Page 12 of The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

Without his support, she stumbled, clutching the wall for balance. She hated how cold the air felt the moment his hands left her.

Damien watched her regain her footing. “The surgery will take hours. There is a private suite upstairs.”

“I’m staying right here.”

“You need dry clothes and food.”

“I need my mother to live.”

“And if you collapse, you are useless to her.”

Aria stared at the double doors. “Go away.”

“No.”

“I called you. I agreed,” she spat out. “You got what you wanted.”

“Not entirely.”

He reached inside his coat and withdrew a sleek black leather portfolio, holding it out to her. Her full legal name was embossed in gold across the cover.

“What is this?”

“Your future.”

She refused to take it. “The surgery is already happening. You can’t stop it now.”

“I have no intention of stopping it.”

“Then you have no leverage left.”

For the first time, Damien smiled. It was striking, icy, and entirely devoid of mercy and joy.

“Your mother’s surgery is merely the beginning, Aria. Her recovery will take months—specialists, private physical therapy, round-the-clock nursing. Every single day will cost more than you could earn in a decade.”

He took a step forward, closing the space between them, and pressed the heavy portfolio directly into her wrapped hand.

His fingers closed tightly over hers, trapping the contract between their palms.

“I am not offering to save her life tonight,” he murmured, his voice dark and steady. “I am offering to keep her alive tomorrow.”

Chapter Three: The Signature

The contract contained thirty-seven pages.

Aria counted them twice while her mother’s heart was being cut open three floors below.

The silver pen felt far heavier than it should have. Aria read each clause twice as she reached it, not because she expected to find mercy hidden in the legalese, but because she wanted to know precisely what she was surrendering.

Damien stood across from her without moving—immaculate, silent, and unreadable—while two silent corporate attorneys pretended the situation was ordinary. It was not. A signature that could change the shape of her life.

He had brought her to a private executive suite with smoked-glass walls, a velvet sofa, and a view of the Manhattan skyline that felt almost obscene beside the surgical monitor mounted near the door. A pulsing green light indicated the operation was still underway.

Still alive. For now.

On the glass table between them sat the heavy black portfolio, two untouched glasses of water, and the silver pen.

Damien sat in the high-backed chair opposite her. His suit jacket was folded beside him, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled once over his forearms. He looked entirely too patient.