The Fallen Heiress's Dark Contract Marriage

The sweeping driveway of the estate was lined with luxury cars.

Ila kept her head down. She walked closely beside Conner. Her wet shoes squished against the pavement.

The valet rushed over. He bowed his head respectfully and handed the keys to a stone-faced man in a dark suit who was already waiting by the driver's side of a massive, black armored SUV.

Conner opened the heavy passenger door. He placed his large hand over the roof frame, shielding her head as she climbed inside.

He shut the door. The heavy thud sealed her in a soundproof vault.

Conner guided Ila to the rear passenger door, sliding in the expansive back seat beside her. The driver seamlessly engaged the gears, and the powerful engine roared to life with a low growl.

The SUV pulled out of the estate gates.

In the side mirror, Ila saw Jaret standing on the driveway. He looked confused, staring at the taillights.

They drove down Sunset Boulevard. The silence inside the cabin was absolute and suffocating.

Ila clutched Conner's oversized suit jacket tightly around her chest. Her teeth chattered. The air conditioning blew cold air against her wet hair.

Conner glanced at her shivering form out of the corner of his eye. He reached out and silently turned the vehicle's heater to maximum.

Warm air blasted over her freezing skin.

The SUV turned sharply. It descended into the highly secure underground garage of the Four Seasons hotel.

Conner bypassed the regular parking. He pulled into a private VIP spot blocked off by heavy security cones.

He killed the engine.

They exited the car. Conner led the way toward a private elevator tucked away in a concrete alcove. It was marked for penthouse guests only.

Conner pulled a solid black keycard from his pocket. He swiped it against the scanner. He pressed the single button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended rapidly. The sudden shift in gravity made Ila's stomach drop. The silence between them grew heavier with every passing floor.

The metal doors slid open.

The private Presidential Suite floor was dead quiet.

Conner unlocked the heavy double oak doors of the suite. He pushed them open and stepped aside, gesturing with his chin for her to enter.

Ila stepped inside.

The suite was massive. Dimly lit. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Los Angeles skyline.

She stood awkwardly near the marble foyer. Pool water dripped from her jeans onto the priceless Persian rug.

Conner walked straight past her. He went to the crystal minibar. He poured a generous measure of amber whiskey over a single large ice cube.

A loud, sharp ring shattered the quiet.

Conner's encrypted satellite phone vibrated violently on the marble counter.

Conner glanced at the caller ID. The muscle in his jaw tightened imperceptibly.

He picked it up and pressed answer.

"Speak," Conner said. His tone was low, authoritative, and entirely devoid of warmth.

Ila wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She stared at the floor, trying to make herself invisible.

The voice on the other end was loud. For a fraction of a second, Conner's thumb slipped, brushing the speaker icon on the screen. The acoustics of the marble room caught the brief, amplified crackle of Mr. Albright's harsh voice.

"...the Meyers girl..."

The two words bled out into the open air before Conner instantly killed the speakerphone, returning it to the secure earpiece.

Ila's heart stopped.

Her blood turned to ice. Her lungs seized.

Conner slowly turned his head. He met Ila's terrified gaze across the room. He saw the exact moment she processed her own name.

Conner abruptly hit the end button. He tossed the heavy satellite phone onto the counter. It landed with a loud clack.

The temperature in the room plummeted. Conner's cold, calculating demeanor returned in full force.

Ila took a slow, agonizing step backward toward the heavy front doors. Her survival instincts screamed at her to run.

Conner lifted his glass. He downed the whiskey in one smooth shot.

He pointed a long finger toward the master bathroom.

"Wash that pathetic look off your face," Conner ordered. "Then we talk."