The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

Pain wasn't a sound. It was a color. A blinding, throbbing white that pulsed behind Aisha's eyelids before she even opened them.

She tried to inhale, but the air felt too cold, too sterile. It didn't smell like her lavender detergent. It smelled like expensive sage and crisp linen.

Her eyes snapped open.

This wasn't her bedroom. The ceiling was too high, crowned with intricate molding that blurred as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She pushed herself up, the heavy duvet sliding down her chest.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog.

She looked down. She was naked.

Aisha scrambled backward, clutching the sheet to her chin. Her breath hitched in her throat, jagged and shallow. Where were her clothes? Where was she?

Memories from last night were like shattered glass-sharp, fragmented, and dangerous to touch. The charity gala. The flashing lights. Her step-sister, Cathie, handing her a flute of champagne with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Drink up, Aisha. You look so tense.

Then darkness. And now... this.

The sound of a door handle turning made her freeze.

Steam billowed out from the bathroom, carrying the scent of sandalwood. A man walked out.

He was tall. Terrifyingly tall. Water droplets clung to broad shoulders and a chest defined by hard, lean muscle. A white towel hung low on his hips, clinging precariously.

He stopped when he saw her. He didn't look surprised. He looked annoyed.

Aisha grabbed a pillow from the bed, wielding it like a shield. "Stay back!" Her voice cracked, dry and brittle.

The man didn't flinch. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, sweeping it back from a face that was unfairly symmetrical. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of storm clouds.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was deep, a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "Finally."

"Who are you?" Aisha demanded, though her hands were shaking so hard the pillow wobbled. "Did Gretta send you? How much did she pay you to ruin me?"

The man's brows knitted together. He walked over to the dresser, completely ignoring her makeshift weapon, and picked up a watch. "I don't know who Gretta is. And nobody paid me anything. Yet."

Aisha's gaze darted to the bedside table. There, sitting next to a crystal lamp, was a stack of cash. Hundred-dollar bills.

Her stomach dropped.

"Oh god," she whispered. The air left her lungs. "You're... you're a pro."

The man turned, following her gaze to the money. A strange expression crossed his face-something between amusement and calculation. He didn't deny it. He just leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

"You think I'm an escort?"

"Are you?"

He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

It mattered. It mattered because if he was a professional, this was a transaction. A setup. Gretta had staged this perfectly. The drugged drink. The hotel room. The hired muscle.

Tears, hot and humiliating, pricked her eyes. She blinked them back furiously. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him.

"Where are my clothes?" she snapped.

"Floor," he said, pointing a long finger toward the foot of the bed.

Aisha leaned over. Her emerald green gown-a vintage piece from her mother-was torn at the hem, lying in a heap like a dead thing.

She grabbed it, pulling it under the covers to dress, her movements frantic and clumsy. Every second she spent in this room felt like a tightening noose.

"Look," she said, her voice muffled by the fabric as she struggled with the zipper. "I don't know what you were told, but I'm leaving."

"Good idea," he said dryly. "Checkout is at eleven."

Suddenly, a thunderous sound erupted from the hallway.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Ms. Bartlett! We know you're in there!"

Flashes of light exploded through the peephole, visible even from the bed. The muffled shouts of a dozen reporters penetrated the heavy oak door.

"Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?"

"Look this way for the Post!"

Aisha froze, one arm halfway through her dress strap. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and dizzy.

"They're here," she whispered. "She actually called the press."

The man-Dominic-pushed off the dresser. His annoyance seemed to sharpen into something more alert. He looked at the door, then back at her.

"You're popular," he noted.

"I'm trapped," she corrected, her voice rising in panic. She looked around the room. It was a penthouse suite. There were no windows that opened. No back exit.

"If I go out there," she said, her voice trembling, "my life is over. The trust fund... the morality clause..."

Dominic watched her. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes, the way her knuckles turned white as she gripped the torn silk of her dress.

He sighed. It was a heavy, resigned sound.

He walked over to her, grabbing her arm. His grip was firm but not painful.

"Hey!" she yelped.

"Quiet," he ordered. He dragged her toward a side door she hadn't noticed. It was a walk-in closet, lined with cedar shelves.

He shoved her inside. "Stay."

"What are you-"

He closed the closet door, plunging her into darkness.

Aisha pressed her ear against the wood, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She heard Dominic pick up the room phone.

"Security," he said. His voice had changed. It wasn't the lazy drawl of a morning-after lover anymore. It was cold. Authoritative. "Room 4012. Clear the hallway. Now."

A pause.

"I don't care who they are. If there is a single camera left in five minutes, I'm pulling my... business... from this hotel."

Aisha frowned in the dark. Would a hotel listen to an escort? Maybe he was a very high-end escort. The kind that brought in big spenders.

She heard the muffled sounds of heavy boots in the hallway, the complaints of the paparazzi, and then... silence.

The closet door opened.

Light flooded in, blinding her for a second. Dominic stood there, still in his towel, looking bored.

"Coast is clear," he said.

Aisha stumbled out, clutching her purse. She felt small. Dirty. And strangely indebted to this man.

She opened her wallet. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped a credit card. She ignored it and pulled out all the cash she had-about three hundred dollars.

She threw the bills at his chest.

They fluttered down to the carpet between them.

"This is for your silence," she hissed, trying to regain some shred of dignity. "If anyone asks, I was never here."

Dominic looked down at the money. Then he looked up at her, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. It made him look dangerous.

"Three hundred?" he mused. "That barely covers the minibar."

"It's all I have," she said, backing toward the door. "Don't spend it all on... whatever it is you do."

She turned and ran. She didn't look back.

Dominic stood alone in the center of the suite. He bent down and picked up a twenty-dollar bill.

He chuckled, the sound low and dark.

He walked over to the bedside table, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.

"Chester," he said. "Find out everything about a woman named Aisha Bartlett. And cancel my morning meetings. I have a headache."