“And if I say no?”
“I’m not staying because I want to,” she said, stepping into his space. His arms came around her like he’d been waiting his whole life to hold her. “I’m staying because I love you, you impossible devil.”
“My wife’s taste,” he said quietly, “is none of your concern. Neither is her presence. You’ll apologize, or you’ll find your foundation’s funding reconsidered by morning.”
Lena Frost had learned long ago that miracles didn’t exist. What did exist were overdue rent notices, a mountain of her late mother’s medical debt, and a younger brother with a heart condition that required a surgery she could never afford. So when the silver-eyed man in the thousand-dollar suit appeared at her greasy spoon diner counter at 2:00 AM, she didn’t flinch. contract marriage with the devil billionaire
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
Dorian appeared in the doorway like a ghost. No footsteps. No warning.
The woman apologized.
“Calling the head of cardiothoracic surgery at Mass General. He owes me a favor.” His voice was flat, efficient, but his hands—those hands that signed billion-dollar deals—were shaking slightly as he typed. “You’ll be on a private jet in twenty minutes. You’ll be there before he wakes up.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he did something that broke every rule in his own contract. He sat down on the floor beside her—a man who had never sat on a floor in his adult life, probably—and pulled out his phone.
“I know.” He kissed her again. “I’m a terrible contract lawyer.” “And if I say no
“And if I don’t want to leave?”
The third month, he took her to a charity gala. A woman in diamonds sneered at Lena’s dress (vintage, borrowed, beautiful). Before Lena could respond, Dorian’s voice cut through the music like a blade.
“Go away,” she said.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then: “Because you were crying. And I found that I did not like it.” Leo’s surgery was a success. Lena stayed at his bedside for three days, and when she returned to the penthouse, she found that the chef had been instructed to make her mother’s chicken soup recipe—the one Dorian must have found in an old email she’d sent to a friend. A blanket was draped over her usual reading chair. A framed photo of Leo as a child sat on the nightstand.