Bound By The CEO's Cruel Contract

Claire Page's eyes snapped open.

The first thing she registered was the pain. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, her hips throbbing with a deep, bone-aching soreness that made her want to curl into herself and never move again. She lay still for three seconds, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the Bulgari Hotel's presidential suite, the morning light filtering through sheer curtains in thin, accusing strips.

She sucked in a breath. The air tasted of expensive cologne and sex and something else she didn't want to name.

Claire turned her head slowly, her neck stiff, her scalp tender. The movement made her wince. There, taking up more than half of the king-sized bed, was the broad, bare back of Ellsworth Mosley. His breathing was even, controlled, the rhythm of a man who slept like he conquered-deeply, completely, without dreams.

Her stomach lurched.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, the Egyptian cotton sheet sliding down her chest. The motion sent a sharp spike of pain between her legs, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep the sound inside. Her teeth broke skin. She tasted copper.

Claire swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet touched the cold marble floor, and her knees buckled immediately. She grabbed the nightstand with both hands, her knuckles white, her fingernails digging into the polished wood. The lamp rattled. She held her breath, waiting.

Ellsworth didn't stir.

She straightened slowly, her spine protesting each incremental movement. Her gaze dropped to the floor. There, crumpled in a heap of destroyed fabric, was her dress. The burgundy velvet evening gown she'd spent three months saving for. It was torn down the side, the zipper ripped clean away, the delicate neckline shredded beyond repair.

Her face burned. The back of her throat tightened.

The phone on the nightstand vibrated.

Claire flinched so hard she nearly knocked the lamp over. She snatched the device, her heart hammering against her ribs, her eyes darting to the bed. Ellsworth's breathing remained unchanged. She unlocked the screen with trembling fingers.

A text from an encrypted number she recognized as Leo Chen's. No greeting. Just a PDF attachment-a wire transfer confirmation for one million dollars to the account on her employment file. The memo line held three letters: NDA.

The cold hit her first. Then the shaking. It started in her hands and spread outward, a violent tremor that rattled her teeth. She gripped the phone until the case creaked, until her fingerprints smudged the glass. A million dollars. For her silence. For her body. For the thing she could never get back.

She pressed her free hand against her mouth. Her eyes burned, hot and desperate, but she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not where he might wake and see.

Claire pushed off from the nightstand. She walked toward the bathroom on legs that felt borrowed, each step sending fresh waves of discomfort through her pelvis. She closed the door behind her with a soft click and turned the lock.

The shower was already running when she realized she'd turned it on. She stood under the spray, fully clothed in the hotel robe she'd found hanging on the door, and let the cold water pound against her skull. It ran down her face, her neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. She let the heavy, sodden robe fall to the shower floor, a drowned thing, and stepped out onto the plush bathmat, wrapping herself in the thickest towel she could find before she dared to approach her makeup bag. She watched the water spiral down the drain and imagined herself going with it.

Twenty minutes later, she stood before the mirror in borrowed silence. The woman looking back was a stranger. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Claire opened her makeup bag with steady hands-the hands of a professional, a top-tier executive assistant who could manage three calendars and seventeen time zones without breaking a sweat.

She applied concealer in layers. The bruise on her jaw. The marks on her throat. The fingerprint-shaped shadows on her upper arms. She worked methodically, blending until her skin looked like porcelain, like nothing had happened, like she was the same woman who'd walked into this hotel twelve hours ago.

She twisted her hair into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She cinched the belt of the fresh, dry hotel robe she took from the closet. She found her glasses in her bag, the heavy black frames that made her look severe, competent, untouchable.

When she opened the bathroom door, Ellsworth Mosley was sitting up in bed.

He leaned against the headboard, the sheet pooled at his waist, his torso bare and ridged with muscle that moved as he breathed. In his right hand, he turned a custom matte-black lighter over and over, the flame catching and dying, catching and dying. His eyes-dark, depthless, predatory-fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to step backward into the bathroom and lock the door again.

"Impressive," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. "You switch roles faster than the NASDAQ opens."

Claire stopped three feet from the foot of the bed. She held her tablet against her chest like a shield. "I need to return to my apartment to change. I will be at the office by eight thirty."

Ellsworth's thumb stilled on the lighter. Something flickered across his face-irritation, maybe, or something hotter she couldn't read. He'd expected tears. Expected begging. Expected her to crawl back into bed and try to negotiate for more.

He gestured with his chin toward a garment bag hanging on the suite door. "Unnecessary. Leo delivered that an hour ago. Your size. Now, my schedule."

Claire's eyes flickered to the black bag, then back to him. The sheer, invasive preparedness of it stole the air from her lungs. "Your nine o'clock with Morgan Holdings has been moved to conference room B. The due diligence files are prepared. Coffee will arrive in four minutes."

"Get out," he said.

Claire dipped her head in a slight nod. She turned on her heel and walked to the door, her steps measured, each one a silent battle against the fire in her hips, a mask of professional grace hiding the agony beneath. Her three-inch heels, which she'd retrieved from the living area, clicked against the marble in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat.

She pulled the heavy door closed behind her. The latch clicked with finality.

Inside the suite, Ellsworth threw off the sheet and stood. He moved toward the bathroom, intending to shower, to erase the night from his skin. His foot caught on something. He looked down.

The white Egyptian cotton sheet lay twisted across the mattress. And there, dead center, was a smear of rust-colored red. Small. Almost invisible. But unmistakable.

Ellsworth Mosley went very still.

His mind replayed the night in fragments. The way she'd moved beneath him. The tension in her thighs. The small, swallowed sounds she'd made that he'd mistaken for pleasure. The resistance that had given way too fast, too completely.

He walked to the bedside phone and punched in an internal number. Leo answered on the first ring.

"Sir?"

"Claire Page," Ellsworth said. His voice was low, controlled, and infinitely dangerous. "I want her medical records. Financials. Every address she's lived at for the past five years. Have it on my desk by noon."

He hung up without waiting for a response.