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.