After my divorce left me with nothing, I applied to become Benedict Fox's tenth contract girlfriend.

Survive three months, and the payout was ten million dollars.

People online were already placing bets that I'd flame out like the last nine and walk away empty-handed.

One month later, Benedict held a press conference and set that ten million right in front of me.

I tore up the contract on live camera.

What they didn't know was that I wasn't just after the money. I was after justice.

A "contract girlfriend" wasn't really a girlfriend. She was a workhorse for Fox Group.

Regular livestreams with the CEO, hit the performance targets, last three months, and the ten million was yours.

"I... my family was awful to begin with. Then after I got married, my ex beat me, cheated on me, and took my child away..."

The young woman ahead of me in line had dewy, pitiful eyes, reciting her script with practiced sincerity.

"I just... want a better life."

Tears spilled down her cheeks like rain.

I glanced down at my own suit and let out a dry laugh.

I didn't have the luxury of feeling sorry for anyone else. Everything I owned was stuffed inside a beat-up suitcase in a stairwell.

This outfit was the only thing I had that was even presentable. Ironed? Not a chance.

The creases pressed into the fabric by that suitcase, deep in some places, faint in others, matched my life perfectly. A wrinkled mess.

"Thelma Summers." The secretary called my name.

I stood and reached instinctively to straighten my collar, but my fingers met nothing but crumpled fabric and, in my pocket, the cold bite of a necklace against my knuckles.

A voice surfaced from memory: You're good, Thel. So you deserve the best.

The face behind those words gave me all the courage I needed. I squared my shoulders and walked in.

Benedict Fox stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me.

Tall, lean frame. A charcoal designer suit that fit like it cost more than most people's rent. Even his hair looked expensive.

"Give me the basics." His voice carried across the room, cold and clipped.

"Former project director at a Fortune 500 tech company."

"Your previous marriage."

"That's irrelevant," I said, straightening my spine. "Just another sob story from another bad marriage."

He turned slowly to face me, one brow lifting.

His gaze swept over me. My face first, then the wrinkled collar, and finally my hands hanging at my sides.

His eyes lingered for less than a second.

But I knew he'd seen the scars.

A crease flickered across his brow, so faint it was barely there.

"What, you're not going to sell me a sob story?" His tone carried a blade of sarcasm.

"After all, you'd need to prove you're worth ten million of my money."

He looked at me the way you'd appraise merchandise.

The difference was, this particular piece of merchandise wasn't as polished or pretty as the ones waiting outside.

I smiled, closed the distance by one step, and went straight for the jugular.

"Mr. Fox, just being a contract girlfriend doesn't interest me. How about we talk business instead?"

He tilted his head slightly, signaling me to continue.

I handed over the folder I'd prepared. "Pick me, and I can double the profit on your contract girlfriend program."

He took it and started flipping through.

"Mr. Fox, as far as I can tell, this contract girlfriend gimmick has generated considerable revenue for your company."

"The data from the first nine livestreams shows some fluctuation but overall stability." His expression gave away nothing. "Go on."

"But the program has hit a ceiling. The numbers are already showing fatigue."

I held his gaze without blinking.

"You need me, Mr. Fox."

He folded his arms. "What makes you better than the rest of them?"

I didn't answer right away. Refusing to step into his little comparison trap, keeping my own footing steady. That was rule number one when negotiating with someone who held all the power.

Benedict frowned. "Most of them poured their hearts into fabricating the perfect tragic backstory for me."

"The ones who couldn't spin a good story started peeling off their clothes instead, inching closer one step at a time."

His narrow eyes held nothing but contempt.

"If I'm not interested in your business proposal, how many layers are you willing to take off?"

I swallowed the fury rising in my chest. Not because I felt personally insulted, but because he was sitting up there on his throne, reducing every woman in the room to the same demeaning punchline.

"Mr. Fox." I looked him dead in the eye. "I'm here for the money. Not for you."

And for one other person.

Benedict paused when he heard my pitch, caught off guard for a moment. Then he laughed.

"Interesting."

I pressed the advantage. "Mr. Fox, what you're after is the money. So can we be results-oriented here and let me give it a shot?"

He tilted his head, studying me with a mix of curiosity and appraisal.

A few seconds passed. Then he looked away, cleared his throat.

"Let's discuss the penalty clauses."

"I accept."

I answered before he'd even finished, clean and decisive.

He looked slightly surprised but continued anyway.

"If either party develops feelings, the contract terminates immediately. The penalty for that is also ten million."

I nearly laughed out loud.

Catching feelings? With me, a freshly divorced woman? Mr. Fox was overthinking this.

I agreed without a word and extended my hand.

The wounds from last night were still on it.

He took my hand.

Maybe I imagined it, but his thumb pressed gently against the back of my hand, right where the deepest cut was.

The moment I stepped out of the office, I gripped the contract tight. Ten million dollars. Three months. Worth it.

But for some reason, the spot on my hand where his thumb had pressed still burned.

Contract in hand, I walked out through the front doors of Fox Group with my head held high.

Then I slipped quietly into the parking garage next door, heading for the familiar stairwell.

That dark stairwell was the home I'd found for myself last night.

I carefully pulled the necklace from my pocket and looked at it, my talisman.

I remembered what Cindy had told me. "Keep this. Whenever you're in trouble, you can go to my family for help."

She had been that gentle. That kind.

My phone chimed. I opened the message on reflex.

"You're living like a dog right now. Isn't that exhausting? Come crawling back and beg me, and I'll toss you some scraps."

"I didn't cheat! Stop making things up! The divorce was YOUR fault!"

"The house was just a bad investment! And going to your company wasn't even my idea!"

"You'll never get rid of me! If I go down, you're coming with me!"

My ex-husband.

Since the divorce, he'd been cycling endlessly between insults, threats, and pleas for reconciliation.

I never replied. The most effective way to deal with someone like him was to cut all contact, to give him nothing to work with.

I took a long, deep breath, drank the last of the broth from my cup of instant noodles, and got up to throw out the trash.

I pushed open the heavy fire door, and a tall shadow swallowed me whole.

My heart seized.

I didn't need to see his face. It was my ex-husband. He'd found me.

My body moved before my mind caught up, slamming into him with everything I had, trying to run.

But his hand clamped down on my arm.

His voice came from above my head, laced with amusement. "You really made me work to find you, sweetheart."

Every hair on my body stood on end.

"Come here, come here. Let me hold you. It's been so long."

He wrenched me around and crushed me against his chest.

I went rigid. I didn't dare move.

His voice came again, slow and low. "Hug me back."

It wasn't a request. It was a threat.

I raised my arms slowly, stiff as boards, and placed them against his shirt.

"There's my girl." He rubbed his chin against the top of my head. "Still mad at your husband?"

I said nothing.

He waited a few seconds. I could hear his breathing and my own heart hammering out of my chest.

Then the back of my skull cracked against the fire door.

His hand closed around my throat, and his voice exploded.

"I asked you a question! Are you deaf?!"

The back of my head throbbed, pain splintering out from the point of impact.

His fingers dug into my neck. I couldn't breathe.

My vision started to blur. I bit down hard on my own tongue, forcing myself to stay conscious.

Because this was the opening I'd been waiting for.

I gathered every ounce of strength I had and drove my foot up between his legs.

He doubled over, howling, and I threw myself past him and ran.

Shoes would only slow me down. The second I cleared the door I kicked them off and sprinted barefoot.

My only possession clutched tight in my fist: my phone.

I ran for my life out of that building.

I ran like a cornered mouse spotted by a cat, panicked and blank-minded, stumbling onto the brightly lit main road.

Only then did I realize my hands had been clenched so hard they'd gone numb.

The gleaming "Fox Group" sign loomed ahead. I steeled myself, smoothed the wrinkles on my clothes, and walked barefoot toward the entrance.

People make reckless decisions when they're desperate.

I walked and wrestled with myself at the same time, trying to figure out how to get inside, how to talk my way into staying one night.

The stairwell was out of the question now. Derek had probably torn through everything I owned in a rage.

What was I supposed to do tomorrow?

My head was so full of how to survive the next few hours that I didn't notice the group of people walking toward me.

"Thelma Summers?"

My head snapped up at the sound of my name.

"It really is you?"

Of all people, it had to be Benedict Fox.

I swallowed hard, scrambling for an excuse, but my mind came up empty.

What came out instead was, "Benedict, help me!"

He moved fast, pressing his hand over my mouth and giving a slight shake of his head.

My heart went cold. Right. No one saves you but yourself.

But the next second, I was pulled into his arms.

He was so tall. His long coat wrapped around me from head to toe.

He was so warm. His heat seeped through my thin clothes and settled against my skin, and something in my chest thawed, just a little.

His voice rumbled above my head, low and magnetic.

"It's getting late. Let's wrap up tonight's livestream here. The rest of the evening belongs to me and my new girlfriend."

The crowd around us began to disperse.

Once everyone was gone, Benedict took off his coat and draped it over me. It was so long it covered the tops of my feet.

"Let's go."

I followed him. My bare feet made soft slapping sounds against the floor with every step.

A few paces in, I heard quick footsteps behind us.

His assistant set a beautiful pair of heels on the ground in front of me.

"Mr. Fox asked me to find these the moment he saw you."

"He keeps women's shoes in the car, all different sizes. You're a size seven, right?"

Wait. How did he know my shoe size?

A flash of memory cut through me: my sister's pretty feet. Could he still remember her size?

"Put them on. The floor's cold."

Benedict crouched down, lifted my foot, his movements practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before.

He slipped my foot into the shoe.

His hands were warm too.

So this was how a man could treat a woman.

But for some reason, that effortless tenderness, so polished it felt rehearsed, sent a faint chill through me that I couldn't quite name.

In the car, a paper bag sat on the passenger seat.

"What's this?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't stop me from looking.

Inside was a to-go cup of warm ginger tea.

"You were running around barefoot for a while out there." He kept his eyes on the road, not on me. "Drink some. Warm up."

I didn't know how to react. This man seemed like an entirely different person from the one I'd met in the CEO's office that morning.

"Thank you."

He gave a quiet hum.

I drank the tea slowly, one small sip at a time.

The warmth of the ginger spread from my stomach into my limbs.

But what struck me more was the temperature of the tea itself. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.

As if someone had timed it perfectly.

I didn't know how to begin talking without shredding what was left of my dignity.

That afternoon I'd been sitting across from him, bold as anything, pitching him on how I'd boost the commercial value of his "contract girlfriend" arrangement.

And now, just hours later, here I was: disheveled, panicked, a complete wreck outside his building.

What lie could I possibly tell that he'd believe?

"That wasn't the livestream account for the contract couple thing," he said, his tone easy. "If you're chasing clicks, you don't have to go this hard."

I looked at his profile. There was the trace of a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was mocking or teasing.

"I didn't do it on purpose." Honesty was all I had left.

"Ms. Summers," he began, slow and measured, "I've had a few women in difficult circumstances come through this arrangement. You're the only one who dared to pitch me on business value the same day she signed."