The Genius Bride's Secret Contract Marriage

Clara stared down at her hands, her knuckles white as she gripped them in her lap. She was waiting for the verdict, the judgment from the man who held all the power in this room.

Damian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small, white cardboard box. He slid it across the polished surface of the table. It stopped directly in front of her.

She looked down. It was a morning-after pill.

A hot, suffocating wave of shame washed over her, so intense it made her vision swim. Her face burned as if he had slapped her.

"What do you think I am?" The question tore from her throat, raw and choked with tears she refused to let fall. Her voice cracked. "I'm not that kind of girl. I didn't even know who you were!"

Damian watched her outburst, his expression unreadable. His calm was more unnerving than any anger would have been.

The girl was only twenty years old and still in school. She had a bright future ahead of her. Besides, they were strangers. It seemed unlikely that she would want to become pregnant with his child right now. “Sit down first,” he said in a calm voice.

Clara sat across from him, head bowed, back stiff, hands neatly placed on her lap.

It’s just like facing a teacher who wants to ask questions in class.

The rumored Damian Blackwood is cold, heartless, and ruthless by nature. His icy demeanor intimidates even the most experienced businessmen in the industry, let alone a twenty-year-old girl like Clara.

“I’m Damian Blackwood.” To avoid scaring the delicate young woman, Damian tried to speak in a calmer tone. “I’m sorry about last night. I’ll take responsibility for it.”

“There’s no need,” Clara said, her voice trembling with tears. A single tear silently rolled down her face.

The beautiful woman sheds tears, looking pitiful and helpless, evoking sympathy in everyone who sees her.

Damian took out two pieces of paper and handed them to her. “Stop crying.”

Clara didn’t answer the call. She looked up, with tiny tears hanging on her long eyelashes. The corners of her eyes were red and wet. Her irises were glistening with tears. “If a strange man slept with you, wouldn’t you cry?”

“I know you're not,Miss Foster, I was also a victim of what happened last night. We were both drugged.” His collar tilted slightly with his movement, revealing a clear bite mark on his sexy collarbone.

Clara froze, the angry words dying on her lips. The tears that had been threatening now clung to her eyelashes, suspended by sheer disbelief. "What?"

"A business rival thought it would be amusing to slip something into my drink," he explained, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. "I felt it taking effect and left the party early. I came back here. Then you came in."

The revelation stunned her into silence. She wasn't the only victim.

"And," he continued, a subtle shift in his tone, "according to the security footage from my suite's entryway, you were the one who initiated things."

He turned his laptop on the table to face her. On the screen, a silent, black-and-white video was playing. She saw herself, stumbling into him. And then... she saw herself reaching up, her movements clumsy and desperate, pulling his head down to hers. She watched, horrified, as her on-screen self kissed him.

Clara suddenly widened her eyes in shock. It really was her who took the initiative!

Suddenly, she lost her confidence and muttered softly, “It’s always the girls who suffer in situations like this.”

Damian Blackwood couldn’t help but laugh at her: “So my innocence isn’t innocent after all?”

He had originally planned to go back to his room and take a cold shower. But on the way, he ran into Clara.

Both of them had hot bodies. Clara, under the effect of the medicine, was incredibly seductive, proactive, and bold.

When she bumped into his arms, her body was delicate and soft, and a delicate, graceful fragrance filled his nostrils.

It was like the strongest aphrodisiac in the world—it controlled his body and confused his mind.

The blood drained from her face. The drug. It had stripped away her inhibitions, her control, leaving only a raw, desperate need for... something. For safety? For human contact? It didn't matter. The video didn't lie.

She was a victim, yes, but she was also the one who had crossed the line. The righteous anger that had been her shield moments before crumbled, replaced by a deep, mortifying shame.

Without another word, she picked up the box, popped the single pill from its foil packet, and swallowed it dry. The bitterness coated her tongue and slid down her throat, a perfect match for the taste in her soul.

The storm of emotion inside her finally subsided, leaving a hollow, aching calm. She had cried, she had raged, and now she knew a version of the truth. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and finally looked at him, really looked at him.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady. "Money to keep quiet? I don't have any."

Damian didn't answer immediately. He simply watched her, his gray eyes analytical. "I don't need your money, Ms. Foster," he said finally. "As I said, we were both victims of circumstance. In that, we are equals."

She almost laughed. Equals? A broke orphan and a billionaire? The idea was absurd.

His next words proved just how absurd it was, shattering her reality into a million pieces.

"Clara Foster," he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "marry me."

Clara's mind went completely blank. The sounds of the city outside the window faded to a dull hum. She must have misheard him. He couldn't have said what she thought he said.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She could only stare at him, her expression a mixture of shock and the dawning certainty that the man sitting across from her was completely insane.

He met her gaze without flinching, his expression perfectly serious, as if he had just proposed a standard business merger.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. The room started to spin. Marry him? Marry Damian Blackwood?