The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. A completed call to Eloise's number. Forty-seven seconds. He had hung up first, right after she whispered "Yes." That single word had been burning in his skull for the past hour.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won. She called, didn't she? That's what you wanted."

Christian didn't answer. He took a long swallow of whiskey. He had wanted her to call. He had set the trap. But now that she had walked into it, he felt nothing but a sick, twisting rage. Not at her. At himself. Because ten years of telling himself she was just another gold-digger had just been proven right. And it didn't feel like winning.

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. Not because the traders were saying anything new—but because they were right. And hearing it made his blood run cold.

He stood up. He set his glass down with deliberate control—no shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away without a word.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He looked at his phone again. Then he walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door. He raised his fist and knocked—three sharp, controlled raps.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His eyes were cold, clear, and sober.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won."

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. The veins on the back of his hand popped against his skin. A dark, violent rage exploded in his chest, burning his lungs.

He set his whiskey glass down onto the marble surface with controlled force. It didn't shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance to the exit.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors of the club and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a completed call. It was Eloise's number. He had hung up first. He stared at the screen. Ten years of suppressed jealousy, anger, and a sick, twisted need for her clawed at his throat. He hated that she was willing to sell herself. He hated that the traders were right.

He walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life like an angry beast. He slammed his foot on the gas, tearing into the empty streets.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door used by the family for private entry. He didn't bother looking for the doorbell. He balled his hand into a fist and pounded on the solid wood. The loud, aggressive thuds echoed down the quiet estate grounds.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His grip was like iron. His eyes were wild, dark, and predatory.

He shoved the door forward. The force pushed Eloise backward. Christian stepped into the narrow entryway and reached behind him, slamming the door shut. He turned the deadbolt, locking them inside.

The entryway was tiny. Eloise stumbled backward until her spine hit the cold plaster wall. There was nowhere left to run.

Christian stepped into her space. He placed both hands flat on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"What was that phone call?" Christian demanded. His voice was rough, scraping against his throat. "Is that how it works? You'll sell anything for the right price?"

Eloise turned her face away, trying to escape his heavy, hot breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She bit her bottom lip, refusing to answer.

Her silence felt like a confession to him. The rage inside him boiled over.

He grabbed her chin with his large hand, his fingers digging into her jaw. He forced her head back around so she had to look at him. His eyes were full of a agonizing mix of hatred and desperate hunger.

Before she could speak, he crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was brutal and demanding. Eloise let out a muffled gasp of shock. She raised her hands and pushed hard against his solid chest, trying to shove him away.

Christian caught both of her wrists in one hand. He pinned her arms behind her back, pressing his heavy body flush against hers, trapping her completely against the wall.

His teeth scraped against her bottom lip. A sharp pain flared, followed by the metallic taste of blood spreading in her mouth.

Eloise couldn't breathe. The panic seized her lungs. She stopped fighting. Her body went limp against the wall. A single, hot tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek. It dropped right onto the back of Christian's hand holding her jaw.

The heat of that single tear burned Christian's skin like acid.

His entire body jerked. He ripped his mouth away from hers and dropped her wrists. He took a massive step backward, his chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs. He stared at his hand, then up at her face.

Eloise's knees gave out. She slid down the wall until she hit the hardwood floor. She sat there, pulling her knees to her chest, gasping for breath. She lifted a shaking hand and wiped the blood from her swollen bottom lip. Her eyes looked up at him, filled with absolute terror and defense.

The narrow entryway was dead silent. Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the space.

Christian looked down at her. The violent storm in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a thick, impenetrable wall of ice. He forced his posture straight, pulling the cold, calculating billionaire persona back over his fractured soul.

"Stand up," he ordered. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Eloise didn't move. She just stared at him.

Christian looked down at her, his jaw tight. "You want fifty million dollars to save your father. Here is my offer. You spend tonight with me. Tomorrow morning, you sign a marriage contract. You do that, and the money hits the Brandt accounts by noon."

Eloise's head snapped up. Her eyes widened in pure shock. "Marriage?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why? If you want to ruin my life, taking the company is enough."

Christian let out a short, cruel laugh. He leaned down, grabbing her chin again, but this time his touch was clinical. "Don't flatter yourself. A wife is a useful tax shield and a good PR move for the board. It's a business contract. Nothing more."

He let go of her face and stood up straight. He pulled back his cuff and looked at his expensive watch.

"You have sixty seconds to decide," he said coldly. "If you say no, I walk out that door, and your father loses his hospital bed."

The ticking of the vintage clock on the wall sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. Eloise stared at the floor. Her father's pale face flashed in her mind. The medical bills. The tears on her mother's face.

The seconds bled away. Her stomach twisted so hard she felt physically sick.

At the fifty-ninth second, Eloise closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. The word barely made a sound.

Christian's pupils dilated. A fresh wave of anger hit him-anger that she would sell herself so easily, proving every lie he believed about her.

He didn't say a word. He bent down, wrapped one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her off the floor.

Eloise gasped at the sudden weightlessness. Her hands instinctively flew up, gripping his broad shoulders to keep from falling.

Christian carried her up the spiraling back staircase. He didn't bother turning on the lights. He kicked open the door to her bedroom.

He walked over to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress. Eloise sank into the soft blankets. Before she could push herself up, Christian was over her. His heavy frame pressed her down into the mattress, caging her in.

He reached up with one hand and yanked his tie loose, tossing it onto the rug. His eyes were pitch black in the dark room, fixed entirely on her face.

Eloise turned her head away. She squeezed her eyes shut. Hot, humiliating tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, soaking into her pillow. Her hands gripped the bedsheets so tightly her knuckles ached.

Christian saw the tears. His hands stopped moving. He reached out, his rough thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping the wetness away. The touch was surprisingly gentle, completely at odds with his harsh words.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low whisper. "If you're going to treat this like a job, then do it properly."

Eloise gritted her teeth. She forced her head to turn. She opened her eyes and met his intense gaze. Her eyes were full of broken pride and stubborn defiance.

Christian lowered his head. This time, his mouth didn't punish her. His lips brushed against hers with a suffocating, heavy heat. It was demanding, completely taking over her senses.

His large, warm hand slid under the edge of her silk nightgown. His fingers brushed against her bare stomach. The contrast of his hot skin against her cold flesh made her entire body shiver violently.

Eloise closed her eyes again. She let go of the bedsheets. She stopped fighting. She let herself sink into the dark, terrifying reality of what she had just agreed to.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Manhattan filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across the bed. In the quiet darkness, Christian took the woman he had wanted for ten years, using the only method he thought she understood. And Eloise surrendered her life to the man she believed hated her most.

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the curtains, hitting Eloise directly in the eyes.

She groaned, turning her head on the pillow. Her entire body ached. Her muscles felt heavy and bruised. She reached her hand across the mattress, expecting to feel a warm body.

The sheets were cold. The space beside her was empty.

Eloise opened her eyes. She sat up slowly, pulling the silk blanket up to cover her chest. She looked down at her arms and collarbone. Faint red marks dotted her pale skin. The physical evidence that last night wasn't a nightmare.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She took a deep, shaky breath, forcing the lump in her throat down. She didn't have time to cry.

A sharp, rhythmic knock echoed from the front door downstairs.

Eloise threw the blankets off. She grabbed a thick cotton robe from the chair and wrapped it tightly around her body, tying the belt in a hard knot. She walked barefoot down the stairs. The wood felt freezing against her toes.

She looked through the peephole. A woman in a sharp grey business suit stood on the porch, holding a black leather briefcase. Her face was completely blank.

Eloise unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"Good morning, Ms. Brandt," the woman said. Her voice was crisp and professional. She held out a plain white business card. "I am Cameron Shaw, executive assistant to Mr. Clarke."

Cameron didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped past Eloise into the narrow entryway and walked straight into the living room. She set her briefcase down on the glass coffee table and popped the latches.

She pulled out two thick stacks of paper and a heavy Montblanc fountain pen. She arranged them neatly on the glass.

"Mr. Clarke requested these be signed immediately," Cameron said, pointing to the documents. "The prenuptial agreement and a standard non-disclosure agreement."

Eloise walked over to the coffee table. She stared down at the fifty pages of dense legal text. Her stomach churned.

"I will summarize the core clauses to save time," Cameron said, her tone robotic. "During the marriage, you have no right to interfere in Mr. Clarke's personal life. In the event of a divorce, you leave with zero assets. You are required to play the role of a devoted wife at all public events. Any breach of these terms will result in the immediate withdrawal of the fifty million dollar capital injection."

Eloise stared at the black ink. She felt like a piece of property being cataloged and restricted.

She reached out and picked up the Montblanc pen. The metal barrel was freezing cold against her fingers.

The cold metal instantly sent a violent flash of memory through her brain.

Yale University. Sophomore year. The basement of the Sigma Chi fraternity house was packed with sweating bodies and cheap beer. The strobe lights flashed, making everyone look like they were moving in slow motion. Eloise had gripped a folded piece of notebook paper so hard her hands cramped. She walked up to Christian, who was standing in the corner. She held out the letter, her heart pounding out of her chest, stuttering as she confessed she had liked him since boarding school.

Christian had looked at the letter, then up at her. His eyes were filled with absolute disgust. He took the paper, ripped it perfectly in half, and dropped it into a plastic trash can. Keep your rich-girl games away from me, he had sneered loudly. The entire room had erupted in laughter.

The memory burned her chest. Eloise's fingers trembled around the heavy pen.

Cameron tapped her watch. "Mr. Clarke's patience is limited, Ms. Brandt. I suggest you sign."

Eloise sucked in a sharp breath. She blinked away the burning tears in her eyes. She flipped to the last page of the contract. She pressed the nib of the pen to the paper and signed her name in quick, sharp strokes.

The scratch of the pen against the paper sounded incredibly loud in the quiet room. It sounded like a door locking shut forever.

Cameron immediately snatched one copy of the contract and slid it back into her briefcase. She snapped it shut.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy silver key embossed with the Clarke family crest, along with a small white card. She placed them on the glass table.

"The address is on the card," Cameron said, walking toward the front door. "You are expected to move into the Upper East Side penthouse by eight o'clock tonight. Failure to arrive is a breach of contract."

The front door slammed shut. The draft from the closing door fluttered the pages of the remaining contract on the table.

Eloise's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the sofa. She reached out and picked up the heavy silver key. Her fingers closed tightly around the metal edges. She stared blankly at the white ceiling.

She wasn't Eloise Brandt anymore. She was just a purchased asset.