash of pleasure danced in the depths of Aria's eyes, though her face contorted into a mask of helplessness.

"Honestly, Amira," Aria said softly, "maybe you should just listen to your parents. Marrying a rich guy is the easiest way out for someone in your position."

The words hit Amira like a second sledgehammer. The illusion of their friendship shattered. She saw Aria clearly for the first time.

Amira stood up, her fists clenching so hard her nails dug into her palms. She opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of a key turning in the front door stopped her.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure walked in. It was Angelo Mack.

Angelo held a brown paper bag from a high-end restaurant. He looked up, saw Amira standing there dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat, and his brow instantly furrowed in distaste.

Aria shot up from her chair. She threw on a look of absolute panic and rushed toward Angelo before Amira could say a word.