Contract Marriage With The Devil Billionaire -

On the drive home, Lena said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You can leave,” he said. “The jet is fueled. The funds have cleared. I’ve taken the liberty of purchasing a small house near your brother’s hospital—it’s yours, no strings.”

“Go away,” he croaked.

Until the rules were nothing but confetti at their feet. contract marriage with the devil billionaire

Dorian Black smiled. It was the kind of smile that had probably started wars. “I’m not insane, Ms. Frost. I’m efficient. I need a wife to secure a clause in my grandfather’s will. You need money. It’s a transaction. Nothing more.”

“You wrote clause seven,” she whispered back.

The word love landed between them like a dead fly. Lena looked at his file—because of course he had a file on her—and saw the numbers that had been strangling her for years. The debt. The surgery. The weight. On the drive home, Lena said, “You didn’t

She didn’t thank him. Not in words. Instead, she started leaving things for him: a book she thought he’d like (he read it in one night, though he never admitted it), a cup of coffee at exactly the temperature he preferred (she’d watched the barista make it enough times), a single fresh peony on his desk every Monday morning.

The enemy, as it turned out, was not biology.

“And if I don’t want to leave?”

“I have a proposal,” he said, sliding a black card across the Formica. No name. Just a symbol: a serpent eating its own tail. “Marry me for one year. In return, I will pay off every cent you owe, put your brother in the best cardiac program in the country, and give you five million dollars upon completion.”

Dorian didn’t look up from his laptop. “I think highly of biology. Oxytocin, proximity, shared stress—it’s a recipe for disaster. I’m simply naming the enemy.”