Chrissy forced her stiff muscles to move. She turned around slowly.

Mitch was already pushing Arch out of the shadows of the lobby and toward the heavy glass exit doors.

Chrissy followed them outside.

The brutal midday Los Angeles sun hit them immediately. Arch frowned, the harsh light clearly irritating him. He reached into his breast pocket and slid a pair of dark, thick-framed sunglasses over his eyes, masking his expression completely.

Parked illegally at the curb was a massive, extended-wheelbase black Maybach.

The driver, a man named Ray, stood at attention by the open rear door.

Arch didn't look at Chrissy. He stared straight ahead at the dark interior of the car.

"Miss Vega," he said, his voice dropping to a chillingly calm register. "You seem to lack a fundamental understanding of the obligations attached to this marriage."

Chrissy swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"Are you referring to the holiday family dinners?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I can coordinate my bakery schedule to attend those."

Arch let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"I didn't spend fifty million dollars to hire a part-time actress," he sneered.

He turned his head. Even behind the dark lenses, Chrissy could feel the weight of his stare pinning her to the concrete.

"I want you packed and moved into the Bel-Air estate by tonight."

Chrissy gasped. She took a panicked step backward, her heel catching on the edge of the sidewalk.

"No," she blurted out. "That wasn't in the preliminary term sheet your lawyers provided."

Her chest heaved. "We agreed to not interfere in each other's private lives. I promised I would cooperate and attend any public relations events you need. But living together-"

"The stock price of the Rush Corporation cannot afford the scandal of a separated billionaire couple," Arch cut her off, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.

He lifted his right hand and tapped his index finger against the armrest of his wheelchair.

"Or," he said softly, his voice dripping with venom, "are you simply disgusted by the thought of living under the same roof as a cripple?"

It was a trap. A vicious, psychological test designed to force her into a corner.

Chrissy clamped her jaw shut. She shoved her hands deep into her trench coat pockets, her fingernails digging painfully into her own palms.

She knew the rules of this game. If she refused him now, he could freeze the fifty million dollars before her father even had the chance to touch it. She was entirely at his mercy.

She forced her breathing to slow down. She channeled the cold, detached tone she used when dealing with difficult customers at the bakery.

"Mr. Rush," she said. "If I am required to play the role of a loving wife full-time, we need to establish clear boundaries."

She stood taller. "I will move in. But I require a separate bedroom and my own bathroom."

She paused, her cheeks flushing hot pink. "And, in private, we will not be expected to fulfill any... physical marital duties."

The corner of Arch's mouth twitched upward into a cruel, mocking smirk.

"Physical duties?" he repeated, the amusement in his voice thick and degrading. "You flatter yourself, Miss Vega."

He gestured vaguely to his motionless legs.

"Exactly what do you think a man with zero sensation below the waist is capable of doing to you?"

The words hit Chrissy like a punch to the gut.

A sharp wave of guilt washed over her. She had just accused a paralyzed man of wanting to assault her. She dropped her gaze to her scuffed shoes, her face burning with shame.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... I need my own space."

Arch's smirk vanished. His face returned to a mask of cold indifference.

"Get in the car," he ordered. "My lawyers have prepared the written contract."

Mitch stepped behind the wheelchair. With practiced efficiency, he engaged the hydraulic lift built into the Maybach, smoothly elevating Arch and the chair into the cavernous rear cabin.

Chrissy stood on the sidewalk.

She stared into the dark, tinted interior of the car. It looked like a black hole, waiting to swallow her whole.

Ray, the driver, stood patiently by the door. He extended a white-gloved hand.

"Please get in, Madam," Ray said respectfully.

The word Madam made the hairs on Chrissy's arms stand up.

She took a deep breath, ducked her head, and climbed into the back seat.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her with a solid, airtight thud.

The noise of the Los Angeles traffic was instantly cut off. The air inside the cabin was cool and thin, saturated with the sharp, intimidating scent of Arch's cedarwood cologne.

She was trapped.

The Maybach glided smoothly onto the Los Angeles freeway.

Inside the cabin, the silence was suffocating. The only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning.

Arch reached into the leather storage compartment built into the center console. He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope and tossed it casually across the seat.

It landed squarely on Chrissy's thighs with a dull smack.

"Read it," Arch commanded, staring out his window. "If you don't have any objections, sign it."

Chrissy's fingers trembled slightly as she tore open the seal.

She pulled out a stack of crisp, white legal paper. It was a thirty-page prenuptial agreement.

She didn't bother reading the first twenty pages. She knew she had no claim to the Rush family's billions, and she didn't care about their corporate trusts or asset isolation clauses.

Her eyes scanned the dense blocks of English text, searching for the only thing that mattered to her.

She found it on page seventeen.

Section 4: Dissolution of Marriage and Compensation.

The clause stated clearly: If the marriage remains intact for a minimum of one calendar year, and the female party is found to be without major fault, upon divorce, the female party will be compensated with a lump sum of eight million dollars.

Chrissy's breath hitched.

Eight million dollars.

That money wouldn't go to the Vega Group. That money would go directly to her. It was enough to buy her a small bakery, a house with a yard for her dog, and absolute, permanent freedom from her toxic parents.

She couldn't hide her reaction. A genuine, bright smile broke across her face.

She immediately dug into her cheap canvas purse, frantically searching for the pen she carried for writing cake orders.

Arch turned his head.

He watched her digging through her bag, her eyes lit up with excitement. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

"Are you really in that much of a hurry to secure your severance pay?" he asked. His voice was dangerously low, laced with a sudden, sharp irritation.

Chrissy found her pen. She clicked it open, not even bothering to look up at him.

"It's a fair guarantee for both of us," she said practically, signing her name on the bottom line with a swift, happy flourish.

She gathered the papers, squared the edges perfectly, and held them out to him like a waitress handing back a signed credit card receipt.

Arch took the stack. He stared at her neat, cheerful signature. It irritated him immensely.

Suddenly, a loud horn blared outside.

A beaten-up pickup truck ran a red light, swerving violently into their lane.

"Hold on!" Ray shouted from the front seat.

He slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The Maybach's massive tires shrieked against the asphalt.

The violent momentum threw Chrissy forward. She hadn't put her seatbelt on yet.

"Ah!" she screamed.

She flew toward the partition. Her hands shot out blindly, desperately searching for anything to grab onto to stop her face from smashing into the leather seats.

Her right hand slammed down hard.

It landed directly on Arch's left thigh.

Time stopped.

The car jerked to a halt, rocking back on its suspension. The cabin fell dead silent.

Chrissy's palm was pressed flat against his leg, separated only by the thin, expensive wool of his suit trousers.

Heat radiated through the fabric, burning against her skin.

But that wasn't what made her blood freeze.

Beneath her hand, there was no soft, atrophied flesh. There was no mushy, lifeless muscle of a man who had been confined to a wheelchair for a year. Instead, pressing through the thin, expensive wool of his suit trousers, she felt a distinct firmness. The muscle contours were still tight, not at all as loose or emaciated as she had imagined a long-term paralyzed patient's would be. Perhaps it was the result of relentless, world-class physical therapy, but it still startled her. As her fingers instinctively curled, gripping his leg to steady herself, she squeezed the dense tissue.

In that exact fraction of a second, completely unnoticed by Chrissy, Arch's breath hitched. A bizarre, almost imperceptible spark of electric numbness flared deep within his deadened nerves. It was the faintest whisper of sensation, gone as quickly as it arrived, but it was enough to make his core freeze.

A paralyzed man was supposed to feel nothing, but the sudden heat of her palm sent his protective instincts into overdrive.

Chrissy's brain short-circuited.

She slowly lifted her head.

She met Arch's eyes.

The dark, blurry shapes of his irises were gone. His eyes were wide, burning with a terrifying, lethal intensity. His jaw was locked so tight it looked like it might shatter.

Before she could pull her hand away, his massive hand shot out.

His fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. He squeezed, the pressure so intense she felt her delicate bones grinding together.

"Miss Vega," Arch whispered.

His voice was a razor blade sliding over ice.

"Exactly where do you think you are putting your hand?"

Pain exploded in Chrissy's wrist.

The agonizing pressure snapped her out of her shock. She looked at Arch's face. He looked like he wanted to snap her neck.

Pure survival instinct took over.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she babbled, her voice pitching up in panic.

She yanked her arm backward, trying to break his grip, but he held on tight.

"I didn't mean to!" she lied, her chest heaving. "Your suit fabric is just so slippery, and I couldn't grab the seat in time. I just fell!"

Arch stared at her.

He didn't blink. He searched her terrified face for five agonizing seconds, calculating exactly how much she had felt. He was looking for any sign of suspicion in her eyes.

Chrissy kept her face twisted in pure fear and pain, masking the massive realization screaming in her head.

Finally, Arch released her wrist. He shoved her hand away with a look of absolute disgust.

He reached into the side pocket of his door, pulled out a sterile antibacterial wipe, and began aggressively scrubbing the spot on his trousers where she had touched him.

"Keep your hands to yourself," Arch warned, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Or I won't mind making sure they lose their sensation permanently."

Chrissy scrambled backward. She pressed her spine against the furthest door, pulling her knees together. She cradled her throbbing, red wrist against her chest and nodded frantically.

She didn't dare speak.

The cabin remained submerged in a suffocating silence for the rest of the drive. Ray apologized profusely from the front seat, but Arch ignored him.

Twenty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the curb.

They were parked outside a decaying, two-story villa on the very edge of Beverly Hills. The paint was peeling, and the lawn was dead. The Vega family home.

Chrissy didn't wait for Ray to open her door.

She shoved the handle and practically threw herself out onto the sidewalk. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye.

She heard the heavy door click shut behind her. The tinted window rolled up smoothly, sealing the terrifying man away. The Maybach pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the street.

Chrissy let out a massive, shaky breath. Her legs felt like jelly. She felt like she had just survived a tiger enclosure.

She turned and walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door. She paused on the porch, her heart still hammering against her ribs. Her wrist throbbed with a dull ache, a phantom reminder of Arch Rush III's terrifying, steel-trap grip. And then there was the bizarre, unsettling firmness of his thigh-a detail that made no sense but refused to leave her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and forcefully shoved the chaotic terror of the Maybach ride to the back of her brain. She had one last, ugly task to handle here.

Before she could even reach for her keys, the door was yanked open from the inside.

Her father, Hank Vega, and her mother, Sherry Vega, stood in the doorway. Their faces were stretched into eager, greedy smiles.

Hank craned his neck, looking past Chrissy's shoulder toward the empty street.

"Where is Mr. Rush?" Hank asked, his smile faltering. "Why didn't you invite him inside for a drink?"

"He's busy," Chrissy said, her voice flat. She pushed past them into the cramped, dusty hallway. "He had to go to the office."

Sherry's fake smile instantly vanished, replaced by a vicious scowl.

"You stupid girl!" Sherry shrieked, grabbing Chrissy's arm. "How could you fail to keep a cripple entertained? That man is a walking goldmine! You should have brought him in to build a relationship!"

Chrissy stopped. She looked at her mother's manicured hand digging into her sleeve.

"The fifty million is already in the account, isn't it?" Chrissy asked coldly.

Hank cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, the money arrived. But the company has massive debts. We need ongoing financial support from the Rush family."

Hank pointed a thick finger at her. "Now that you're in his bed, you need to squeeze every resource you can out of him."

Bile rose in Chrissy's throat.

"You sold me like a piece of livestock," she said, her voice shaking with disgust. "And now you're complaining I'm not working hard enough?"

Sherry stepped forward and jabbed her finger hard into Chrissy's forehead.

"You ungrateful little bastard!" Sherry spat. "You eat Vega food, you sleep under a Vega roof! This is what you owe us!"

Sherry's eyes burned with malice. "If your sister Arleen hadn't refused to marry that broken freak, do you really think a street rat like you would ever get to live in a mansion?"

The word bastard pierced Chrissy's chest.

She had lived in a state-run orphanage until she was six years old. Hank had only tracked her down and brought her home because he needed a tax write-off. They had never let her forget it.

Chrissy slapped Sherry's hand away.

"I just came back to pack my things," Chrissy said, her voice turning to ice. "I am moving out tonight."

Hank sneered. "Move out. Fine. But don't forget to wire your monthly allowance to our account."

Chrissy ignored him. She turned and walked up the narrow, creaking stairs toward the attic.

She pushed open the thin wooden door.

A golden, scruffy mutt immediately launched itself at her.

"Oh, Greyson," Chrissy whispered, dropping to her knees. She buried her face in the dog's warm fur as he whined and licked the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.