The Billionaire’s Contract: Revenge On My Ex

Hester stepped out of the bathroom, wrapping a thick, charcoal-colored robe around herself. The fabric was plush, swallowing her slender frame. The master suite was cavernous-minimalist design, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, and a single, massive bed in the center.

Isham was sitting on the balcony, a laptop balanced on his knees. The wind from the ocean whipped at his white dress shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He was typing.

Hester approached the glass doors. She hesitated, then slid one open. "Do we...?" she started, gesturing vaguely at the bed.

Isham stopped typing. He closed the laptop with a snap. He looked at her, his gaze clinical. "We are married, Hester. But I don't force things. And I don't sleep with business partners until the merger is complete."

He stood up and walked into the room. Under the harsh light of the chandelier, he noticed something. He reached out, his hand stopping inches from her arm.

"Who did that?"

Hester looked down. There was a dark, purple bruise blossoming on her upper arm, shaped like four fingers. It was from where Haywood had grabbed her backstage, warning her to be Brandy.

She pulled her robe tighter, covering it. "Old news."

Isham's jaw tightened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You are Mrs. Rhodes now," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Your body is a billion-dollar asset. No one damages the merchandise. Not even you."

The phrasing was cold, objectifying. It should have offended her. But as he turned to the bedside table and retrieved a jar of medicinal ointment, his actions betrayed his words.

He stepped closer. "Arm," he commanded.

Hester hesitated, then let the robe slip down her shoulder. Isham dipped his fingers into the jar. The ointment was cool, smelling of menthol. His touch was surprisingly gentle. He rubbed the salve into the bruise with slow, circular motions. He didn't look at her face; he focused entirely on the injury, treating it with the precision of a restoration artist working on a damaged painting.

Hester felt a strange flutter in her chest. It wasn't romance. It was the shock of being cared for, even transactionally. Haywood had never noticed her bruises; he had only caused them. Isham’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second over the bruise, his jaw tightening. He said nothing, but the silence felt heavier than any promise.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Isham wiped his hand on a tissue. "Sleep," he said, pointing to the bed. "Tomorrow, the war resumes."

"Where will you sleep?"

"The couch," Isham said, moving toward the sprawling leather sectional in the corner of the room. "I work late."

Hester climbed into the massive bed. The sheets were cold. She watched Isham settle onto the couch, opening his laptop again. He was a fortress. And for tonight, she was inside the walls.

Meanwhile, in the Mckee Penthouse, the sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the hallway.

Brandy screamed, throwing a Ming vase-fake, like everything else in the apartment-against the wall.

"Stop breaking things!" Haywood shouted, grabbing her wrists. "We're bleeding money! The investors are pulling out because of the 'Mystery Model' confusion!"

"She blocked me!" Brandy shrieked. "I tried to DM her to tell her she's fired, and she blocked me!"

Haywood pushed Brandy onto the sofa. "Listen to me. We control the narrative. If she won't talk to us, we make sure no one listens to her."

"How?"

"We say she's crazy," Haywood said, his eyes lighting up with a desperate idea. "We say the 'Mystery Walk' was a breakdown. That she hijacked the show because she was jealous of your pregnancy. That she's mentally unstable."

Brandy wiped her nose, a cruel smile spreading across her face. "And drugs," she added. "Say she's on drugs. That's why she's so thin."

Haywood hesitated. That was a career-ender. A nuclear bomb.

"Do it," Brandy urged. "Destroy her value. If she's toxic, no agency will touch her. She'll have to come crawling back to us for scraps."

Haywood nodded slowly. He picked up his phone and dialed a contact at the Daily Mail.

"run the story," he said. "Former model Hester Irwin has a psychotic break at Fashion Week."