BOUGHT BY THE BILLIONAIRE: A contract of scandalous love

Lyla Carter

They say desperation makes you do stupid things.

I never thought that would be me kneeling on the cold bathroom tiles at two in the morning, staring at my reflection like it might offer a solution. But here I am. Broke. Broken. And completely out of options.

The fluorescent lights in the hospital restroom buzz above me, casting a harsh glow on my pale skin and sunken eyes. I've been here for hours. Days. Weeks. Time has blurred into a cocktail of exhaustion and dread. Dad's latest surgery drained the last of our savings. The bills keep piling up, the nurses keep asking about insurance, and I keep lying that the check is on the way.

It's not.

"Miss Carter?"

I flinch at the soft knock. Nurse Amelia's kind, sympathetic face peeks through the door. "Your father's stable. The doctors need to speak with you about the next steps."

Next steps. I've heard those words so many times lately, they sound like a death sentence. I nod, swallow the burn in my throat, and stand.

My phone buzzes as I follow her down the sterile hallway, unknown Number.

Normally, I'd ignore it.

But something tells me I can't afford to ignore anything anymore.

I swipe to answer. "Hello?"

Silence. Then a low, smooth voice. Male. Calm, commanding.

"Lyla Carter."

I stopped walking. "Who is this?"

"Dominic Voss."

The name punches the air from my lungs.

Dominic. Freaking. Voss.

Billionaire tycoon. Tech mogul. Infamous playboy. And the man my father blamed for everything before the stroke silenced him.

"I don't know what game you think."

"Meet me. Voss Tower. Top floor. Tomorrow at ten."

"I'm not."

He hangs up.

I shouldn't go. Every instinct screams that stepping into his world is like dancing with a viper. But the rent is overdue, Dad needs another procedure, and our lawyer just informed me the house might be seized within the month.

Desperation. Stupid things.

So at 9:55 the next morning, I'm standing in front of a tower of glass and steel that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. Voss Tower is everything I'm not: sleek, powerful, untouchable.

Just like its owner.

The lobby receptionist eyes me with thinly veiled judgment. I guess a thrift store blazer and scuffed shoes aren't standard fashion in billionaire HQs.

Still, she makes a call. Then nods. "Mr. Voss will see you now."

I ride the elevator alone. Sixty-seven floors. My heart climbs faster than the numbers. I don't know what he wants, but it can't be good.

The doors open into a space that's more art gallery than office. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A skyline that makes you feel like you're floating.

And him.

Dominic stands with his back to me, hands clasped behind him, framed by a wall of glass and clouds. He turns slowly, like he knew I was watching.

My breath catches.

Photographs don't do him justice. Tall, lean, with razor-sharp features and eyes like ice forged in hell. His tailored charcoal suit hugs his frame like a second skin. Power clings to him like cologne.

"You came," he says, like he's already won.

"I'm not here for games," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "What do you want?"

He walks toward me. Controlled. Predatory. "A deal."

"I'm not selling anything."

He smirks. "No. But you're willing to buy time. For your father. For your dignity."

My fists clench. "If this is about my father's lawsuit, I'm not."

"He's drowning in debt. You both are. Medical bills. Mortgage. Legal fees." He steps closer, his voice low. "You need a miracle. I'm offering one."

I swallow hard. "What's the catch?"

His eyes lock on mine. "Marry me."

Silence.

Then I laugh. A short, hysterical bark. "Are you insane?"

"It's a contract marriage. One year. In name only. No love, no intimacy. Just appearances."

I back away. "Why the hell would you need a wife?"

He leans against his desk, perfectly composed. "To land a merger with a traditional European firm. They value family values. A bachelor with a trail of scandal? Not ideal. A married man with a respectable wife? Much better."

"I'm not for sale."

"Ten million dollars."

I stopped breathing.

"You'll get five now. Five when the year ends. Your father's bills, paid. His house, protected. Your future, bought."

This can't be real.

"You'd marry a stranger for a business deal?"

"I'd marry a ghost if it secured the deal. But you," he steps closer, voice softer, " you're perfect. Clean record. No ties. And desperate.

I flinch at the word. Because it's true.

"I need your answer by tomorrow," he says, moving to his desk. He picks up a sleek folder and offers it. "The contract. Read it. Or don't. But if you sign, be here at noon."

I take it, fingers trembling.

"And Lyla?" he adds, eyes sharp as blades. "If you sign, you're mine. In public. In private. No room for mistakes."

I sit in my tiny apartment that night, surrounded by overdue bills and the quiet hum of despair. The contract lies open in front of me.

Page after page of legal jargon. But one clause stands out, underlined in red:

Clause 17: The parties agree to present the image of a real, affectionate marriage. Failure to convincingly portray emotional intimacy may result in termination and forfeiture of payment.

Fake love. Real consequences.

I think about Dad. About the nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering how to save him. About the dreams I shelved to survive.

Then I pick up the pen.

And sign.