Blinding sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing directly into Elenor's retinas.

She groaned, a sharp, splitting pain radiating through her temples.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and forced herself into a sitting position.

The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft. She blinked against the light, her vision slowly clearing to reveal a sprawling, ultra-luxury hotel suite.

She looked down. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets pooled around her waist.

She wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing.

A cold sweat broke out over her entire body. Fragmented memories slammed into her fragile skull like a freight train.

The bar. The cedarwood scent. The backseat of the Maybach. The desperate, messy kisses.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs seizing. She yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

Red marks dotted her collarbones and shoulders, glaring physical evidence of how far she had crossed the line last night.

The sound of running water suddenly echoed from the master bathroom.

Elenor's heart vaulted into her throat, beating so hard it bruised her ribs.

She threw off the covers and scrambled off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor. She needed her clothes.

She found her silk dress discarded near the sofa, but the delicate fabric was torn straight down the side seam. A fragmented memory flashed-her own clumsy, drunken hands aggressively yanking at the stubborn zipper in the dark, the sickening sound of the delicate silk ripping under her desperate grip. It was unwearable.

Panic clawed at her throat. She snatched a crisp, white men's dress shirt draped over the back of a leather armchair and shoved her arms through the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely brushed the middle of her thighs, and the fabric was saturated with that same intoxicating cedarwood scent.

The water stopped.

The frosted glass door of the bathroom slid open.

Elenor froze, her back hitting the cold edge of the marble wet bar.

The man walked out. He had a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water traced the hard, defined lines of his abdominal muscles, disappearing into the terrycloth.

He didn't look hungover. He didn't look confused.

He lifted his dark eyes and pinned her to the spot. His gaze raked over her, taking in his shirt hanging off her small frame, with a brazen, unapologetic intensity.

"I-I'm so sorry," Elenor stammered, her vocal cords tight. "Last night was... I had too much to drink. It was a mistake."

He didn't say a word. He closed the distance between them with slow, predatory strides.

The physical dominance of his large frame suffocated her. Elenor pressed herself harder against the marble, wishing she could melt into it.

He stopped mere inches from her. He tilted his head slightly, his long fingers reaching up to brush aside a damp strand of dark hair resting on his neck.

Low on the side of his neck, just above his collarbone, was a violent, undeniable red bite mark.

Elenor gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

A vivid flash of memory hit her-her teeth sinking into that exact spot in the back of the car, acting like a wild, feral animal.

Heat exploded in her cheeks. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

"This mark," his voice was a low, dangerous gravel that vibrated in the quiet room, "is going to make my board meeting today extremely difficult."

"I can go buy concealer," Elenor blurted out, her hands shaking. "I can fix it."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. He turned his back to her, walked behind the bar, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it onto the marble right in front of her.

It was the Financial Times.

The bold headline screamed: PORTER HOLDINGS POISED FOR RECORD-BREAKING IPO.

Beneath the headline was a high-resolution photo of the man standing in front of her.

Elenor's eyes scanned the text, the letters swimming before her eyes.

Christian Porter.

The most ruthless, cold-blooded acquisition machine on Wall Street.

All the blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded.

She slowly lifted her head, meeting Christian's eyes. They were completely devoid of warmth, calculating and terrifyingly calm.

Elenor stared at the name printed on the newspaper. Her brain flatlined. Her muscles locked into place, rigid as stone.

Christian took a slow sip of his black coffee. He watched her panic unfold with the detached interest of a predator watching a trapped mouse.

He pulled out a barstool and sat down, crossing one long leg over the other. Elenor felt the air in the room thicken, as if his relaxed posture was a gravitational force, commanding every square inch of space around him.

"I swear, it was an accident," Elenor whispered, her voice cracking. "I won't bother you. I'll leave right now, and no one will ever know."

"Wall Street doesn't believe in accidents," Christian interrupted, his tone devoid of emotion. "It only looks at results."

He picked up a remote from the counter and pressed a button.

The massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall flickered to life, tuned to a major financial news network.

The anchor was currently dissecting the volatility risks surrounding the upcoming Porter Holdings IPO.

"Any negative scandal right now," Christian said, pointing a long finger at the screen, "will evaporate hundreds of millions in market cap before the opening bell."

"But no one knows about last night!" Elenor pleaded, her fingernails digging painfully into her own palms. "Just let me go."

Christian reached into his pocket and slid his phone across the marble counter toward her.

Elenor looked down.

The screen displayed a series of grainy, paparazzi-style photos. It showed the two of them outside the bar, locked in a heavy embrace, and then getting into the Maybach.

Her face was partially obscured by his jacket, but Christian's sharp profile was unmistakable.

Elenor clamped a hand over her mouth, a wave of nausea hitting her. "How... how were there photographers?"

"My competitors pay very good money to watch my every move," Christian stated coldly. "If these photos reach the tabloids, the narrative is out of my control."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "The board of directors demands a CEO with absolute stability and rigorous self-control."

He tapped the red bite mark on his neck. "This, combined with those photos, proves I lack both."

The crushing weight of responsibility slammed into Elenor's chest. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I don't have money. I can't compensate you for this."

Christian set his coffee mug down. He stood up and walked around the counter, stopping right in front of her.

He reached out. His rough thumb brushed against the corner of her eye, wiping away a tear that had threatened to spill.

The unexpected gentleness of the gesture sent a violent shiver down her spine.

"I don't need your money," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I need a permanent solution to this PR crisis."

Elenor tilted her head up, desperate for a way out. "What solution?"

Christian turned on his heel and walked over to the heavy oak desk near the window. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

He walked back and slammed the file down onto the marble counter. The heavy thud made Elenor jump.

Her eyes dropped to the bold, capitalized words on the first page.

PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT - STATE OF NEW YORK.

Elenor blinked rapidly, convinced the alcohol was still messing with her brain. She read the words again.

Christian planted both hands flat on the marble, caging her in. His dark eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity.

He spoke in the most sterile, business-like tone imaginable.

"You are going to marry me. We will use a legal union to turn a catastrophic scandal into a corporate fairy tale."

Elenor stared at the thick legal document, a dry, incredulous laugh tearing from her throat.

She took two steps back, putting distance between herself and the marble counter. "This is insane. You're joking."

Christian's face remained an unreadable mask. He picked up a heavy Montblanc fountain pen from the counter and tapped the signature line on the last page.

"Marriage is the only metric of stability my investors will accept," he stated, his logic impenetrable.

"You could find any socialite in Manhattan to do this!" Elenor argued, her chest heaving. "Why me? You met me in a bar twelve hours ago!"

A flicker of something dark passed through Christian's eyes, but he masked it instantly beneath a veneer of corporate calculation.

"Because you have no background," he said ruthlessly. "You have no powerful family to complicate my assets. You are easy to control."

The words hit Elenor like a physical blow to the stomach.

Easy to control. No background.

It was the exact same rhetoric Clemens had used to destroy her last night. She was nothing but a pawn to these men, a disposable accessory.

Christian watched the color drain from her face. He saw the exact moment the pain registered in her eyes, and he drove the nail in deeper.

"Sign this," Christian said, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive hum, "and for the duration of this two-year contract, you will have the absolute protection of the Porter name. No one will ever look down on you again."

Elenor bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. Her mind was a chaotic war zone.

She didn't want to sell herself. She didn't want a marriage built on a transaction.

Christian flipped to the final page of the document, pointing to a specific clause.

"A two-year term. When it expires, you walk away with an eight-figure alimony settlement. Clean break."

Elenor turned her head, looking out the massive windows at the sprawling, indifferent skyline of Manhattan.

She thought about the last four years. She thought about how she had twisted herself into knots trying to fit into Clemens' elite world, only to be thrown away like garbage.

If she agreed to this madness, she would instantly sever all ties to her pathetic past. She would never have to beg for scraps of respect again.

Christian saw the hesitation fracturing her resolve. He picked up a glass of warm water and pressed it into her cold hands.

"Sign the paper, Elenor," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "And you will never be anyone's insignificant charity case again."

That sentence struck the deepest, most wounded part of her soul. It shattered her final defense.

Elenor took a ragged breath. Her hand shook violently as she reached out and took the heavy Montblanc pen from his fingers.

She pressed the nib to the thick paper. The scratching sound of the pen filled the silent room.

Christian's eyes tracked the movement of the pen, his breathing slowing to an almost imperceptible crawl.

She signed her full name.

The second the pen lifted, Christian snatched the document off the counter. A flash of raw, unfiltered fanaticism burned in his eyes before he quickly turned away.

He walked to the wall safe, punched in a code, and locked the agreement inside. The heavy metal click sounded like a prison door slamming shut.

Elenor dropped the pen. Her hands felt empty. She felt like she was trapped in a bizarre, suffocating dream.

Christian turned back around. The intense predator was gone, replaced once again by the cold CEO.

"Go shower. I had my assistant send up a dress from my personal shopper's emergency stock for you," he commanded, checking his platinum Patek Philippe watch. "We have exactly two hours to get to City Hall."

Elenor's eyes widened in horror. "City Hall? Today? Why so fast?"

"The golden rule of crisis management," Christian said flatly, adjusting his cuffs. "Speed is everything."