Contract Marriage With The Devil Billionaire -
She signed. The wedding took place three days later in a courthouse so gray it could have been a mausoleum. Dorian’s lawyer served as witness. Lena wore a white dress from a thrift store. Her husband wore a scowl.
“Yes,” Dorian replied, not looking at her. “I did.”
His composure cracked. Just a little. Just enough. “Then we tear up the contract. And you stay because you want to. Not because you owe me anything.”
It was not romantic. It was raining. They were arguing about something stupid—his refusal to eat breakfast, her habit of leaving wet towels on the floor—and suddenly neither of them was arguing anymore. His hands were in her hair, her back was against the cold glass of the window, and the city sparkled below them like a fallen galaxy. contract marriage with the devil billionaire
It began with a signature—not in blood, as the legends warned, but in crisp black ink on a twenty-three-page nondisclosure agreement.
“I know.” He kissed her again. “I’m a terrible contract lawyer.”
“Then I’ll find someone else. But I’ve done my research. You’re stubborn, desperate, and too proud to steal. You won’t fall in love with me. That’s your greatest qualification.” She signed
“You wrote clause seven,” she whispered back.
“And if I say no?”
“What are you doing?” she whispered. Lena wore a white dress from a thrift store
“Mrs. Black,” a reporter shouted, “is it true you met through a matchmaking service for billionaires?”
The word love landed between them like a dead fly. Lena looked at his file—because of course he had a file on her—and saw the numbers that had been strangling her for years. The debt. The surgery. The weight.
“I have a proposal,” he said, sliding a black card across the Formica. No name. Just a symbol: a serpent eating its own tail. “Marry me for one year. In return, I will pay off every cent you owe, put your brother in the best cardiac program in the country, and give you five million dollars upon completion.”
She didn’t. The ninth month, they kissed.