A Contract Marriage With My Nemesis

Elena's eyes snapped open.

She gasped, pulling in a violent, ragged breath as if she had just broken the surface of a freezing ocean. Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers desperately clawing at her own skin, trying to rip away the phantom sensation of the pillow that had been pressed over her face just moments ago. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it felt like it might crack her chest open.

She wasn't dead.

Her palms slapped against the mattress, her fingers digging into the cool, slippery fabric. Silk. It was real. The physical friction of the expensive sheets against her skin grounded her spinning mind.

Slowly, her vision cleared. The suffocating darkness of her bedroom was gone. Instead, her eyes focused on a massive, custom-made crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. The light was dim, but it was enough to tell her she was not in her own home.

She inhaled sharply. The air didn't smell like the metallic tang of her own blood anymore. It smelled of stale champagne, expensive bourbon, and a sharp, woodsy cologne that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

A sudden, piercing pain shot through her temples. Elena let out a low, muffled groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her stomach twisted into a tight, nauseating knot.

She turned her head to the side.

A man was lying next to her, face down. His broad, muscular back was completely bare, the tanned skin marred by several long, angry red scratch marks.

Elena's breath hitched in her throat. Her pulse flatlined for a fraction of a second.

Right between his shoulder blades was a distinct, intricate black ink tattoo. She knew that tattoo. Everyone on Wall Street knew that tattoo. It belonged to Johnathan Chase. Her family's biggest corporate rival. The man who had spent the last five years trying to tear her company apart.

A violent wave of nausea hit her as the memories crashed into her brain. The scandal. The paparazzi. The look of fake pity on her sister Haylee's face. The cold, dead eyes of her fiancé, Darron, as he held the pillow over her face. The realization that they had orchestrated everything to steal her trust fund.

She scrambled backward, her back hitting the solid oak headboard. Her eyes darted to the nightstand. A sleek, late-model smartphone sat next to a half-empty glass of water. She snatched the phone, her fingers trembling so violently she almost dropped it.

She tapped the screen. The glaring white light illuminated the date.

It was exactly one year ago. The morning of the hotel scandal. The day her life had started to unravel.

Elena closed her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath through her nose, forcing the oxygen into her panicked lungs. She held it for three seconds, then exhaled. She shoved the shock and the boiling, acidic rage down into the pit of her stomach. There would be time