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I study it longer than I should. She’s beautiful. Not in the manufactured way most women in my world are, with stylists, surgeons, and entire teams dedicated to creating the illusion of perfection. Sophia doesn’t need any of that. There’s something arresting about her. She has the kind of features people remember. More importantly, she looks like she could belong beside me.

I set the tablet on the marble coffee table and rise, crossing the room to the tall glass doors that open onto my private terrace. The old-world panes stretch nearly from floor to ceiling, framed with dark wood and ornate millwork, their glass reflecting the warm glow of the room and my reflection—a man in his prime about to give up his freedom.

After pulling one of the doors open, I step outside, and the cool night air immediately replaces the bourbon-warmed stillness of my penthouse. The terrace is expansive, more a private yard than balcony, with manicured greenery, stone paths, and enough space to forget that I’m suspended above one of the busiest cities in the country. I walk toward the railing, my hands slipping into my pockets as I look out over the dark water.

The plan begins to take shape, a blueprint materializing in the dark spaces of my mind. The beauty of it is the simplicity. It won’t be a proposal. It will be an offer. I’ll give her the world, and all I’ll ask for in return is everything. She’s a logical woman; she might fight, but in the end, she’ll choose a life with the devil over the alternative.

And, God, I hope she fights. It will make breaking her that much more satisfying.

I pull my hand from my pocket with my phone between my fingers. The time on the screen reads 1:47 a.m. when I swipe it open. The perfect time to plant a seed of chaos. My thumbs slide across the screen quickly. I stare at the words, a dark smile touching my lips as I hit send.

Change of plan. 9am. 1500 North Lake Shore Drive, Penthouse.

A simple message to shift the terrain from my office—relatively neutral territory—to my home, where the rules are mine and mine alone.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my work done for the night. All that remains is to wait for my queen to arrive in the morning, so I can show her the gilded walls of her new prison cell. I pick up my glass and drain the last of the bourbon, the liquid fire a final toast to the end of my life and the violent yet necessary birth of my future.

The address must be wrong. It has to be. I stand on the sidewalk, the morning sun glinting off the architectural masterpiece that soars into the Chicago sky, a monument to obscene wealth. This isn’t an office building. There are no bustling crowds of suits or revolving doors spitting out hurried executives. There’s only a quiet, discreet entrance, flanked by perfectly manicured planters and a doorman who looks like he was carved from granite. My gaze flicks to my phone, to the text message I woke to this morning.

VANCE ASHFORD

Change of plan. 9am. 1500 North Lake Shore Drive, Penthouse.

My thumb hovers over the screen, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I type out the words in a pathetic attempt to reclaim some semblance of control, some shred of professional decorum.

This is quite inappropriate.

The three dots appear almost instantly, a mocking dance of his disregard for my opinion. Then his reply flashes onto my screen, a verbal slap in the face.

If you want to talk about this promotion, you have ten minutes to get your ass up here.

My breath catches in my throat, the absolute certainty that Vance Ashford owns my time and my choices sending a wave of hot fury through me. But beneath the fury is a cold, creeping dread. I’m going to do what he demands. I need this promotion. I need it more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life. The remaining balance of Kierra’s tuition is a number that keeps me up at night, a mountain of debt I can’t afford to climb without a substantial raise.

I shove my phone into my purse. With my knuckles white around the strap and my sensible heels clicking on the pristine concrete, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk toward the doorman. He gives me a slow, dismissive once-over before nodding me in, his expression making it clear I’m not the usual type of visitor. As I step through the doors into the marble and brushed bronze of the lobby, I realize he’s right.

The elevator ride is a special kind of hell, a smooth, silent ascent that feels like I’m being sent to the gallows. My reflection in the polished metal walls is pale and strained, a woman who looks like she’s about to face a firing squad.

In a way, I guess I am.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, opening directly into the apartment. There’s no hallway, just an expansive foyer of polished marble and dark wood. The old-world architecture is softened by warm lighting and understated furnishings, the apartment unfolding into a series of grand rooms framed by tall windows overlooking the lake. Standing in the doorway to the terrace, Vance’s back is facing me as he stares out over the water, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his hand at nine o’clock in the morning.

He turns slowly when I step out of the elevator, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Good morn⁠—”

“I’m not going to sleep with you for this promotion,” I blurt, the words tearing from my throat in a desperate, preemptive strike. The air crackles with tension as my accusation hangs between us. My face burns with a mix of shame and adrenaline, but I hold his stare, refusing to be the one to look away first.

The smile that spreads across his face is not one of shock or denial. It’s one of deep, condescending amusement. His eyes never leaving mine, he takes a slow sip of his drink. “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You think this is about you sleeping with me? If only it were that simple. What I want from you is much worse.”

My blood runs cold as he crosses the room toward me, reaching down to snatch a thick, cream-colored folder from the edge of the table when he passes. He carries it the remaining few steps before dropping it onto the coffee table between us with a heavy thud. The folder falls open, papers fanning across the polished stone.

“Let’s dispense with the pretense, shall we?” he begins, his tone shifting from mocking to businesslike, a change that is somehow even more chilling. “My father’s will has presented me with a… time-sensitive problem. I need a wife. I need one in the next few days. And you, Ms. Bennett, are the perfect candidate.”

I stare blankly, certain I’ve misheard him. “A wife?”

“Yes, a wife.”

“That’s what you had me come up here for? You’re insane.”

“Am I?” He pauses to place his drink beside the papers. “Let’s talk about what’s in it for you. You marry me. You sign this contract. In return, Kierra’s remaining tuition for her entire pre-med program at Crestwood, plus all associated costs, will be paid in full. In addition, a two-million-dollar trust fund will be established in her name, accessible upon her graduation. She will never have to worry about money again.”