Gravity was a cruel mistress.

Cinthia hit the floor hard, her knees slamming into the rug, but her upper body didn't find the carpet. Instead, her hands landed on warm, firm fabric.

She was sprawled across Adrian Clemons's legs.

Her palms were pressed against his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath the immaculate wool of his trousers. The scent of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and something sharp like winter air-filled her nose, overpowering the stench of spilled alcohol.

For a split second, time suspended. She looked up, her chin grazing his knee.

Adrian froze. His entire body went rigid, as if he had been touched by something contagious.

Then, the reaction came.

It wasn't a gentle push. It was a shove, fueled by a visceral, almost violent rejection. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, his grip bruising, and he threw her back.

"Get off."

The words were a snarl.

Cinthia scrambled backward, landing awkwardly on her rear on the wet, alcohol-soaked rug. Humiliation burned her cheeks hotter than a fever. She pulled her coat tight around herself, trying to make herself smaller.

Adrian stood up abruptly. He brushed his hands down his thighs, a frantic, repetitive motion, as if trying to wipe away invisible filth. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Look at that," Yvette sneered, crossing her arms. "The Wise family women are just as cheap as the men. Throwing yourself at him? Really?"

Cinthia ignored her. She looked at Carter, hoping for... something. An apology? A defense?

Carter wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Adrian, and his eyes were wide. Not with fear anymore, but with a sudden, dawning realization.

"Miles," Adrian barked, not looking away from Cinthia. "Call the police. I want them all charged. Trespassing, assault, destruction of property."

A man in a sharp grey suit stepped forward from the shadows-Miles, his executive assistant. He pulled out his phone.

"No! Wait!" Carter lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Miles's trousers. "Please! Mr. Clemons! Don't call the cops! We can pay! We can make it up to you!"

Adrian looked down at Carter with a sneer that could strip paint. "You? You look like you couldn't afford the ice in that bucket."

"My sister!" Carter blurted out. "She'll do anything! Look at her! She's obedient. She's clean. She can work it off!"

Cinthia felt like she had been slapped. The air left her lungs. "Carter, stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Shut up, Cinthia!" Carter hissed at her, then turned his desperate grin back to Adrian. "She's never been in trouble. No record. She'll do whatever you want. Just don't send me to jail."

Adrian paused.

His hand, which had been reaching for his own phone, stopped mid-air.

He looked at the sobbing man on the floor, then shifted his gaze to the woman huddled in the mess of broken glass.

She looked pathetic. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her coat was cheap polyester, and she was trembling like a leaf. But her eyes...

They weren't begging. They were furious. Behind the fear, there was a spark of absolute indignation. She was biting her lip so hard it was turning white, refusing to cry.

Adrian's mind flashed back to the morning. His mother's voice on the phone, sharp and relentless. The trust fund vote is next week, Adrian. The board is nervous. They want stability. They want a family man, not a brooding widower. Get married, or Darryl gets the chair.

Darryl. His half-brother. The mistake his father had made with a secretary two decades ago.

Adrian needed a wife. Not a real one. God, no. He never wanted a real one again. He needed a prop. A mannequin. Someone who had no power, no connections, and no ability to fight him. Someone he could buy and discard when the contract was up.

He looked at Cinthia again.

She was desperate. Her brother was a criminal. They were drowning in debt; he could smell the poverty on them.

She was perfect.

Adrian lowered his hand. "Miles. Hold the call."

Miles froze, phone in hand. "Sir?"

Adrian stepped over the broken glass, his Italian leather shoes crunching on the shards. He stopped in front of Cinthia. He towered over her, blocking out the light from the chandelier.

"You're the sister?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion. It was a business transaction.

Cinthia looked up. Her neck hurt from the angle. "Yes," she managed to say.

Adrian turned his head slightly toward Yvette. "Get out."

Yvette blinked, her mouth falling open. "What? Adrian, honey, they attacked me-"

"I said get out," Adrian said, his tone dropping an octave. "Miles, escort Ms. Quinton to her car. And ensure she understands that if a word of this leaks to the press, her father's company will lose its credit line by morning."

Yvette went pale. She gathered her skirt and fled, Miles following her to the door before turning back.

The room was silent now, save for Carter's ragged breathing.

Adrian pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his hands again, though he hadn't touched anything, and then dropped the silk square into the trash can beside the sofa.

He looked at Carter. "You want to avoid prison?"

Carter nodded so hard his head bobbed like a toy. "Yes. Yes, sir. Anything."

Adrian pointed a long finger at Cinthia.

"Lend her to me."

Cinthia's heart stopped. "What?"

"One year," Adrian said, his eyes locking onto hers. They were cold, empty tunnels. "You give her to me for one year. I wipe your debt. I fix the damage here. No police."

Carter didn't even hesitate. "Done. Take her."

"I am not a library book," Cinthia said. Her voice was shaking, but the words were clear. She pushed herself up from the floor, her hands stinging from where the glass dust had pressed into her palms. "You can't just 'borrow' a person."

Adrian arched a brow. It was a micro-movement, the only sign that he had heard her at all. He didn't look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on Carter.

"This is the only offer on the table," Adrian said flatly. "Take it, or I have Miles dial the precinct. The NYPD response time for this district is under four minutes."

Carter scrambled up from his knees and grabbed Cinthia by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh through the thin trench coat.

"Are you crazy?" Carter hissed, spit flying onto her cheek. "That's Adrian Clemons! Do you know who he is?"

"I know who he is," Cinthia snapped, trying to pry his hands off. "That's why I'm saying no! Carter, he's talking about human trafficking!"

"He's talking about saving my life!" Carter shook her. "Think about the debt, Cinthia! Think about Mom and Dad's loans! Think about Casey! If I go to jail, who pays for his meds? You? With your assistant salary?"

Cinthia went still.

Casey.

Her little brother. He needed the insulin. He needed the specialized therapy. Carter was a mess, a gambler, and a liar, but his income-however shady the source-covered half the bills. If he went away, the house of cards would collapse. Aunt Linda would throw Cinthia out. Casey would suffer.

She looked at Carter's face. It was twisted with fear and selfishness. There was no love there. He was looking at her like she was a winning lottery ticket he had just found in the gutter.

"Please," Carter whispered, dropping his voice to a pathetic whine. "Just one year. It's probably just... cleaning or something. Look at him. He doesn't want you for... that."

Cinthia felt a wave of nausea. She looked at Adrian.

He was checking his watch. A Patek Philippe. Worth more than her life insurance policy.

"I'm on a schedule," Adrian said. "Miles?"

Miles raised the phone again, his thumb hovering over the call button.

Cinthia closed her eyes. She took a breath that tasted of stale whiskey and despair.

"Fine," she whispered.

"Speak up," Adrian commanded.

She opened her eyes and glared at him. "I said fine. What do you need me to do?"

Adrian didn't smile. He didn't show triumph. He just nodded to Miles, who lowered the phone.

"Come with me," Adrian said. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, not waiting to see if she followed.

Cinthia hesitated. She looked back at Carter one last time. He was slumped against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead, already pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't look at her. He was safe. That was all that mattered to him.

Something inside Cinthia broke. A small, fragile tether that had bound her to her older brother snapped cleanly in two.

She turned and followed the black suit out of the room.

The cold air outside the club hit her face like a slap. A black Rolls Royce Phantom was idling at the curb, its engine a low, purring beast.

Miles opened the rear door.

Cinthia paused. The interior was cavernous, upholstered in cream leather. Adrian was already inside, sitting on the far side, typing on a tablet.

"Get in," Adrian said without looking up. "Or go back inside and wait for the handcuffs."

Cinthia climbed in. She pressed herself against the door, putting as much distance between them as the luxury car allowed.

The door thudded shut, sealing them in a vacuum of silence.

"City Hall," Adrian said to the driver.

Cinthia whipped her head around. "City Hall? Why are we going to City Hall?"

Adrian continued typing. The blue light of the screen illuminated the sharp angles of his face.

"To get a license," he said, as casually as if he were ordering lunch.

"A license for what?"

He finally stopped typing. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes boring into hers.

"A marriage license," he said. "We're getting married."

The Rolls Royce glided through the Manhattan traffic like a shark through water.

Cinthia's brain was misfiring. "Married?" she choked out. "Mr. Clemons, this is insane. We don't even know each other."

"I don't need to know you," Adrian said, turning back to his tablet. "I need a signature on a piece of paper. And I need a body at family dinners."

Miles, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned around and slid a thin folder through the partition gap.

"Ms. Wise," Miles said, his voice apologetic but firm. "This is a temporary Non-Disclosure Agreement. It covers the next two hours."

Cinthia took the folder. Her hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled.

"If you leak a word of this," Adrian added, his voice devoid of threat but heavy with promise, "the deal with your brother is void. And I will sue you for breach of contract until your grandchildren are paying off the legal fees."

The car pulled up to the side entrance of City Hall. It wasn't the grand steps where happy couples took photos. It was a grey metal door near the loading dock.

"Let's go," Adrian said.

He moved fast. Cinthia had to jog to keep up with his long strides. He didn't hold the door for her.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed. A clerk was waiting at a small counter in a private office. He looked nervous, sweating slightly as Adrian entered.

"Mr. Clemons," the clerk stammered. "Everything is ready."

Adrian didn't make small talk. He just tapped the counter. "Papers."

The clerk slid the marriage license application forward.

Cinthia stood there, feeling like she was in a fever dream. The smell of old paper and floor wax made her dizzy.

"Is this... voluntary?" the clerk asked, looking at Cinthia. He saw the tear in her coat, the mess of her hair.

Cinthia opened her mouth.

Adrian turned his head slightly. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her. It was the same look a wolf gives a rabbit before the snap. Think about the debt. Think about the jail cell.

Cinthia swallowed the bile in her throat. "Yes," she lied. "It's voluntary."

She picked up the pen. It felt heavy, like a lead weight. She signed her name. Cinthia Wise.

Adrian took the pen from her fingers. His hand brushed hers for a millisecond, and she felt him flinch. He signed quickly, a sharp, jagged scrawl. Adrian Clemons.

The clerk stamped it. Thump. Thump.

"Done," Adrian said. He didn't wait for the certificate. "Miles, handle the filing."

He turned and walked out.

"Wait!" Cinthia called out, running after him. "What now?"

They were back at the car. Adrian stopped with his hand on the door handle.

"Now?" He looked at her with genuine confusion. "Now you go back to work. Or whatever it is you do. Don't think being Mrs. Clemons means you get to sit around eating bonbons."

Cinthia blinked. "Go back to work?"

"Yes. Miles will drop you off."

He got into the back of the Rolls Royce. "I have a meeting. Take the sedan," he told Miles.

Before Cinthia could say another word, the heavy door slammed shut. The Rolls Royce peeled away, merging into traffic.

She was left standing on the sidewalk with Miles.

"Ms. Wise," Miles said, gesturing to a black Lincoln sedan that had pulled up behind the Rolls. "Where should I take you? Do you have a job?"

Cinthia stared at the empty space where Adrian had been. He didn't know. He genuinely didn't know she worked in his building. He hadn't even bothered to ask for her resume.

"Yes," she said softly. "I have a job."

She got into the sedan.

"Where to?" Miles asked from the driver's seat.

"Clemons Media Tower," Cinthia said. "42nd and 8th."

Miles looked at her in the rearview mirror. His eyebrows shot up. "You work... at the Tower?"

"Junior Executive Assistant. 14th floor."

Miles was silent for a long moment. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened just a fraction. "I see."

He didn't ask why she hadn't told Adrian. He was a good assistant. He knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Cinthia looked down at her left hand. It was bare. No ring. Just a faint smear of ink on her pinky finger.

She was married. To a stranger. To a monster.

And now, she had to go back to his office and pretend she wasn't.