Sunlight sliced through the cheap plastic blinds of Darla's Brooklyn apartment, hitting her directly in the eyes.
She groaned, pulling the thin comforter over her head. Her entire body ached from the tension of the previous night.
On the nightstand, her phone erupted into a shrill, aggressive ringtone.
Darla blindly reached out and grabbed it. She cracked one eye open. The screen flashed Agnes's name.
Her stomach instantly tied itself into a knot. She pressed answer and held the phone an inch away from her ear.
"You stupid, ungrateful bitch!" Agnes's voice blasted through the speaker, vibrating with rage. "Do you have any idea how much money you cost this family last night?"
Darla sat up, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I didn't cost you anything. You sold me to Bennet for a business deal."
"And now you're going to fix it," Agnes snarled. "Arthur Vance is looking for a new wife. He's fifty-five, he's rich, and he's willing to overlook your little stunt. You are marrying him next week."
Darla's blood ran cold. Arthur Vance was a known predator on Wall Street. "I'm not marrying anyone, Agnes. I'm done with you."
Agnes let out a vicious, ugly laugh. "Are you? Because if you don't do exactly what I say, I am cutting off every cent of the legal defense fund for your father. Let him rot in that prison for the rest of his life."
The air rushed out of Darla's lungs. Her father. The only person who had ever truly loved her. He was sitting in a maximum-security cell for a crime he didn't commit, waiting for the appeal.
"You can't do that," Darla whispered, her throat tight with panic.
"Watch me," Agnes spat, and hung up.
Darla threw the phone onto the mattress. She grabbed her hair, pulling hard, trying to ground herself. She couldn't breathe. Agnes had total control over her as long as she was her legal guardian on paper.
She needed a way out. She needed a legal shield. A husband.
Her eyes darted to her silver clutch on the floor.
Darla scrambled off the bed, grabbed the bag, and dumped the contents onto the rug. The heavy, matte black card fell out.
ANSON.
She remembered the way he had stood in front of her, an impenetrable wall of muscle and calm. He needed money. She needed a husband.
Her hands shook violently as she picked up her phone and dialed the number.
It rang twice.
"Speak." Anson's voice was a low, gravelly command.
Miles away, in the glass-walled boardroom at the top of the MUA tower, Anson sat at the head of a massive mahogany table. A dozen terrified executives stared at him.
Anson held up one finger, silencing the room. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Anson?" Darla's voice was breathless, bordering on frantic. "It's Darla. I need to hire you for a long-term job."
Anson's eyes darkened. "What kind of job?"
"I need you to marry me," Darla blurted out. "Today. At City Hall. Just for one year. I'll pay you a lump sum at the end, and I'll cover your rent and food. You can live in my apartment."
Anson stared down at the sprawling Manhattan skyline. He was worth eighty billion dollars. He owned half the buildings he was looking at.
"I do need a place to stay," Anson lied effortlessly, his voice perfectly smooth.
Darla let out a massive breath of relief. "City Hall. One hour."
She hung up.
Anson lowered the phone. A dark, possessive thrill shot straight to his chest. He turned back to the boardroom.
"Meeting adjourned," Anson said coldly. He walked out before anyone could speak.
