The Billionaire's Contracted Bride

The numbers on the page made her dizzy.

Lena Carter stared at the hospital invoice in her hands, the paper already crinkled from how tightly she’d been gripping it. The woman behind the glass—tired, indifferent—was still talking, but Lena had stopped hearing the words after she read the total.

$128,700.68.

Not including future medication.

Not including the next surgery her mother might not survive without.

Not including a miracle.

"Do you have a co-signer, Miss Carter?" the billing officer asked.

Lena’s voice came out cracked. "Do I look like I have a co-signer?"

She left before the woman could respond, pushing open the doors of the hospital with shaking hands and stepping into the hard chill of late-spring Manhattan. Her breath came out in short bursts. Panic. Fury. Helplessness.

She walked aimlessly for blocks, crossing streets she didn’t register, clutching the envelope like it was going to bleed her dry.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She had a plan. She had dreams. And now everything was slipping through her fingers like water.

It had been a year now that Lena had willingly put her life on hold to help her mother out. Back then, she had just completed her pre-med degree. She had worked her ass off during her degree to be able to apply for scholarships, and she was still working her ass off, working two jobs at once to save as much as she could during the summer before the admissions opened.

But all that had been side lined when she had received news of her mother's diagnosis. With her father having left them years ago, and no other siblings or family to support, the sole responsibility of taking care of her mother had fallen on her frail shoulders. So, she'd put her dreams of becoming a doctor aside, and put everything she had been able to save so far into paying her mother's hospital bills.

Though now, all her savings were gone, and her mother's insurance had maxed out. And it was still a long way before her mother would be cancer free.

By the time she stumbled into the upscale hotel lobby to use the restroom and catch her breath, her shoes were soaked and her pride was somewhere back on Fifth Avenue.

She ducked into a stall, tried to compose herself, then stepped out to splash cold water on her face. Her hazel eyes, same as her mother's, were red-rimmed. Her reflection looked older—exhausted, broken.

She barely noticed the man standing at the end of the marble hallway, talking quietly into a phone. Nor had she noticed him following her all the way from the hospital to this hotel.

But he noticed her.

She turned to leave, bumping into a hard chest.

"Oh—sorry," she muttered, then looked up.

And froze.

The man in front of her was tall, devastatingly handsome, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked stitched to his frame. He had a face carved from sharp lines and cold intentions—black hair, silver watch, unreadable eyes.

Something about him felt dangerous.

Powerful.

"Miss Carter," he said.

Her mouth parted, clearly shocked. "How do you know my name?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped closer, like he didn’t care about personal space—or what rules he might be breaking by crossing it. The scent of pinewood and citrus hit her senses at once, sending a zing of awareness through her spine at his sudden proximity.

"You need one hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars," he said. "I can give it to you."

Lena blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said." Her heart was thudding loudly in her chest, like she had just run a marathon. A million and one questions raced through her mind at once, and it took her a moment to pick one. "Who are you?" She finally asked.

He gave her a faint, almost polite smile. “My name is Damien Blackwood.”

The name hit her like a slap.

CEO of Blackwood Innovations. A billionaire. Corporate royalty. She’d seen him on headlines. On screens. Never in person.

Never like this.

“I’m not some desperate charity case,” she snapped, suddenly angry. Even though she did need the money, and she didn't know how she was going to get it, it still didn't mean she was going to go around begging.

“No. You’re a desperate daughter,” he said calmly, voice like silk over steel. “And I’m offering you a solution.”

Lena backed up half a step, defensive, her senses on high alert. “Why?”

Damien studied her.

Then he pulled a slim envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.

“Inside is a contract. One year. No obligations except appearances and discretion. You’ll be compensated enough to make your mother’s medical bills irrelevant. If you accept, you become my wife.”

Lena laughed. It came out harsh and too loud, borderline hysterical.

“This is a joke.”

“It’s not.”

“You want me to marry you? You don’t even know me," she said, her tone conveying every bit of the incredulity she felt. Who the hell did he think he was? She'd been known to act crazy on more occasions than one, but she sure wasn't crazy enough to marry a complete stranger out of the blue just because he was rich and looked hot.

His expression barely shifted save for an impossibly sexy raised brow. “That’s the point.” He turned to leave. “But you’ll say yes.”

“Why the hell would I—”

“Because,” he said, glancing back, “you’ll read the number at the bottom of page two.”

Then he walked away, leaving her alone in the hallway with the envelope still in her hand.

What the hell just happened? Was I so stressed that I've started dreaming up all these weird and impossible scenarios in broad daylight? She mused silently to herself.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. But the envelope was still there in her hand.

Hesitantly, she opened it, almost like it was a ticking time bomb that would go off at any moment.

The contract inside was brief. Clinical. Cold.

When her eyes fell to the bottom of the second page, her breath caught.

TOTAL COMPENSATION: $1,000,000.00 USD.

And for the second time in less than an hour, the numbers on the page made her dizzy.