The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

Pain wasn't a sound. It was a color. A blinding, throbbing white that pulsed behind Aisha's eyelids before she even opened them.

She tried to inhale, but the air felt too cold, too sterile. It didn't smell like her lavender detergent. It smelled like expensive sage and crisp linen.

Her eyes snapped open.

This wasn't her bedroom. The ceiling was too high, crowned with intricate molding that blurred as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She pushed herself up, the heavy duvet sliding down her chest.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog.

She looked down. She was naked.

Aisha scrambled backward, clutching the sheet to her chin. Her breath hitched in her throat, jagged and shallow. Where were her clothes? Where was she?

Memories from last night were like shattered glass-sharp, fragmented, and dangerous to touch. The charity gala. The flashing lights. Her step-sister, Cathie, handing her a flute of champagne with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Drink up, Aisha. You look so tense.

Then darkness. And now... this.

The sound of a door handle turning made her freeze.

Steam billowed out from the bathroom, carrying the scent of sandalwood. A man walked out.

He was tall. Terrifyingly tall. Water droplets clung to broad shoulders and a chest defined by hard, lean muscle. A white towel hung low on his hips, clinging precariously.

He stopped when he saw her. He didn't look surprised. He looked annoyed.

Aisha grabbed a pillow from the bed, wielding it like a shield. "Stay back!" Her voice cracked, dry and brittle.

The man didn't flinch. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, sweeping it back from a face that was unfairly symmetrical. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of storm clouds.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was deep, a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "Finally."

"Who are you?" Aisha demanded, though her hands were shaking so hard the pillow wobbled. "Did Gretta send you? How much did she pay you to ruin me?"

The man's brows knitted together. He walked over to the dresser, completely ignoring her makeshift weapon, and picked up a watch. "I don't know who Gretta is. And nobody paid me anything. Yet."

Aisha's gaze darted to the bedside table. There, sitting next to a crystal lamp, was a stack of cash. Hundred-dollar bills.

Her stomach dropped.

"Oh god," she whispered. The air left her lungs. "You're... you're a pro."

The man turned, following her gaze to the money. A strange expression crossed his face-something between amusement and calculation. He didn't deny it. He just leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

"You think I'm an escort?"

"Are you?"

He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

It mattered. It mattered because if he was a professional, this was a transaction. A setup. Gretta had staged this perfectly. The drugged drink. The hotel room. The hired muscle.

Tears, hot and humiliating, pricked her eyes. She blinked them back furiously. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him.

"Where are my clothes?" she snapped.

"Floor," he said, pointing a long finger toward the foot of the bed.

Aisha leaned over. Her emerald green gown-a vintage piece from her mother-was torn at the hem, lying in a heap like a dead thing.

She grabbed it, pulling it under the covers to dress, her movements frantic and clumsy. Every second she spent in this room felt like a tightening noose.

"Look," she said, her voice muffled by the fabric as she struggled with the zipper. "I don't know what you were told, but I'm leaving."

"Good idea," he said dryly. "Checkout is at eleven."

Suddenly, a thunderous sound erupted from the hallway.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Ms. Bartlett! We know you're in there!"

Flashes of light exploded through the peephole, visible even from the bed. The muffled shouts of a dozen reporters penetrated the heavy oak door.

"Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?"

"Look this way for the Post!"

Aisha froze, one arm halfway through her dress strap. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and dizzy.

"They're here," she whispered. "She actually called the press."

The man-Dominic-pushed off the dresser. His annoyance seemed to sharpen into something more alert. He looked at the door, then back at her.

"You're popular," he noted.

"I'm trapped," she corrected, her voice rising in panic. She looked around the room. It was a penthouse suite. There were no windows that opened. No back exit.

"If I go out there," she said, her voice trembling, "my life is over. The trust fund... the morality clause..."

Dominic watched her. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes, the way her knuckles turned white as she gripped the torn silk of her dress.

He sighed. It was a heavy, resigned sound.

He walked over to her, grabbing her arm. His grip was firm but not painful.

"Hey!" she yelped.

"Quiet," he ordered. He dragged her toward a side door she hadn't noticed. It was a walk-in closet, lined with cedar shelves.

He shoved her inside. "Stay."

"What are you-"

He closed the closet door, plunging her into darkness.

Aisha pressed her ear against the wood, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She heard Dominic pick up the room phone.

"Security," he said. His voice had changed. It wasn't the lazy drawl of a morning-after lover anymore. It was cold. Authoritative. "Room 4012. Clear the hallway. Now."

A pause.

"I don't care who they are. If there is a single camera left in five minutes, I'm pulling my... business... from this hotel."

Aisha frowned in the dark. Would a hotel listen to an escort? Maybe he was a very high-end escort. The kind that brought in big spenders.

She heard the muffled sounds of heavy boots in the hallway, the complaints of the paparazzi, and then... silence.

The closet door opened.

Light flooded in, blinding her for a second. Dominic stood there, still in his towel, looking bored.

"Coast is clear," he said.

Aisha stumbled out, clutching her purse. She felt small. Dirty. And strangely indebted to this man.

She opened her wallet. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped a credit card. She ignored it and pulled out all the cash she had-about three hundred dollars.

She threw the bills at his chest.

They fluttered down to the carpet between them.

"This is for your silence," she hissed, trying to regain some shred of dignity. "If anyone asks, I was never here."

Dominic looked down at the money. Then he looked up at her, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. It made him look dangerous.

"Three hundred?" he mused. "That barely covers the minibar."

"It's all I have," she said, backing toward the door. "Don't spend it all on... whatever it is you do."

She turned and ran. She didn't look back.

Dominic stood alone in the center of the suite. He bent down and picked up a twenty-dollar bill.

He chuckled, the sound low and dark.

He walked over to the bedside table, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.

"Chester," he said. "Find out everything about a woman named Aisha Bartlett. And cancel my morning meetings. I have a headache."

The alleyway behind the hotel smelled of stale beer and rain.

Aisha leaned against the brick wall, her knees finally giving out. She slid down until she was crouching on the wet pavement, not caring about the ruin of her dress.

She pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from her father. Zero from Kelton.

She dialed Kelton's number. Her fingers knew the pattern by heart.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"You've reached Kelton. Leave a message."

Aisha squeezed her eyes shut. "Kelton," she whispered into the voicemail. "Please. I don't know what happened. I woke up in a hotel. I think... I think Gretta drugged me. Please call me back. I need you."

She hung up, hugging her knees to her chest.

A sleek black sedan rolled past the mouth of the alley. It slowed down as it approached the traffic light.

Aisha's breath caught. It was her father's car. The Bentley.

She started to stand up, desperate to run to it, to bang on the window and beg her father to listen.

But then the rear window rolled down.

Gretta's voice drifted out, sharp and clear in the morning air.

"Useless idiots. They didn't get a clear shot of her face."

Aisha froze. She shrank back into the shadows behind a dumpster.

"It doesn't matter, Mom," Cathie's voice replied. It was light, airy, amused. "The rumor is enough. 'Bartlett Heiress in Drug Scandal.' Daddy is already furious. He's talking about the morality clause."

"Good," Gretta said. "Once she's cut off, the trust defaults to the next of kin. You."

"And Kelton?" Cathie asked.

"Kelton is a pragmatist, darling. He's already agreed to release a statement distancing himself from her. He'll be announcing his engagement to you by the end of the month."

Aisha clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that clawed at her throat.

The light turned green. The Bentley purred and glided away, disappearing into the New York traffic.

Aisha stayed crouched in the filth for a long time.

Kelton wasn't just silent. He was in on it. Or at least, he had been turned.

And her father... her father was letting it happen.

She stood up slowly. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. The shock had burned away, leaving behind a cold, hard rage.

She walked out of the alley and into a 24-hour diner across the street. She ignored the stares of the patrons as she marched into the restroom.

She splashed freezing water on her face, scrubbing at her skin until it turned red. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her mascara was smeared. Her hair was a bird's nest.

She looked like a victim.

"No," she said to her reflection.

She pulled out her phone again and pulled up the PDF of her mother's trust fund document. She scrolled past the legalese until she found Paragraph 14, Section B.

The Morality Clause.

...in the event of a public scandal involving substance abuse or sexual impropriety, the Beneficiary shall forfeit all rights to the Principal...

But there was a sub-clause. Her mother, god bless her paranoia, had added a safety net.

...unless the Beneficiary can demonstrate a stable domestic partnership through legal marriage within thirty (30) days of said incident, thereby proving a commitment to rehabilitation and family values.

Marriage.

She needed to be married. Immediately.

But to who? Kelton was gone. Her social circle would be closed off the moment the story broke. No man in her zip code would touch her now.

She needed someone who didn't care about her reputation. Someone who needed something she still had-cash flow. Someone desperate.

Her mind flashed back to the hotel room. The towel. The stack of cash on the table. The way he had taken her three hundred dollars without hesitation.

Dominic.

He was handsome. He could pass for high society if he kept his mouth shut. And he was clearly in a line of work where money was the only object.

Aisha checked her bank app. Account Frozen.

Of course. Barry didn't waste time.

But she had a secret stash. Cash in her apartment safe. And jewelry.

She dried her face with a rough paper towel. She didn't have time to cry. She didn't have time to heal.

She had a business deal to make.

The coffee shop was one of those pretentious places in SoHo where the menu was a chalkboard and the baristas wore suspenders.

Aisha stood outside, adjusting the oversized sunglasses she had bought from a street vendor. She had changed into jeans and a sweater she kept in her gym locker, looking slightly less like a runaway debutante.

She spotted him through the glass.

Dominic was sitting at a corner table. He was wearing a t-shirt that was tight in all the right places and a leather jacket that looked distressed enough to be either very old or very expensive.

Across from him sat an older woman. She had silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and was wearing a Chanel suit.

Aisha ducked behind a newspaper stand.

The woman reached across the table and patted Dominic's hand. It looked... affectionate? No, patronizing.

She slid a thick manila envelope across the table.

Dominic took it. He didn't look inside. He just gave the woman a charming, practiced smile. The kind of smile that made women open their checkbooks.

He's working, Aisha thought, a wave of disgust warring with relief. That's his sugar mama.

The woman stood up, smoothed her skirt, and left.

Dominic stayed. He slumped back in his chair, staring out the window, looking strangely tired.

Aisha took a deep breath. She pushed open the door. The bell chimed.

She marched straight to his table and sat down in the empty chair.

Dominic blinked, pulling his gaze away from the street. Recognition dawned in his gray eyes.

"The runaway," he said. "Come back for your three hundred bucks?"

"I have a proposition," Aisha said. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.

A waiter appeared. "Can I get you something?"

"Two large coffees. Black. And the check," Aisha said.

She turned back to Dominic. She took off her sunglasses.

"I saw that woman," she said softly. "I know what that envelope was."

Dominic's expression shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. "Do you?"

"It's payday," Aisha said. "She's your client."

Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"You think I'm a gigolo," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"I don't judge," Aisha lied. "But I need your services."

Dominic laughed. It was a rich, genuine sound that made heads turn. "Honey, I don't think you can afford my rates."

Aisha reached into her bag and pulled out a napkin. She grabbed a pen and wrote a number on it.

$50,000.

She slid it across the table.

"That's a down payment," she said. "I need you for a month. Maybe two."

Dominic looked at the number. He looked at her.

"What exactly does fifty grand buy me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Aisha felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "A husband. A legal, paper-signed husband."

Dominic choked on his water. He coughed, thumping his chest. "Excuse me?"

"I need to get married. Today. It's... a legal matter regarding a trust fund. I need someone who looks good in a suit, can memorize a backstory, and won't ask questions."

She leaned in closer. "I know you need money. I saw you take that cash this morning. I can give you a monthly stipend. Five thousand a month, plus expenses. You get to live in my apartment. You get access to a car."

Dominic studied her. He looked at the napkin, then at her desperate, determined eyes.

He was Dominic Fields. He made fifty thousand dollars every time the stock market ticked up a point. He didn't need her money.

But he was bored. He was tired of the board meetings, the fake smiles, the endless pursuit of more power. And this woman... this woman who thought he was a prostitute... she was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in years.

"I have debts," he lied smoothly. "Big ones. Sharks looking for me."

Aisha didn't blink. "I'll handle them. Once I get my trust fund unlocked, I can pay them off. Within reason."

"Within reason," he repeated, hiding a smile.

"Do we have a deal?" She extended her hand across the table. Her fingers were trembling slightly.

Dominic looked at her small hand. He looked at the fire in her eyes.

He reached out and engulfed her hand in his. His palm was warm, rougher than she expected.

"Deal," he said. "Mrs. Bartlett."