The headache came first -- a dull, rhythmic pounding at her temples.
Then came the chill of luxury bedsheets against bare skin.
Emma Carter stirred slowly, her body tangled in silk. Her lashes fluttered open as the unfamiliar scent of sandalwood and something sinfully expensive teased her senses. The soft glow of morning sunlight bled through sheer curtains, casting a warm halo over a room far too elegant to be hers.
She sat up sharply. Pain sliced through her head, and the room tilted momentarily. She pressed a hand to her temple, then took in her surroundings -- modern furniture, gold fixtures, velvet drapes, and a crystal chandelier spinning slowly over head like a dream she hasn't asked to have.
She was definitely not in her Brooklyn apartment.
Her breath hitched as she looked down and saw the sheet slipping dangerously low over her chest.
No bra.
Her gaze darted around -- and then she saw it.
A man stood by the tall windows, back turned, dressed only in black trousers. His broad shoulders flexed slightly as he brought a mug to his lips, dark hair tousled as if someone had ranked their fingers through it -- possibly hers.
Emma's heart dropped to her stomach.
She hadn't done something stupid.
Had she?
"Morning," the man said, his voice smooth and deep, casual as if they did this every day. "You're awake earlier than I thought."
Emma scrambled backward in bed, dragging the sheet up to cover herself. "Who the hell are you."
He turned.
And the moment his sharp gray eyes met hers, the memory, or the lack of it became even more horrifying.
It was him.
Damien Blackwood.
CEO of Blackwood Enterprises.
Billionaire, Cold, Calculated, And Manhattan's most unattainable man.
She'd seen his face in finance magazines and celebrity gossip headlines, always described as "ruthless," "unapproachable," or "dangerously attractive."
And now, he was standing in front of her. shirtless. smirking.
Emma's lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat was dry. Her voice was lost somewhere between confusion and blind panic.
"What going on?" she finally croaked. "Why am I here?"
Damien set the coffee down on a marble table, then walked over slowly, like a man who always got what he wanted. He reached for something behind him.
A paper.
No -- a certificate.
He handed it to her.
Emma's eyes scanned the print, disbelief clawing at her spine.
.....
Certificate of Marriage
Damien Elijah Blackwood and Emma Oliver Carter
Signed and filled: 2:23 A.M., Clark County Courthouse -- Las Vegas.
.....
Her heart stopped.
"This is a joke," she said, her voice shaking.
"It's not."
"This can't be... I wouldn't... I don't know you."
"You do now." His lips curved slightly. "Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood."
Emma stared at him like he'd grown horns.
"No. Absolutely not. This... this is a mistake. I was drunk. You must have... you must have taken advantage of me!"
Damien raised a brow, unimpressed. "You were drunk. I wasn't. You were the one who proposed, actually."
Emma blinked, stunned. "I what?"
"You said -- and I quote -- 'If I am going to crash my life, I might as well marry a billionaire while am at it.' Then you dragged me to the courthouse. I was just being a gentleman."
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "This isn't happening. I can't be married to you. I don't even believe in marriage!"
"You should have told that to the judge last night." He turned away, pouring another cup of coffee, completely unfazed."
Emma clenched the sheet to her chest, feeling heat flood her cheeks -- part embarrassed, part anger, and a very small, unwanted part... attraction.
No. Hell no. She wasn't falling for that sculpted chest or those intense eyes. He was probably a psychopath in a tailored suit.
"We are getting this annulled. Today," she said, scrambling out of bed and reaching out for her dress on the floor.
Damien did not flinch. "Not an option."
She froze. "Excuse me?"
He turned to face her again. This time, his expression had hardened, the smirk gone, replaced by cool calculation.
"I need a wife. Legally. Immediately. And now I have one."
Emma narrowed her eyes. "You knew what you were doing."
"I knew exactly what I am doing. You were the one who didn't."
She gasped. "So what, you planned this? You tricked me into marrying you?"
"Not tricked," he said evenly. "Let's call it opportunity."
"Opportunity? I'm not a business deal, Damien."
"No. You're leverage." His voice dropped, icy. "My grandfather is dying. His inheritance contract states that I must be married for one full year to inherit the company. If I'm not, it goes to my cousin, and trust me, that will be a disaster."
Emma's stomach flipped. "So you married me... to secure your company?"
He nodded, unapologetic. "You saved me. And I intend to honor the agreement, if you are willing to stay married for twelve months. After that, you walk away. Rich."
She stared at him, heart pounding.
"You are insane."
"I am offering you ten million dollars."
Silence.
Emma stared, stunned. Her legs trembled. The words ten million dollars echoed in her brain like a siren.
She thought of her overdue rent, her sister's hospital bills, the three part-time jobs she juggled just to survive.
Ten. Million. Dollars.
Damien Walked closer, stopping just inches from her. "One year. Appear in public with me. Play the perfect wife. No strings. No expectations.
Her purse thundered.
"And if I say no?"
He smiled slightly. "Then I will have to annul it... and sue you for breach of contract."
Emma's jaw dropped. "What contract?!"
He pulled another paper from a file on the dresser, signed and sealed. Her signature on the last page.
Drunk. Stupid. Signed.
Emma stared at the paper, her head spinning.
"Welcome to the marriage," Damien said smoothly, his voice low but dangerous. "You are now the most talked about woman in New York. Better get dressed, Mrs. Blackwood. Our story starts today."