The Tycoon's Unwanted Contract Wife

"Take it off."

Maura's voice held no room for negotiation. The senior housekeeper stood in the center of the sprawling, temperature-controlled dressing room of the Manhattan penthouse. Her eyes scanned Annabel's soft cashmere sweater, one of the few remaining pieces of her own clothing rather than the endless couture provided by the Harrison estate, with undisguised disgust.

Annabel kept her hands at her sides. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Maura held up a hanger. Suspended from it was a crimson Oscar de la Renta haute couture gown. The fabric looked like liquid blood under the harsh recessed lighting.

"Mr. Harrison expects his wife to look the part tonight," Maura said. "Do not forget the public image confidentiality clause in your prenuptial agreement. You are a Harrison now. Act like it."

Annabel swallowed the thick lump in her throat. She reached out and took the heavy dress. The silk felt cold against her skin. She stripped off her sweater and stepped into the gown. It clung to every curve of her body, tight and restrictive.

Down on the street level, a car horn blared. Gus, the security driver, was waiting in the Maybach.

Annabel shoved her feet into a pair of stiff, red-soled heels. The leather pinched her toes immediately. She walked past Maura without a word and stepped into the private elevator.

The ride down to the garage was silent. Annabel slid into the back of the Maybach. The heavy scent of expensive leather and a faint, custom cedarwood fragrance hit her lungs. It was thick, aggressive, and suffocating, much like the man himself. It made her slightly nauseous.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a message from Nord Medical Center. It was another billing notice for her mother's life support. The number at the bottom of the screen had six zeros.

Annabel's chest tightened. Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back down. She locked the screen and shoved the phone away.

In the rearview mirror, Gus met her eyes. His expression was completely blank. He pressed a button, and the soundproof partition rolled up, sealing her in the back.

The Maybach pulled up to the curb outside the Wall Street Hotel.

The flashbulbs hit the tinted windows like lightning strikes. Annabel flinched. The sheer volume of reporters pressing against the barricades was suffocating.

"Use the side entrance," Gus's voice came through the intercom. "Go straight to the VIP holding room behind the stage."

Annabel nodded, even though he couldn't see her. She pushed the door open and slipped out, keeping her head down. She bypassed the red carpet entirely, navigating the narrow, dimly lit service corridor.

She reached the heavy oak door of the VIP room. She pushed it open.

Her breath hitched. Her heart missed a beat.

Gregorio was standing by the vanity mirror. He was leaning down. His large hand was gently tucking a stray blonde curl behind Kiersten Johnson's ear.

Kiersten looked up at him. Her eyes were soft, adoring.

The intimacy of the gesture felt like a physical punch to Annabel's stomach.

Gregorio turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Annabel. The tenderness in his face vanished instantly, replaced by a layer of absolute frost. His jaw ticked.

"Take off your coat," Gregorio ordered. His voice was low, rough.

Annabel froze. "What?"

"The paparazzi are swarming the back exit," Gregorio said, stepping away from Kiersten. "Give Kiersten your coat. She needs to leave unseen."

Annabel's fingers gripped the lapels of her black wool coat. She looked at Kiersten.

Kiersten offered a small, fragile smile. "Thank you so much, Annabel. I'm so sorry for the trouble."

The sweetness in her voice made Annabel's stomach turn. She shrugged off the coat and handed it over.

Kiersten slipped it on. Two security guards appeared at the back door and ushered her out into the alley.

Gregorio pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his fingers slowly, deliberately, as if he had just touched something contaminated. He threw the fabric into the trash can.

He closed the distance between them. He stopped inches from Annabel. The heat radiating from his body was intense.

"Smile for the cameras," he whispered, his breath brushing her ear. "If you make me look like a fool tonight, you will regret it."

He didn't wait for her answer. He turned and walked out the main doors toward the red carpet.

Annabel forced her legs to move. She followed him out into the blinding light.

The noise was deafening. Reporters screamed their names.

"Mr. Harrison! Is it true the family trust is shorting the tech sector?" a reporter from the Washington Post shouted, shoving a microphone over the velvet rope.

"Annabel!" another reporter yelled. "Rumors are swirling that this is nothing but a loveless business arrangement! Is this marriage just a boardroom stunt?"

Annabel stepped back. The flashes blinded her. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her throat was completely dry.

Suddenly, a heavy arm wrapped around her waist.

Gregorio pulled her hard against his side. His grip was bruising.

Before she could process the movement, his hand tangled in her hair. He tilted her head back. He crashed his lips onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a brutal, possessive claim. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip. The cameras went wild, the shutters clicking in a continuous roar.

Annabel gripped his lapels to keep from falling. Through the fabric of his suit, she felt his chest. His heart was hammering against her palms, erratic and violently fast. His skin was burning hot.

The heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut. The chaotic flashing lights and screaming reporters were instantly cut off.

Gregorio shoved Annabel away.

She hit the opposite door, her shoulder colliding with the armrest. She gasped, grabbing her arm.

Gregorio didn't look at her. He reached into the center console, pulled out an antibacterial wipe, and scrubbed his mouth. He rubbed the skin until it turned red.

Annabel turned her face toward the tinted window. Her chest heaved. The taste of him still lingered on her bruised lip. She stared at the blurry streetlights of Manhattan, forcing herself to breathe slowly.

Up front, Gus pressed the button. The thick, soundproof partition slid up, locking them in complete isolation.

Gregorio ripped his bowtie loose. He tore the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt open. His breathing filled the quiet cabin. It was ragged. Heavy.

Annabel glanced at him.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck bulging. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were stark white.

"Are you sick?" Annabel asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Gregorio's head snapped toward her.

His eyes were bloodshot. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dark irises. He looked like a wild animal cornered in a cage.

"Shut up," he growled. His voice was a harsh, guttural scrape.

The car descended into the underground parking garage of their building. The tires squealed as Gus brought the Maybach to an abrupt halt.

Gregorio threw the door open before the car fully stopped. He stumbled out. His legs seemed to give way.

Annabel scrambled out after him. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his bicep to steady him.

Gregorio reacted instantly. He twisted, his large hand clamping down on her wrist like a steel vise. The bones in her arm ground together.

"Let go," Annabel gasped, trying to pull back.

He didn't. He dragged her toward the private elevator. His grip was agonizing. He swiped his keycard, and the metal doors slid open. He pulled her inside and hit the button for the penthouse.

The doors closed.

The confined space trapped the heat rolling off his body. He smelled of expensive cologne, sweat, and something sharp and metallic.

Gregorio slammed her against the cold steel wall of the elevator.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. His chest pressed flush against hers.

His breath burned against the sensitive skin of her neck.

"Gregorio," Annabel panicked. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Stop. The contract. You said we wouldn't-"

"You belong to me," he snarled against her collarbone. His teeth grazed her skin.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the dark penthouse living room.

Gregorio didn't let her walk. He scooped her up, his arm tight under her knees, and carried her out. He threw her onto the massive leather sofa.

Annabel bounced against the cushions. She scrambled backward, but he was already over her.

He grabbed the neckline of the red Oscar de la Renta gown. He pulled.

The thick silk ripped. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the empty room. The cold air hit her bare skin.

Annabel raised her hand to slap him.

He caught her wrist mid-air. He pinned both her arms above her head, his weight settling over her hips, trapping her completely.

"You took the money," he sneered, his hot breath fanning her face. "You sold yourself to my family. This is what you're paid for."

The words hit her like a physical blow. The fifty million dollar debt her father left behind flashed in her mind. The hospital bills. The threats.

Her struggles ceased. Her body went entirely rigid.

She turned her head to the side. She squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear leaked from her lashes and rolled into her hair.

Gregorio didn't hesitate. The drug in his system had eradicated every ounce of his control.

Pain ripped through her. Annabel bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She didn't make a sound.

The hours dragged on. The drug kept him relentless.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittered, indifferent to the destruction happening on the leather sofa.

Eventually, the frantic pace slowed. Gregorio collapsed beside her. His chest heaved as his breathing evened out. Within minutes, he was dead asleep, his brow still deeply furrowed.

Annabel lay there. Her entire body throbbed. Her skin was covered in dark, angry bruises.

She slowly pushed herself up. Her muscles screamed in protest. She reached down with trembling fingers and picked up the torn, ruined pieces of the red dress. She pulled the fabric over her chest, shivering violently in the cold air.

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains.

Annabel opened her eyes. A sluggish confusion dragged at her mind-the last solid memory she could grasp was the cold bite of the living room leather sofa, the weight of his body trapping her against the cushions. But she was lying in the center of the massive king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Fragments surfaced through the fog: strong arms lifting her in the dark, the low rumble of a voice she knew too well murmuring something she could not catch, the sinking softness of the mattress swallowing her whole. Then nothing.

She tried to sit up. A sharp pain shot up her spine. Her thighs ached with a dull, heavy throb. She looked to her left. The sheets were rumpled, but the space was empty. Gregorio was gone.

She dragged herself out of bed. She found a thick silk robe draped over a chair and pulled it tightly around her bruised body. Her throat was parched. She needed ice water.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the long hallway.

Angry voices echoed from the study at the far end.

Annabel froze. She pressed her bare feet into the thick carpet, moving silently toward the partially open door.

She peeked through the narrow crack.

Kiersten was sitting on the floor. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Tears streamed down her flawless face, ruining her makeup.

Gregorio stood over her. His face was a mask of pure rage. He slammed a thick manila folder onto the mahogany desk.

"A rush chemical analysis," Gregorio yelled. The veins in his neck stood out. "Dorian's team tested the residue in the glass I drank from last night. You slipped a synthetic aphrodisiac into my drink at the party."

Annabel stopped breathing. Her stomach dropped. The drug. It wasn't him. It was a trap.

Kiersten scrambled forward on her knees. She grabbed the fabric of Gregorio's tailored trousers. Her knuckles were white.

"I was terrified, Greg!" Kiersten sobbed, her voice cracking. "I saw the way you looked at her on the red carpet. I was losing my mind. I just wanted you to come to me. I wanted you to need me."

Gregorio ripped his leg away. Kiersten fell forward onto her hands.

"You drugged me," Gregorio said. His voice dropped to a lethal, quiet register. "It makes me sick to look at you right now."

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

Annabel panicked. She spun around and ducked into the narrow utility closet just outside the study. She pulled the louvered door shut, holding her breath in the dark.

Gregorio stormed past the closet. His heavy footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the ding of the private elevator.

Annabel waited ten seconds. She pushed the closet door open and stepped out.

The study door swung wide open.

Kiersten stood in the doorway.

The tears were gone. Her face was completely dry. Her posture was perfectly straight.

Kiersten looked at Annabel. Her eyes dropped to the collar of Annabel's silk robe. The fabric had slipped, exposing a dark purple bruise on Annabel's collarbone.

Kiersten's lips curved into a slow, chilling smirk. There was no embarrassment. No shame. Only pure, calculated malice.

She didn't say a single word. She turned, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor, and walked to the guest elevator. The doors closed behind her.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Annabel's neck.

"Mrs. Harrison."

Annabel jumped. Maura was standing at the end of the hall.

The housekeeper walked forward and held out a small silver tray. On it sat a thick, black envelope. The edges were stamped with gold foil. There was no postage.

"A courier just dropped this off for you," Maura said flatly.

Annabel picked up the envelope. A heavy, distinct scent of expensive sandalwood hit her nose.

She tore the flap open. Inside was a heavy cardstock invitation to a private dining room at Le Bernardin.

A small, typed note was clipped to the back: If you want to permanently solve your mother's medical bills, meet me at 3:00 PM.

The initials at the bottom were K.J.

Annabel stared at the letters. Her fingers gripped the card so tightly it bent. She had no money. She had no power. She had no choice.