The Tycoon's Unwanted Contract Wife

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains.

Annabel opened her eyes. A sluggish confusion dragged at her mind—the last solid memory she could grasp was the cold bite of the living room leather sofa, the weight of his body trapping her against the cushions. But she was lying in the center of the massive king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Fragments surfaced through the fog: strong arms lifting her in the dark, the low rumble of a voice she knew too well murmuring something she could not catch, the sinking softness of the mattress swallowing her whole. Then nothing.

She tried to sit up. A sharp pain shot up her spine. Her thighs ached with a dull, heavy throb. She looked to her left. The sheets were rumpled, but the space was empty. Gregorio was gone.

She dragged herself out of bed. She found a thick silk robe draped over a chair and pulled it tightly around her bruised body. Her throat was parched. She needed ice water.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the long hallway.

Angry voices echoed from the study at the far end.

Annabel froze. She pressed her bare feet into the thick carpet, moving silently toward the partially open door.

She peeked through the narrow crack.

Kiersten was sitting on the floor. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Tears streamed down her flawless face, ruining her makeup.

Gregorio stood over her. His face was a mask of pure rage. He slammed a thick manila folder onto the mahogany desk.

"A rush chemical analysis," Gregorio yelled. The veins in his neck stood out. "Dorian's team tested the residue in the glass I drank from last night. You slipped a synthetic aphrodisiac into my drink at the party."

Annabel stopped breathing. Her stomach dropped. The drug. It wasn't him. It was a trap.

Kiersten scrambled forward on her knees. She grabbed the fabric of Gregorio's tailored trousers. Her knuckles were white.

"I was terrified, Greg!" Kiersten sobbed, her voice cracking. "I saw the way you looked at her on the red carpet. I was losing my mind. I just wanted you to come to me. I wanted you to need me."

Gregorio ripped his leg away. Kiersten fell forward onto her hands.

"You drugged me," Gregorio said. His voice dropped to a lethal, quiet register. "It makes me sick to look at you right now."

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

Annabel panicked. She spun around and ducked into the narrow utility closet just outside the study. She pulled the louvered door shut, holding her breath in the dark.

Gregorio stormed past the closet. His heavy footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the ding of the private elevator.

Annabel waited ten seconds. She pushed the closet door open and stepped out.

The study door swung wide open.

Kiersten stood in the doorway.

The tears were gone. Her face was completely dry. Her posture was perfectly straight.

Kiersten looked at Annabel. Her eyes dropped to the collar of Annabel's silk robe. The fabric had slipped, exposing a dark purple bruise on Annabel's collarbone.

Kiersten's lips curved into a slow, chilling smirk. There was no embarrassment. No shame. Only pure, calculated malice.

She didn't say a single word. She turned, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor, and walked to the guest elevator. The doors closed behind her.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Annabel's neck.

"Mrs. Harrison."

Annabel jumped. Maura was standing at the end of the hall.

The housekeeper walked forward and held out a small silver tray. On it sat a thick, black envelope. The edges were stamped with gold foil. There was no postage.

"A courier just dropped this off for you," Maura said flatly.

Annabel picked up the envelope. A heavy, distinct scent of expensive sandalwood hit her nose.

She tore the flap open. Inside was a heavy cardstock invitation to a private dining room at Le Bernardin.

A small, typed note was clipped to the back: If you want to permanently solve your mother's medical bills, meet me at 3:00 PM.

The initials at the bottom were K.J.

Annabel stared at the letters. Her fingers gripped the card so tightly it bent. She had no money. She had no power. She had no choice.