His Contract Bride, The Real Heiress

The first thing Vesper noticed was the silence.

It wasn't the peaceful, birds-chirping silence of the suburbs. It was a heavy, pressurized silence. The kind of silence that only existed seventy floors up, behind triple-paned glass that turned the chaos of New York City into a mute, moving painting.

The second thing she noticed was the pain.

It started at the base of her skull, a dull, rhythmic throb that synchronized with her heartbeat. She tried to open her eyes, but the light filtering through the gap in the blackout curtains felt like a physical assault. She groaned, shifting her weight, and realized two terrified truths simultaneously.

One, the sheets against her naked skin were Egyptian cotton, far softer than anything in her guest bedroom at home.

Two, she was not alone.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of her hangover. Vesper held her breath. Her lungs burned with the effort to remain perfectly still. She moved her eyes, just her eyes, scanning the periphery.

To her left, a man lay sleeping.

He was face down, his head buried in a pillow. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing a back that looked like it had been carved out of marble and tension. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. Muscles rippled slightly even in sleep. There was a scar, jagged and white, running across his right shoulder blade.

It wasn't Julian.

Julian, her husband, had soft hands and a softer back. This man looked like he could break things.

Memories of the previous night crashed into her mind like shattered glass. The charity gala. The champagne that tasted slightly metallic. The sudden dizziness that had made the ballroom spin. A hand catching her elbow. A deep voice. A car ride. And then... heat.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The shame was a physical weight in her gut, heavy and sour. She had cheated. After three years of a sexless, loveless marriage, she had finally broken the one rule that kept a roof over her head.

She had to get out.

Vesper slid her leg out from under the duvet. Every movement felt amplified, the rustle of fabric sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. She put one foot on the floor. Then the other. Her legs were trembling, weak and jelly-like.

She scanned the floor for her clothes. Her dress, a silver slip of silk she hated, was in a heap near the door. Her heels were kicked into a corner.

She dressed in a frenzy, her fingers fumbling with the zipper. It was broken. Of course it was broken. She found a safety pin in her clutch and secured the fabric, the sharp point pricking her skin. Good. The pain grounded her.

She needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up. Before she had to look him in the eye and see the transaction in his gaze.

She found a notepad on the nightstand. She reached for it, intending to write... something. An apology? A goodbye?

Her eyes caught the embossed letterhead: *The Sterling Plaza.*

Vesper froze. Her blood ran cold. Sterling.

It was her husbands family name. It was the name on her marriage license.

She looked back at the sleeping man. Panic clawed at her throat. Could it be? A cousin? A distant relative visiting from Europe? The family was vast, but she thought she knew the key players.

She studied him again. The scar. The sheer size of him. He didn't look like the soft, pampered men she met at Julian's parties. He looked dangerous.

Maybe its just a coincidence,* she told herself frantically. *Its the family hotel. Hes just a guest.*

But the risk was too high. If this man knew Julian... if he recognized her...

She opened her purse to check for her phone. Her wallet lay open. Inside, a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills sat in a silver money clip.

A bitter, twisted thought took root in her mind.

If she left now, she was a runaway wife who had made a mistake. But if she paid him...

If she paid him, he became a service. And she became the customer. It stripped the intimacy away. It turned a sin into a purchase. And if he *was* a stranger, it would confuse him enough to stop him from looking for her.

Vesper pulled out three bills. Three hundred dollars.

She walked to the nightstand. Beside a platinum Rolex and a heavy crystal tumbler half-filled with water, she placed the money.

She took the hotel pen, her hand shaking as she wrote on the notepad.

For the service. Keep the change.*

She placed the note on top of the cash.

She looked at him one last time. He hadn't moved. He was a stranger. He had to be. A beautiful, dangerous mistake.

Vesper turned and ran. She didn't put her shoes on until she was in the elevator, watching the numbers descend, praying the doors wouldn't open to reveal a familiar face.

Seventy floors up, Damon Sterling opened his eyes.

He hadn't been asleep. He had been listening to her erratic breathing, feeling the shift in the mattress as she fled.

He rolled over, the movement fluid and controlled. He reached out to the space beside him. The sheets were still warm.

He sat up, running a hand through his dark hair. Usually, the morning after a woman shared his beda rare, almost non-existent occurrence given his conditionhe would feel the familiar clawing of nausea. The revulsion. The need to scrub his skin until it was raw.

Today, there was nothing. No nausea. No panic. Just a strange, hollow hunger.

His eyes landed on the nightstand.

He frowned. He reached out and picked up the bills. Benjamin Franklin stared back at him, mocking.

Three hundred dollars.

A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest. It was a rusty sound. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed.

She had treated him like a gigolo. Damon Sterling, the man who controlled half the city's skyline, the man whose net worth had more zeros than she could probably count, had been tipped.

He picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, hurried.

For the service.*

He crushed the paper in his fist. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, narrowed.

He picked up the landline phone. He didn't dial a number; he just pressed a single button.

"Scott," he said, his voice gravelly with sleep and menace. "There was a woman in my room. She just left. Check the lobby cameras."

"Sir?" The assistant's voice was trembling.

"Find her," Damon commanded. "I don't care what it takes. Find her."