He deposited her gently onto a velvet chaise lounge. The room was quiet, dimly lit by sconces that cast a warm, golden glow.

Burke Justice loosened his tie, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. He stared down at the woman. She was a mess-wet hair, ruined coat, bare feet dirty from the street-but beneath the disarray, she was stunning. And broken.

Aria stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She blinked, trying to bring his face into focus.

"What's your name?" Burke asked. His voice was soft, but it held the weight of a command.

Aria ignored the question. She was staring at his lips.

She sat up unsteadily, clutching his lapels to steady herself. She pulled him closer, her grip surprisingly strong.

"You're too handsome to be free," she whispered, analyzing him with the terrifying honesty of the intoxicated.

Burke stiffened. He was used to women wanting him for his money, for his status.

"Are you..." Aria paused, searching for the word. "Are you for hire?"

Burke's eyes narrowed. Then, a glint of dark amusement flickered in them. She thought he was an escort. A high-end gigolo.

He didn't correct her. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "Depends on the offer."

Aria let out a wet, hiccuping laugh. She pulled at her left hand, trying to remove a ring that wasn't there.

"Marry me," she blurts out. The words tumbled over each other, desperate and reckless.

Burke froze. He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"I need a husband," she rambled, tears suddenly welling in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. "To spite him. To show Ignacio I don't care. And... and I can't be homeless. I need... someone."

She sobbed softly, her forehead resting against his chest. "Just for tonight. Please."

Burke felt a twinge in his chest. It was foreign. Empathy? Or was it possession? He looked at this woman, this beautiful, shattered creature who was offering herself to a stranger because she had nowhere else to go.

He gripped her chin, his fingers warm and rough, tilting her face up to his.

"Do you know what you're asking?" he demanded. He needed to know she was in there somewhere.

Aria nodded vigorously. She closed the distance between them.

She kissed him. It was clumsy, tasting of cheap whiskey and salt tears, but it was desperate.

Burke hesitated for a split second. Then, something in him snapped. He crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry, possessive. He tasted her pain and her fire.

Aria pulled back for air, resting her forehead against his. Her breathing was ragged.

"Say yes," she pleaded. Her voice was barely a whisper, broken and raw.

Burke looked at her. He made a snap decision, driven by impulse and a cold calculation he couldn't quite explain.

"Deal," he growled.

He scooped her up into his arms again, turning toward the back exit. He signaled his driver, Donato, who was waiting in the alley like a silent sentinel.

Burke deposited Aria into the backseat of his Maybach. The leather was cool and smelled of new money.

Donato looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly. It was the most emotion Burke had seen from his assistant in years.

"Where to, sir?"

"There's a twenty-four-hour chapel in New Jersey," Burke said, his voice flat. "Drive."

Donato didn't argue. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

In the backseat, Aria leaned her head on Burke's shoulder. She was muttering to herself. "Revenge. Sweet revenge."

Burke pulled out his phone. He texted his legal team. Draft a digital NDA and a prenup. Standard protection. Send it now.

Aria began to play with the buttons on his shirt. Her fingers were cold. She fumbled with the top button, her coordination shot.

Burke captured her hands in his. "Behave," he murmured against her hair. "Future Mrs..." He let his voice trail off, not finishing the name. She just giggled.

The car arrived at a tacky, neon-lit chapel an hour later. A plastic cupid fountain spat recirculated water near the entrance.

Burke shook Aria gently. "Wake up. Time to pay up."

Aria stumbled out of the car. She looked at the plastic statues and laughed. "It's perfect. Ideally hideous."

They entered. The officiant, a man with a stained tie, looked up from a magazine. He saw Burke's suit and straightened up immediately.

"We need a ceremony," Burke said. "Now."

He produced his ID. He reached into his pocket-Donato had handed him Aria's purse, recovered from the bar. He pulled out her ID. Aria Chaney.

He knew the name. Everyone in finance knew the name. Berg's stepdaughter.

The officiant rushed through the ceremony, intimidated by the sheer force of Burke's presence.

"Do you take this man?"

"I do," Aria said. She felt like she was floating. It was a dream. A weird, feverish dream.

"I do," Burke replied. His voice was heavy, anchoring her to the ground. His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that burned.

He placed a simple silver band on her finger-he had taken it from his own pinky. It was loose, but it stayed.

They signed the papers. Burke slid the document in front of her, the text a meaningless blur in her drunken haze. "Sign here," he commanded, his finger tapping a blank line. Aria scrawled her name, the letters barely legible, not even glancing at the name printed beside hers: Burke Justice. Her mind was a fog of whiskey and rebellion; the legal print was just static.

Back in the car, the adrenaline crashed. Aria fell into a deep sleep before they even hit the Lincoln Tunnel.

Burke watched her sleeping face. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"Home," he ordered. "The Penthouse. 432 Park."

Donato cleared his throat. "Sir. Is this wise? The Berg connection..."

Burke silenced him with a look in the rearview mirror. "She's mine now."

The car glided through the city, arriving at the ultra-luxury tower that pierced the clouds. Burke carried her through the private lobby, nodding to the security guard who knew better than to ask questions.

The elevator ascended ninety floors in silence.

He laid her on his king-sized bed. The city lights sprawled below them, a grid of diamonds.

Burke removed her shoes. He covered her with a duvet.

He stood by the window, looking at the reflection of his sleeping wife in the glass. He was plotting.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, aggressive and blinding.

Aria groaned. A pounding headache split her skull in two. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

She stretched, her skin brushing against sheets that were impossibly soft. High-thread-count. Expensive.

Confusion set in. This wasn't Ignacio's apartment. The ceiling was too high. The smell was different-clean, sterile, masculine.

She sat up. The room spun. The decor was minimalist. Grey tones. Sharp angles.

Memories flashed in her mind like a broken film reel. The rain. The speakeasy. The man. The... chapel?

She looked down at her left hand.

A silver ring glinted back at her. It was heavy. Real.

"Oh my god," she gasped. She buried her face in her hands. "What did I do?"

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedar and soap.

Burke walked out. He was wearing only a low-slung white towel.

Aria's breath hitches. The man was sculpted. Water droplets ran down his chest, tracing the definition of his abs. He looked like a statue brought to life, if statues could look dangerous.

Burke smirked, towel-drying his hair. "Morning, wife."

Aria scrambled backward, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Who are you?" she squeaks. Panic rose in her throat.

"Your husband," Burke said calmly. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "You proposed, remember?"

Aria's mind raced. He was too good-looking. This apartment... it was a penthouse.

A terrible thought struck her. He wasn't a prince. He wasn't a businessman. He was a professional. A high-end escort. A "kept man."

This apartment probably belonged to a client. Or he rented it to impress gullible women.

Shame washed over her, hot and prickly. She had bought a husband.

Aria jumped out of bed. She was fully clothed in her wrinkled silk pajamas.

"I... I need to go," she stammered. She looked around for her shoes.

Burke moved. He blocked her path to the door. His expression shifted from casual to amused.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked. "We haven't discussed payment."

Aria froze. Payment. She knew it. It was transactional.

She checked her pockets. Empty.

"I don't have money right now," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Burke stepped closer. He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"I don't work for free, sweetheart."

Aria felt threatened, but mostly humiliated.

She assumed a defensive posture, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll pay you. Whatever you want. Just let me leave."

Burke studied her fear. He realized what she was thinking. She thought he was shaking her down.

He decided to lean into it. It was the perfect leverage.