The contract smelled like ink and power.
One year of marriage. One signature. Enough money to save my brother.
Adrian Blackwell didn't smile. Men like him never did.
"You'll live with me," he said. "Appear devoted. No love. No betrayal."
I should've walked away.
Instead, I signed.
When I looked up, his eyes locked on mine—sharp, assessing, dangerous.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm not," I lied.
He leaned closer, his presence heavy. "You should be. I don't lose control easily."
My pulse betrayed me.
As I stood, his fingers brushed my wrist—brief, deliberate.
Fire raced up my arm.
That wasn't part of the contract.