A Contract Marriage With My Nemesis

Elena's eyes snapped open.

She gasped, pulling in a violent, ragged breath as if she had just broken the surface of a freezing ocean. Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers desperately clawing at her own skin, trying to rip away the phantom sensation of the pillow that had been pressed over her face just moments ago. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it felt like it might crack her chest open.

She wasn't dead.

Her palms slapped against the mattress, her fingers digging into the cool, slippery fabric. Silk. It was real. The physical friction of the expensive sheets against her skin grounded her spinning mind.

Slowly, her vision cleared. The suffocating darkness of her bedroom was gone. Instead, her eyes focused on a massive, custom-made crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. The light was dim, but it was enough to tell her she was not in her own home.

She inhaled sharply. The air didn't smell like the metallic tang of her own blood anymore. It smelled of stale champagne, expensive bourbon, and a sharp, woodsy cologne that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

A sudden, piercing pain shot through her temples. Elena let out a low, muffled groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her stomach twisted into a tight, nauseating knot.

She turned her head to the side.

A man was lying next to her, face down. His broad, muscular back was completely bare, the tanned skin marred by several long, angry red scratch marks.

Elena's breath hitched in her throat. Her pulse flatlined for a fraction of a second.

Right between his shoulder blades was a distinct, intricate black ink tattoo. She knew that tattoo. Everyone on Wall Street knew that tattoo. It belonged to Johnathan Chase. Her family's biggest corporate rival. The man who had spent the last five years trying to tear her company apart.

A violent wave of nausea hit her as the memories crashed into her brain. The scandal. The paparazzi. The look of fake pity on her sister Haylee's face. The cold, dead eyes of her fiancé, Darron, as he held the pillow over her face. The realization that they had orchestrated everything to steal her trust fund.

She scrambled backward, her back hitting the solid oak headboard. Her eyes darted to the nightstand. A sleek, late-model smartphone sat next to a half-empty glass of water. She snatched the phone, her fingers trembling so violently she almost dropped it.

She tapped the screen. The glaring white light illuminated the date.

It was exactly one year ago. The morning of the hotel scandal. The day her life had started to unravel.

Elena closed her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath through her nose, forcing the oxygen into her panicked lungs. She held it for three seconds, then exhaled. She shoved the shock and the boiling, acidic rage down into the pit of her stomach. There would be time to kill them later. Right now, she had to survive the next ten minutes.

She slid her legs out from under the heavy duvet, trying to be completely silent.

The moment her bare feet touched the thick carpet, her knees buckled. A sharp ache shot up her thighs, a physical reminder of exactly what had happened in this bed hours ago. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper, and grabbed the edge of the nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She scanned the floor. The suite was a disaster zone. Clothes were scattered everywhere.

She spotted her torn haute couture dress near the sofa. She bent down, her muscles screaming in protest, and snatched the fabric. Her eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown as she saw the ripped seam along the waist.

She pulled the dress over her head, her movements jerky and rushed. She reached behind her back, pulling the zipper up as far as it would go before it caught on the torn fabric.

As she turned to grab her heels, her foot clipped an empty champagne bottle lying on the rug.

The heavy glass spun across the floor, colliding with the wooden leg of the coffee table with a sharp, ringing crack.

The sound echoed through the silent suite like a gunshot.

The man on the bed shifted.

"Going somewhere?"

Johnathan's voice was thick with sleep, low and vibrating with a dark, gravelly edge.

Elena froze. Her spine locked into a rigid line. She didn't turn around.

She heard the rustle of the silk sheets. Johnathan sat up slowly. The thin blanket pooled at his waist, exposing his heavily muscled chest.

His dark, piercing eyes cut through the dim light of the room, locking onto her back with the intensity of a predator.

"Are you planning to run away like a coward?" he mocked, a cold smirk playing on his lips.

Elena's jaw tightened. She forced her breathing to steady, locking her emotions away behind a wall of ice. She turned around slowly, her face a completely blank, unreadable mask.

She looked straight into Johnathan's eyes, refusing to shrink under his heavy stare.

"I'm leaving because I have a company to run, Johnathan. Not because I'm afraid of you," she said, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Johnathan's eyes narrowed slightly. The smirk faded from his lips. He tilted his head, clearly caught off guard by her unnatural calm. He had expected tears. He had expected panic. He hadn't expected this dead-eyed composure.

He threw the blanket aside and stood up. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dark suit trousers. The sheer physical size of him seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

Elena's instincts kicked in. She took a half-step back, her shoulder blades hitting the cold, hard plaster of the wall.

Johnathan didn't stop. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He lifted his hand and planted his palm flat against the wall, right next to her head. His body caged her in, his chest inches from hers. He leaned down, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Before he could speak, a violent, aggressive pounding erupted on the heavy wooden door of the suite.

Elena ducked under Johnathan's arm, slipping out of his trap before he could react. She walked quickly toward the entryway of the suite, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

She pressed her eye against the small brass peephole in the heavy door.

The hallway outside was packed. A sea of black camera lenses and blinding flashbulbs crowded the corridor. Standing right at the front of the mob was her half-sister, Haylee. Haylee's hands were pressed to her cheeks, her face twisted into a mask of exaggerated, frantic worry.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Elena's neck as the memory of her past life threatened to choke her. The panic she had felt a year ago flashed in her mind, but it was instantly swallowed by a dark, bitter amusement. A cold smile curved the corners of her mouth.

Johnathan walked slowly toward the wet bar in the living area. He picked up a crystal glass, dropped a single ice cube into it, and poured a splash of water. He leaned against the marble counter, watching her with a detached, cynical expression.

He took a sip of the ice water. "Looks like your fiancé's little trick worked," he said, his tone dripping with mockery.

Elena turned around. She leaned her back flat against the door, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Her eyes were sharp and lethal as they locked onto him.

"If that door opens, the stock price of Chase Capital takes a hit right alongside mine," she stated, her voice perfectly steady.

Johnathan lowered the glass. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his dark eyes, quickly replaced by a glint of appreciation for her ruthless logic.

The pounding on the door grew louder, more frantic.

"Open the door! Hotel management!" a muffled voice shouted from the hallway. The metallic scrape of a master key sliding into the lock echoed in the quiet suite.

Elena's eyes darted around the room. The floor was still littered with evidence.

She moved fast. She walked over to the scattered pile of her lace underwear, kicked them forcefully under the heavy velvet sofa, and kicked Johnathan's discarded tie under the armchair.

A sharp click sounded from the door. The heavy brass handle turned.

The door was shoved open violently from the outside.

A blinding wall of white light exploded into the dim room. The rapid-fire clicking of camera shutters sounded like a machine gun going off, capturing every inch of the scene.

Haylee pushed her way to the front, her hands flying to her mouth. She let out a loud, theatrical gasp that echoed over the clicking cameras.

Darron shoved past the reporters right behind her. His face was a carefully constructed masterpiece of devastation and boiling anger. His chest heaved as he stared at the room.

Elena stood dead center in the living room. Her spine was straight, her chin lifted. She looked down at the invading crowd with the cold, detached superiority of a queen looking at peasants.

Darron marched toward her, his eyes wide with fake heartbreak. He reached out, his hands aiming for her shoulders to play the role of the betrayed, desperate lover.

Elena felt a wave of physical revulsion hit her stomach. She stepped sharply to the side, dodging his grasp completely.

Darron's hands grabbed empty air. He stumbled slightly, looking foolish.

Haylee's eyes widened in genuine shock. She hadn't expected Elena to reject Darron's touch. Elena was supposed to be crying, begging for forgiveness.

The paparazzi immediately shifted their lenses, capturing Darron's awkward, empty hands and Elena's icy glare.

From the shadows of the bedroom hallway, Johnathan stepped into the light. He had pulled on a dark silk robe, but it hung open, clearly displaying the angry red scratches trailing across his chest and stomach, as well as the faint red lines peeking out from the edge of the robe where they continued onto his back.

The entire room stopped breathing. The frantic clicking of the cameras died for one stunned second. The paparazzi stared in absolute shock. The man in the room wasn't some random male model. It was Johnathan Chase.

Darron's face drained of color, turning a sickly shade of gray. His jaw dropped. He had paid the hotel staff to drug her and put a random escort in the room.

Johnathan stood tall, his presence suffocating the room. The sheer weight of his dark, menacing aura made the reporters in the front row take a subconscious step backward.

He walked slowly to stand beside Elena. He looked down at Darron, a dangerous, mocking light flickering in his eyes.

"Did you really think your pathetic little payoff to the hotel manager would go unnoticed?" Johnathan asked, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that commanded the entire room. He took a deliberate step forward, his sheer size dwarfing the smaller man. "I bought the manager out double, fired your cheap escort, and took the keycard myself. So, care to explain why you're breaking into my room, Darron?"

Darron swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He forced his fists to clench, trying to regain control of the narrative. "You destroyed my relationship!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly.

Haylee saw the cameras starting to focus on Johnathan. She quickly stepped into the light, squeezing a few tears from her eyes. "Elena, how could you do this? How could you make such a horrible mistake?" she sobbed for the press.

Elena looked at Haylee's fake tears. A sneer of pure, unfiltered disgust twisted her lips.

She cleared her throat.

"Shut up," Elena commanded. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp as a razor blade, cutting through the noise and freezing everyone in their tracks.

The chaotic room fell into a dead, heavy silence. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning.

Darron forced the panic out of his eyes. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he shifted his expression into one of painful, agonizing tolerance.

He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a dark blue velvet box.

Without breaking eye contact with Elena, Darron dropped down onto one knee right in the middle of the messy carpet.

He flipped the box open. Resting on the black satin cushion was a massive, custom-made pear-cut diamond engagement ring. The facets caught the harsh light of the camera flashes, throwing sharp prisms across the walls.

"Elena," Darron said, his voice thick with fake emotion. "I know things have been hard. But I love you. If you are willing to come home with me right now, I will forgive all of this. We can move past it."

Haylee stood to the side, pressing a hand over her heart. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek. She was feeding the reporters exactly what they wanted.

The paparazzi went wild. Shutters clicked furiously, desperate to capture the "forgiveness of the century" for tomorrow's front pages.

Johnathan stood a few feet behind Elena. He crossed his arms over his chest. His jaw was clenched tight, and a dark, violent shadow crossed his eyes as he stared at the man kneeling on the floor.

Elena stared down at the ring. In her past life, this was the exact moment she had broken down in tears of gratitude. She had let him slide that ring onto her finger, sealing her own death warrant.

Now, looking at the diamond, she felt nothing but a sickening churn in her gut.

Her right arm moved before Darron could say another word.

She swung her hand hard. Her palm connected with the velvet box with a loud, violent smack.

The box flew out of Darron's hand. It sailed through the air and slammed hard against the far wall. The impact popped the ring loose. The massive diamond hit the thick carpet and rolled away into a dark corner.

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The camera flashes stopped dead.

Darron remained frozen on one knee, his hand still suspended in the air. The blood completely drained from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse.

Elena looked down at him, her eyes burning with cold fire.

"The engagement is over," she said, her voice ringing out in clear, perfectly enunciated English.

"You didn't bring the press here to save our relationship, Darron. You brought them here to blackmail me."

Haylee let out a high-pitched scream. She lunged forward, her hands reaching out to grab Elena's arm. "Are you crazy?! What are you saying?!"

Elena moved faster. Instead of a slap, she raised her hand and pinched Haylee's wrist between two fingers with an expression of absolute, sickening revulsion, pushing it away as if handling a diseased rat.

"Don't touch me," Elena hissed, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. She calmly reached into the hidden pocket sewn into the waistband of her dress, pulled out a sterile antibacterial wipe, and began to meticulously scrub the exact spot on her skin where Haylee had just made contact. "You make me sick."

The implication of her extreme, almost clinical disgust hung in the air like a live grenade. The reporters smelled blood. A dozen camera lenses instantly pivoted away from Elena and zoomed straight into Haylee's face, capturing her pale, guilty expression.

Haylee's face turned paper-white. Her knees gave out slightly, and her entire body began to shake uncontrollably under the blinding lights.

Darron scrambled to his feet. His fake calm shattered. "Watch your mouth, Elena! Don't make up insane lies just because you got caught!" he roared, his face turning red.

Elena let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Lies? How about you explain the credit card charges at the luxury apartment on 5th Avenue last night?"

Darron's pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks. His breath hitched in his throat. He realized, with a sickening drop in his stomach, that she somehow knew about his secret safe house.

Johnathan watched Elena tear them apart. The tight line of his jaw relaxed, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a faint, almost invisible smirk.

Elena turned her back on Darron. She looked directly into the center cluster of camera lenses.

"Conway Media will be immediately re-evaluating all corporate partnerships with his family's firm," she announced.

She didn't wait for questions. She stepped forward, shoving her way through the wall of reporters.

Not a single paparazzi dared to block her path. The sheer force of her anger parted the crowd like the Red Sea.

Darron took a step forward, reaching out to grab her shoulder to stop her.

A solid wall of muscle stepped into his path. Johnathan blocked Darron completely, his broad shoulders shielding Elena's exit. Johnathan looked down at Darron, his eyes daring the smaller man to try and move him.

Elena didn't look back. She walked straight out the door, down the hallway, and stepped into the waiting elevator, leaving the wreckage of her past life behind her.