The Billionaire's Limited-Time Romance

On the thick Persian carpet of the hallway, Ellie stood motionless.

Her stiletto heels sank into the expensive wool beneath her feet.

She did not move.

From the men's restroom at the far end of the hall, Bryan Roth emerged, wiping his hands on a linen towel.

He tossed the towel onto a side table and turned his head.

His gaze locked onto Ellie, a cruel smile stretching across his face as he saw her standing in the shadows.

He walked toward her, his footsteps completely silent on the thick carpet.

From inside the room, Ansel's voice drifted through the crack in the door.

"This is just a limited-time engagement."

Bryan stopped exactly one step away from Ellie.

He lifted an arm, pressing his elbow against the wall to trap her between his body and the doorframe.

He leaned his head down, staring at her face.

He waited for the tears, for her shoulders to shake.

A single flutter of her eyelashes was the only sign of life.

Her chest rose and fell at the exact same slow, measured pace as before.

Her mind processed Ansel's words like a machine sorting data: the expected outcome of a social experiment.

Bryan frowned when no tears came.

He leaned closer, his breath smelling of stale smoke and mints.

He made a loud, mocking clicking sound with his tongue.

"Game's over, Brooklyn," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Time to crawl back to whatever bridge you came from."

Ellie turned her head slowly.

Her clear brown eyes were completely dry.

There was no anger in her expression, only a clinical, almost pitying calmness.

She let her eyes drag up and down his flashy, overly tailored suit.

The clinical pity in her stare was a physical slap to his ego.

His face flushed red.

He stepped even closer, trying to use his height to intimidate her.

"Isela is the only woman the Schultz family will ever accept. You need to pack your cheap bags and get out."

Ellie took a smooth half-step backward.

Her movement was fluid, the graceful sidestep of someone avoiding a puddle of dirty water.

Her voice was perfectly even when she spoke.

"Are you in such a rush to clear the path for Isela because you are secretly in love with her, Bryan?"

She tilted her head slightly.

"Or is it just because you know you will never be good enough for her?"

Bryan's breath hitched in his throat.

The veins in his neck bulged against his collar.

He raised his hand, reaching out to grab her bare shoulder.

Ellie did not flinch.

She lifted her Prada clutch, holding it flat against her chest.

As his hand came down, she angled the hard, metal corner of the bag directly into his path.

Bryan's knuckles slammed into the metal.

He yanked his arm back with a sharp hiss of pain.

"You bitch," he muttered, dropping all pretense of high-society manners.

The laughter inside the VIP room began to die down.

Footsteps moved closer to the door.

Bryan rubbed his bruised knuckles.

"If you run out of here crying right now, you will be the joke of New York by morning."

Ellie looked down at her dress.

With her free hand, she smoothed out a wrinkle that did not exist.

She lifted her chin and looked Bryan directly in the eyes.

A perfect, polite smile formed on her lips.

"An anthropologist doesn't cry," she said, her voice a silken blade, "when the monkeys in the enclosure throw mud at her."

Bryan's mouth fell open.

His brain short-circuited trying to process the insult.

He opened his mouth to yell.

Ellie did not give him the chance.

She turned her back to him completely.

She faced the heavy mahogany door.

She did not run toward the elevator.

She did not hide in the bathroom to cry.

Lifting her bare arm, she pressed her palm flat against the cold brass handle.

Without a single second of hesitation, Ellie pushed the door wide open and stepped into the room.