The Genius Bride's Secret Contract Marriage

Clara has been drugged.

The family who has raised her for twenty years is now, for the sake of family interests, about to hand her over to a greasy old man at this hotel party tonight.

"Clara, stop hiding in the corner. You're embarrassing us."

Her adoptive mother,Helen Foster's voice was a sharp whisper, cutting through the dull roar of the party at the St. Regis. Clara's fingers tightened on the thin strap of the borrowed purse. The dress, a hand-me-down from her stepsister, felt two sizes too small, its cheap satin clinging uncomfortably to her skin under the heat of the crystal chandeliers. The light refracted through a thousand tiny prisms, making her head spin.

Jessica, her stepsister, glided over, a vision in a new Vera Wang gown that probably cost more than Clara's entire college tuition. She looped her arm through Clara's, her smile as bright and fake as the cubic zirconia on her ears.

"Clara, don't be so tense," Jessica cooed, her nails digging slightly into Clara's arm. "Just relax. It's a party."

Her adoptive mother, Helen, pressed a champagne flute into her other hand. The glass was cold, but her eyes were colder. "Smile. You look like you're at a funeral."

Then her adoptive father, Richard Foster, caught her eye from across the room. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards a portly, middle-aged man with a sweaty upper lip and a gold watch that glinted obscenely. "Go say hello to Mr. Vance," Richard mouthed, his expression leaving no room for argument.

A wave of nausea washed over Clara. She had seen Leo Vance watching her all night, his gaze thick and greasy, like he was mentally undressing her and finding the experience satisfactory. It made her stomach clench.

She took a half-step forward, compelled by twenty years of obedience, but Jessica stopped her. "Not with that," she said, plucking the champagne from Clara's hand. She flagged down a passing waiter and took a different flute from his tray. This one was filled with a pink, bubbly liquid.

"Here, drink this instead. It's sweeter. You'll like it." Jessica's smile was relentless.

"I don't really want-"

"Just drink it, Clara," Helen snapped, her patience gone.

The pressure from both sides was a physical force, boxing her in. Clara's breath hitched. To avoid a scene, to make it stop, she brought the glass to her lips and drank. The liquid was cloyingly sweet, masking the taste of alcohol and something else, something vaguely chemical.

She finished the glass, and they finally let her go. But a few minutes later, as she stood near a towering floral arrangement, a strange, creeping heat started low in her belly. It spread through her veins like a fever. The music of the string quartet began to sound distant and distorted, the edges of her vision blurring.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her brain. She'd been drugged.

She looked back at her family.

Since she was young, they've been very cold toward her. She didn't understand why at the time.

Later on, they brought a girl back from outside. Helen lied to her, saying that Richard was on a business trip when she gave birth. Helen fainted after the birth. The nanny was careless and lost the newborn Jessica. Fearing responsibility, the nanny bought a child of a similar age from human traffickers-that was her.

Even after the truth came out, that family continued to treat her as their daughter. Jessica called her "sister" constantly, and it seemed like they truly regarded her as part of their family.

But she knew that wasn't her home.

Now that her biological daughter has returned, she can no longer keep that position for herself. So she rarely goes home.

Tonight, her adoptive parents invited her out for dinner, saying it was a family gathering. But in reality, the whole thing was just an attempt to get her into a man's bed.

Jessica was now standing with Helen, her sweet smile gone, replaced by a look of cold, hard calculation. She caught Clara's eye and her lips formed the words, "Mr. Vance's company can save us. This is an honor for you.You took my place for eighteen years, and now you're given away to Leo Vance so easily... You're really lucky."

Helen added her own silent, cruel postscript, her gaze like ice. "Don't blame us for being heartless. Back then, we brought you back from the orphanage because we believed your horoscope was favorable-that you could protect Jessica from misfortune and bring her twenty years of happiness. You should be grateful to us."

Richard stared at her coldly. "We've raised you for twenty years. Now it's time for you to repay the Gu family."

It turns out everything was a scam. She's lived a lie for the past twenty years.

The full weight of their betrayal slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. Leo Vance was walking towards her, his own smile triumphant, his oily hand outstretched.

"There you are, little thing."

Adrenaline surged through her, a primal scream for survival. Using every ounce of strength she had left, Clara shoved him. He stumbled back, surprised, his drink sloshing onto the pristine white carpet. She didn't wait to see more. She turned and ran.

Behind her, she heard Vance's curse and Jessica's indignant shriek, but she didn't stop. She stumbled out of the ballroom and into the plush, carpeted hallway. It felt like a maze, the soft flooring swallowing the sound of her frantic footsteps and draining her remaining energy.

The heat inside her was becoming unbearable, a fire consuming her from the inside out. Her consciousness was fraying, darkness licking at the edges of her vision. Her body felt heavy, her limbs uncoordinated. She had to get away. She had to hide.

Her hand fumbled for a door handle, her fingers clumsy and weak. She twisted. It was unlocked.

She practically fell into the room, the door swinging shut behind her as the sound of Vance's approaching footsteps echoed in the hall. The suite was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city skyline through a massive window.

A tall, broad figure in the center of the room turned sharply at her sudden intrusion. Before she could stop herself, she crashed directly into his chest. The impact was like hitting a wall of solid muscle. The air was filled with a clean, masculine scent-expensive cologne and crisp cotton-that was a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the party.

Her head swam. She looked up, trying to focus, and met a pair of eyes, gray and sharp as a hawk's, even in the dim light.

Then the world went black.

Damian Blackwood frowned down at the woman who had collapsed in his arms. She was burning up, her skin feverish to the touch, and the cheap, floral perfume she wore was mixed with the sour scent of alcohol. She was muttering something, her hands weakly clawing at the fabric of his suit jacket.

From the hallway, he heard a man's vulgar shout. "Little bitch, where did you run off to?"

A flicker of disgust crossed Damian's face, followed by a chilling coldness. He could call security, have them both thrown out. It would be the simplest, cleanest solution.

But as he looked down at the unconscious woman's face, he saw the faint, silvery tracks of tears on her cheeks. There was a desperation in the lines of her mouth, a vulnerability that stirred something deep within him-a flicker of a memory, a rainy night years ago, a different girl with the same look of hopeless defiance.

He made a decision.

With a grunt of effort, he scooped her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected. He carried her towards the bedroom, his back foot kicking the suite door shut. The lock clicked into place, a solid, definitive sound that cut off the filth from the hallway.

He laid her gently on the king-sized bed. She immediately began to whimper, her hands tearing at the collar of her cheap dress. He recognized the signs instantly. She'd been given a high dose of a date-rape drug.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his head of security. "Ethan," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "There's trash in the hallway outside my suite. Get rid of it. And I want a full background check on the hosts of tonight's event, the Foster family. Everything you can find. Especially on their adopted daughter."

He hung up and looked back at the woman on the bed. She had curled into a tight ball, her nails scratching red lines onto her own arms in a desperate attempt to claw away the fire under her skin.

He walked to the bedside, his shadow falling over her. He reached out, his cool fingers brushing against her scorching forehead.

"Who are you?" he murmured into the silent, cavernous room.

Clara woke up to a pounding headache and the unfamiliar feeling of high-thread-count sheets against her skin. The bed was enormous, big enough for four of her. For a moment, she was suspended in a groggy state of confusion, then the memories of the night before crashed down on her.

Jessica's fake smile. The sickeningly sweet champagne. Leo Vance's greedy eyes. The desperate flight down the hallway.

Her own eyes flew open. She sat bolt upright, a gasp catching in her throat. She wasn't in her dress. She was wearing a man's silk dress shirt, the sleeves hanging ridiculously long past her hands. Her satin gown was folded neatly on a chair by the bed, looking as if it had been professionally cleaned.

The room was a presidential suite, opulent and impersonal, with a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a breathtaking panorama of the Manhattan skyline. This wasn't her world. This was the world of people who bought and sold lives like hers over cocktails.

Panic seized her, cold and absolute. She clutched the sheets to her chest. What had happened after she passed out? The last thing she remembered was a pair of cold, gray eyes. She had lost the one thing she had always guarded so fiercely. The thought was a physical blow, leaving her feeling hollowed out and ice-cold.

"You're awake."

The voice came from the shadows in the corner of the room. It was deep, calm, and utterly commanding. Clara's head snapped in its direction.

A man was sitting in an armchair, his long legs crossed, the morning's Wall Street Journal held open in his hands. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored Brioni suit that probably cost more than her car. His presence was so immense it seemed to suck the air out of the room, leaving her struggling to breathe.

She scrambled backwards on the bed until her back hit the headboard, pulling the duvet up to her chin like a shield. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "What did you do to me?"

The man slowly lowered his newspaper, revealing his face. It was a face built from sharp angles and hard lines, handsome in a way that was almost brutal. But it was his eyes that held her captive-the same cold, gray eyes from her last waking moment.

Clara's pupils contracted. She knew that face. She'd seen it on the cover of Forbes, of Fortune, of every major business publication in the country.

Damian Blackwood. The CEO of the Blackwood Group. The uncrowned king of Wall Street.

Damian Blackwood, twenty-six years old, is the head of the powerful Blackwood family, one of the most influential business conglomerates in North America.

Eight years ago, the Blackwoods were killed in a car accident as a result of schemes by their distant relatives. The company's major shareholders and directors were restless, while the Blackwood family's enemies watched eagerly for an opportunity to take control of the Blackwood fortune.

Amid internal strife and external threats, 18-year-old Damian single-handedly took on the responsibility of leading his entire family. With decisive actions, he eliminated all those who posed a threat and brought all of Blackwood's businesses to new heights.

In the past five years, he has expanded into overseas markets, with investments in industries across dozens of countries around the world. He has a keen eye for opportunity, and any project he invests in has seen rapid growth in recent years.

At eighteen, he fought his way through the brutal world of business, becoming a legend in the corporate world.

Even for the Foster family, Damian Blackwood was someone far beyond their reach.

Could it be him who was there last night?

The fear in her gut was replaced by a wave of dizzying shock. She had stumbled into the lair of one of the most powerful men in the world. And she had... with him...

He didn't answer her questions. Instead, he pressed a small button on the console of the bedside table. A few minutes later, a quiet knock sounded at the door. A man in an equally sharp suit entered, pushing a clothing rack with several new outfits hanging in sterile plastic. They were all from high-end designers, their price tags discreetly removed.

"Mr. Blackwood, the items you requested," the assistant, Ethan, said.

Damian's gaze shifted back to Clara. His voice was flat, without a trace of emotion. "Take a shower. Get dressed. We need to talk."

He stood up and walked to the window, turning his back to her. It was a small gesture, but it gave her a sliver of privacy, a moment to breathe. She knew she had no choice. Scrambling off the bed, her legs unsteady, she hurried into the adjoining bathroom.

The bathroom was larger than her entire dorm room, all marble and chrome. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and a choked sob escaped her. Her face was pale and tear-stained, and a faint red mark bloomed on the side of her neck. The sight of it made her feel sick. She turned on the cold water and splashed it on her face, trying to wash away the shame.

The toiletries were all Hermès, a bitter, ironic contrast to her situation. She didn't know what awaited her out there. A check to buy her silence? A threat to ensure she never spoke of this?

She chose the most conservative dress from the rack-a simple navy blue sheath-and put it on. It felt like armor, a costume for a role she didn't know how to play.

When she stepped back into the suite, Damian was seated at a small dining table where a lavish breakfast had been laid out. Silver cloches covered plates of what smelled like eggs benedict and fresh pastries.

"Eat," he said. It wasn't a request.

She sat down opposite him, her hands trembling as she picked up a piece of toast. She couldn't swallow. Her throat was too tight. His unnerving calm made her feel like a specimen under a microscope. He was a predator, and she had stumbled right into his den.

He took a slow sip of his black coffee, his gray eyes fixed on her. "Clara Foster," he said, the sound of her name on his lips sending a shiver down her spine. "Columbia University, double major in computer science and applied mathematics. 4.0 GPA. National Merit Scholar."

He knew everything. In the space of a few hours, he had stripped her bare, not just physically, but informationally. She was completely transparent to him.

He placed his coffee cup back on its saucer with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoed in the silent room.

"Now," he said, his gaze pinning her in place, "let's talk about last night."

Clara stared down at her hands, her knuckles white as she gripped them in her lap. She was waiting for the verdict, the judgment from the man who held all the power in this room.

Damian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small, white cardboard box. He slid it across the polished surface of the table. It stopped directly in front of her.

She looked down. It was a morning-after pill.

A hot, suffocating wave of shame washed over her, so intense it made her vision swim. Her face burned as if he had slapped her.

"What do you think I am?" The question tore from her throat, raw and choked with tears she refused to let fall. Her voice cracked. "I'm not that kind of girl. I didn't even know who you were!"

Damian watched her outburst, his expression unreadable. His calm was more unnerving than any anger would have been.

The girl was only twenty years old and still in school. She had a bright future ahead of her. Besides, they were strangers. It seemed unlikely that she would want to become pregnant with his child right now. "Sit down first," he said in a calm voice.

Clara sat across from him, head bowed, back stiff, hands neatly placed on her lap.

It's just like facing a teacher who wants to ask questions in class.

The rumored Damian Blackwood is cold, heartless, and ruthless by nature. His icy demeanor intimidates even the most experienced businessmen in the industry, let alone a twenty-year-old girl like Clara.

"I'm Damian Blackwood." To avoid scaring the delicate young woman, Damian tried to speak in a calmer tone. "I'm sorry about last night. I'll take responsibility for it."

"There's no need," Clara said, her voice trembling with tears. A single tear silently rolled down her face.

The beautiful woman sheds tears, looking pitiful and helpless, evoking sympathy in everyone who sees her.

Damian took out two pieces of paper and handed them to her. "Stop crying."

Clara didn't answer the call. She looked up, with tiny tears hanging on her long eyelashes. The corners of her eyes were red and wet. Her irises were glistening with tears. "If a strange man slept with you, wouldn't you cry?"

"I know you're not,Miss Foster, I was also a victim of what happened last night. We were both drugged." His collar tilted slightly with his movement, revealing a clear bite mark on his sexy collarbone.

Clara froze, the angry words dying on her lips. The tears that had been threatening now clung to her eyelashes, suspended by sheer disbelief. "What?"

"A business rival thought it would be amusing to slip something into my drink," he explained, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. "I felt it taking effect and left the party early. I came back here. Then you came in."

The revelation stunned her into silence. She wasn't the only victim.

"And," he continued, a subtle shift in his tone, "according to the security footage from my suite's entryway, you were the one who initiated things."

He turned his laptop on the table to face her. On the screen, a silent, black-and-white video was playing. She saw herself, stumbling into him. And then... she saw herself reaching up, her movements clumsy and desperate, pulling his head down to hers. She watched, horrified, as her on-screen self kissed him.

Clara suddenly widened her eyes in shock. It really was her who took the initiative!

Suddenly, she lost her confidence and muttered softly, "It's always the girls who suffer in situations like this."

Damian Blackwood couldn't help but laugh at her: "So my innocence isn't innocent after all?"

He had originally planned to go back to his room and take a cold shower. But on the way, he ran into Clara.

Both of them had hot bodies. Clara, under the effect of the medicine, was incredibly seductive, proactive, and bold.

When she bumped into his arms, her body was delicate and soft, and a delicate, graceful fragrance filled his nostrils.

It was like the strongest aphrodisiac in the world-it controlled his body and confused his mind.

The blood drained from her face. The drug. It had stripped away her inhibitions, her control, leaving only a raw, desperate need for... something. For safety? For human contact? It didn't matter. The video didn't lie.

She was a victim, yes, but she was also the one who had crossed the line. The righteous anger that had been her shield moments before crumbled, replaced by a deep, mortifying shame.

Without another word, she picked up the box, popped the single pill from its foil packet, and swallowed it dry. The bitterness coated her tongue and slid down her throat, a perfect match for the taste in her soul.

The storm of emotion inside her finally subsided, leaving a hollow, aching calm. She had cried, she had raged, and now she knew a version of the truth. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and finally looked at him, really looked at him.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady. "Money to keep quiet? I don't have any."

Damian didn't answer immediately. He simply watched her, his gray eyes analytical. "I don't need your money, Ms. Foster," he said finally. "As I said, we were both victims of circumstance. In that, we are equals."

She almost laughed. Equals? A broke orphan and a billionaire? The idea was absurd.

His next words proved just how absurd it was, shattering her reality into a million pieces.

"Clara Foster," he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "marry me."

Clara's mind went completely blank. The sounds of the city outside the window faded to a dull hum. She must have misheard him. He couldn't have said what she thought he said.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She could only stare at him, her expression a mixture of shock and the dawning certainty that the man sitting across from her was completely insane.

He met her gaze without flinching, his expression perfectly serious, as if he had just proposed a standard business merger.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. The room started to spin. Marry him? Marry Damian Blackwood?