Rejecting The Billionaire's Contract Marriage

Carra Roach smoothed the lapels of Vance Sterling's custom Armani suit. Her fingers brushed over the expensive fabric, making sure not a single speck of dust ruined his perfect image.

The backstage hallway of the TCL Chinese Theatre smelled of hairspray and nervous sweat.

Vance looked down at her. He flashed that signature, million-dollar smile that had plastered him across every billboard in Los Angeles.

"I'll make this quick," Vance murmured, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Steak and wine at the apartment after this. Just you and me."

"Go knock them dead," Carra said, stepping back.

Two massive security guards pushed open the double doors. The deafening roar of fans and the blinding flash of cameras instantly flooded the dim hallway. Vance turned and walked into the light, leaving Carra in the shadows.

She exhaled a long breath. Her shoulders dropped. She pulled out her tablet, her eyes scanning the list of media outlets waiting on the red carpet. She was in full publicist mode.

Then, the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop.

A sharp, icy scent of cedarwood cologne hit her senses. It was expensive. Dominating.

Carra turned around, the heavy air pressing against her lungs. She bumped into a solid, impeccably tailored chest. Jory Elliott had silently closed the distance while she was distracted by her tablet, his towering frame casting a long, broad shadow that swallowed her own.

She snapped her head up. Her breath hitched. She met a pair of eyes so dark and dead they made her chest tight.

He didn't say hello. He didn't introduce himself.

Jory raised his hand and shoved an unlocked black smartphone directly into her line of sight. The screen was glaringly bright.

Carra blinked against the glare.

It was a high-definition photo. Vance Sterling. He was standing on the balcony of the Beverly Hills Hotel, his hands tangled in the hair of a blonde woman. Their mouths were crushed together.

Carra's brain flatlined.

Her fingers went numb. The tablet slipped from her grasp, plummeting toward the marble floor.

Jory's hand shot out. He caught the heavy tablet inches from the ground, silencing the crash that would have alerted the front desk.

Carra stumbled backward. Her back hit the cold wall.

"This is AI," Carra whispered, her voice shaking violently. "You're from a rival agency. You faked this to ruin his premiere."

Jory let out a low, cruel sound that barely qualified as a laugh. He swiped his thumb across the screen.

The next photo showed Vance and the blonde walking away, entering a private venue.

Carra stopped breathing. There, on the back of Vance's neck, was the tiny, jagged crown tattoo. He had gotten it three years ago. She had held his hand while the needle inked his skin.

The fake AI excuse crumbled into dust.

"The Viper Room. West Hollywood," Jory said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the narrow space. "That is where they are meeting tonight."

Carra turned her head toward the cracked double doors. Through the gap, she could see Vance on the red carpet. He was staring deeply into a camera lens, talking about how much he valued loyalty in a relationship.

A violent wave of nausea slammed into her.

Carra slapped a hand over her mouth. Her stomach muscles cramped so hard she had to bend forward. Bile burned the back of her throat.

Jory reached into his tailored jacket. He pulled out a matte black card and held it out to her. It had no name, no title. Just the silver, embossed logo of the EK Group.

Carra smacked his hand away. The card fluttered to the floor.

She turned and sprinted toward the red carpet. She was going to rip the microphone from Vance's hand. She was going to scream.

Two heavily built theater security guards immediately crossed their arms, forming a human wall in front of the doors.

"Move!" Carra yelled, shoving at their solid chests. They didn't budge.

Jory stepped up behind her. He didn't speak. His assistant materialized from the shadows, smoothly presenting a matte black titanium card engraved with the theater's highest-tier sponsor insignia.

The guards took one look at the EK Group crest, realized exactly whose path they were blocking, and instantly stepped aside, bowing their heads in deference.

Carra didn't care who this man was or why he had such terrifying authority. She spun around and ran toward the backstage exit.

Her high heels hit a slick patch of marble. Her ankle twisted. She pitched forward, bracing for the impact of the hard floor.

A hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice.

Jory yanked her backward, steadying her against his hard chest. The heat radiating from his palm was scorching.

"Do you want to see it with your own eyes?" Jory asked, looking down at her pathetic state.

Carra ripped her arm out of his grip. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she refused to let a single tear fall.

She shoved the heavy metal fire door open. The cold Los Angeles night wind slapped her in the face.

She pulled out her own phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped it once before dialing Vance's driver.

"Where is he going after the premiere?" Carra demanded the second the line connected.

"Uh, Miss Roach," the driver stammered, the guilt thick in his voice. "Mr. Sterling has an exclusive interview here at the theater. He won't be back at the apartment tonight."

The lie was the final nail in the coffin.

Carra ended the call. She didn't say goodbye.

She ran onto Hollywood Boulevard, ignoring the rain starting to spit from the sky. She threw her arm out and flagged down a passing yellow cab.

She yanked the door open and threw herself into the backseat.

"The Viper Room," Carra choked out to the driver. "Now."

The cab didn't move.

Carra stared at the glowing red taillights stretching endlessly down Sunset Boulevard. The meter clicked loudly, echoing the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Move," Carra snapped, leaning forward to grip the plastic partition. "Please, just drive."

"I can't fly, lady," the driver muttered, pointing a thick finger at the windshield. "Fender bender up ahead. We're stuck."

Carra bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She needed to get there. She needed to see it.

A massive, pitch-black Maybach pulled up silently into the lane next to the cab. It looked like a tank wrapped in luxury.

The heavily tinted rear window hummed down.

Jory Elliott's sharp profile appeared in the gap. He turned his head, locking those dead eyes onto her through the glass.

"Get out of the cab," Jory commanded. It wasn't a request.

Carra looked at the gridlocked traffic ahead. She didn't have a choice.

She threw a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at the driver, kicked the door open, and stepped into the damp street.

She climbed into the back of the Maybach. The heavy door shut with a solid thud, instantly cutting off the noise of the city. The air inside smelled of rich leather and that same intoxicating cedarwood.

"Drive, Frank," Jory said.

The driver smoothly merged the massive car into the restricted bus lane, bypassing the miles of stuck cars with absolute immunity.

Jory opened a hidden compartment. He poured a heavy measure of amber bourbon into a crystal glass and shoved it into Carra's trembling hands.

She didn't hesitate. She threw her head back and swallowed the liquor in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat, forcing her lungs to expand.

Jory watched her chest heave. His lips curled into a cold, hard line.

"The woman in the photo," Jory said, his voice slicing through the silence. "Her name is Eloisa Lindsey."

Carra stiffened. Everyone in Los Angeles PR knew that name. She was a billionaire heiress, untouchable and pristine.

"She is also my fiancée," Jory added.

Carra's head snapped toward him. Her eyes widened.

The pieces clicked together. The photos. The tracking. The cold fury radiating from his pores. He wasn't a rival agent. He was a man whose pride had just been dragged through the mud, exactly like hers.

The Maybach pulled up to an unmarked building covered in thick ivy. There was no sign. No bouncer. Just a solid oak door.

Carra stepped out onto the pavement. Her legs felt like lead.

She walked toward the entrance. Two men wearing earpieces stepped out of the shadows, crossing their arms to block her path.

"Black card only, miss," one of them grunted.

Jory stepped up behind her. He reached over her shoulder, holding a heavy metal card between his index and middle finger. It bore a gold family crest.

The guard's eyes dropped to the card. The color drained from his face. He bowed at a sharp ninety-degree angle and scrambled to pull the heavy oak door open.

They walked into a dimly lit hallway. Low bass jazz pulsed through the floorboards. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and secrets.

Jory leaned down. His mouth was inches from her ear.

"Dry your eyes," he whispered harshly. "This place eats the weak alive."

He guided her to a private elevator at the end of the hall. The doors slid shut, trapping them in a space so small Carra could feel the heat coming off his body.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the penthouse floor.

They stepped onto a thick Persian rug. At the end of the corridor, the double doors to the Presidential Suite were cracked open.

A high-pitched moan echoed into the hallway.

Carra's body froze. Her blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. She knew the low, breathless laugh that followed it. It was Vance.

Her feet refused to move.

Jory stepped behind her. He placed his large, scorching hands on her bare shoulders and shoved her forward.

Carra stumbled until she was standing right outside the gap in the door.

She looked through the crack.

Vance was on the velvet sofa. Eloisa's blonde hair was tangled in his hands.

The last thread of Carra's sanity snapped.

She reached into her purse with shaking hands and pulled out her phone. She opened the camera app. She needed proof to protect herself from the PR fallout. But her thumb was trembling so violently she couldn't press the red circle.

Jory's large hand covered hers. His grip was bruising, but it stopped the shaking.

He pressed her thumb down onto the record button.

The screen captured the betrayal in high definition.

Carra let out a shaky breath. Her hand slipped. The edge of her phone slammed hard against the wooden doorframe.

A loud, sharp crack rang out in the quiet hallway.

Inside the room, the movement on the sofa stopped instantly.

"Who's out there?" Vance's voice barked from inside the suite.

Carra heard the frantic rustling of clothes. Panic seized her throat. She tried to step back, wanting to run, wanting to hide.

Jory's hand flattened against the middle of her back. He didn't let her retreat. Instead, he reached out and shoved the heavy double doors wide open.

The doors slammed against the walls.

Carra was thrust into the bright light of the suite.

Vance was standing by the sofa, frantically buttoning his silk shirt. Eloisa was huddled in the corner, clutching a throw blanket to her chest, her eyes wide with terror.

Vance's panic vanished the second he recognized Carra. His face twisted into an ugly mask of rage.

"Are you insane?" Vance yelled, marching toward her. "Are you tracking me now? You psycho!"

Carra didn't flinch. She raised her phone, the screen still displaying the video she had just taken. Her voice came out eerily calm, stripped of all emotion.

"I don't need to track you, Vance. You left a trail of garbage all over the city."

Vance glanced at the screen. He swallowed hard, but his ego refused to let him back down.

"You don't understand anything," Vance sneered, pointing a finger at her. "This is a PR rehearsal. We are doing a chemistry read for the new Gucci campaign. You're my publicist, you should know this!"

Carra felt a sick laugh bubble up in her throat.

"A chemistry read?" she repeated. "With your pants unzipped?"

"You're suffocating me!" Vance shouted, trying to flip the blame. "You control my schedule, my diet, my life! You're just a glorified assistant, Carra. Know your place!"

Carra's whole body shook. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Then, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from the doorway.

Jory Elliott walked out of the shadows and stepped into the room. The air pressure in the suite instantly plummeted.

Vance stopped yelling. His jaw dropped. He stared at the man who owned the very studio that paid his salary. The blood rushed out of Vance's face, leaving him looking like a corpse.

Eloisa let out a pathetic squeak. She dropped to her knees on the carpet.

"Jory..." Eloisa whimpered, her voice trembling.

Jory didn't even look at her. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it onto the glass coffee table.

It landed with a soft slap.

"Read it," Jory commanded.

Vance slowly picked up the paper. His eyes scanned the text. It was a medical document from a private clinic in Beverly Hills.

Eloisa Lindsey. Eight weeks pregnant.

Carra felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Three years. She and Vance had been together for three years, meticulously careful because he said a baby would ruin his career. And now, this.

"Mr. Elliott, please," Vance stammered, dropping the paper as if it burned him. He fell to his knees right there on the rug. "I didn't know she was your fiancée. I swear to God. It was a mistake."

"The EK Group does not tolerate scandals that humiliate its CEO," Jory said, his voice flat and deadly. "You are a dead man in this town, Sterling."

"No! Please!" Vance crawled forward. "I'll do anything. I'll pay you. I'll do whatever you want!"

Jory looked down at him with absolute disgust.

"I will not tolerate my name being dragged through the mud by a failed engagement. I dictate the narrative, not the tabloids," Jory said coldly. "We pivot."

Vance blinked, confused.

"You will announce to the press tomorrow that you and Eloisa are deeply in love and expecting a child," Jory dictated. "And I will take Carra. I need a wife to pacify my family and the board, and you need a miracle to survive this. We spin it as a mutual parting of ways. A tragic romance."

Vance didn't even hesitate for a second.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Vance nodded frantically. He turned to Carra, his eyes hard. "Carra, you hear that? You're out. You're too plain for me anyway. You were just a stepping stone. Get out of my way."

The last shred of Carra's heart turned to ash.

She walked up to Vance. She didn't yell. She didn't cry.

She raised her right arm, pulling it back as far as she could, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength in her body.

The crack sounded like a gunshot.

Vance's head snapped to the side. A drop of blood instantly welled up at the corner of his mouth.

"I quit," Carra said, her voice dripping with venom. "And we are done."

She turned on her heel. She kept her spine perfectly straight and walked out of the suite without looking back.

Jory watched her go. He adjusted his cufflink, shot Vance a look that promised death, and followed her out.

Carra made it to the elevator. She punched the button. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside.

The second the metal doors closed, cutting them off from the world, her knees gave out.

She slid down the wall of the elevator, gasping for air as the adrenaline crashed.

Jory stood over her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a dark blue silk handkerchief that smelled of cedarwood, and silently held it out to her.