Bound By The Ruthless Billionaire's Contract

The heavy brass doors of the Veridian VIP club required Jacqueline Blackburn to put her entire body weight against them just to push them open.

The moment the gap widened, a wall of deafening, heavy bass slammed into her chest. The vibration rattled her teeth and made her stomach churn. She squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, fighting the immediate urge to turn around and run back into the safety of the street.

She couldn't run. If she didn't land a client tonight, Apex Educators would fire her by morning.

Jacqueline forced her eyes open, smoothed down the front of her white collegiate dress, and walked toward the security podium. The bouncer, a massive man with a shaved head and a thick neck, didn't even try to hide his disdain. His eyes dragged up and down her simple white dress, his upper lip curling into a sneer.

She pulled her New York State driver's license from her bag and slid it across the black marble counter.

The bouncer slapped his thick hand flat over the plastic card. "You're lost, sweetheart," he said, his voice a rough, mocking grate over the pounding music. "The Ivy League library is about ten blocks that way. This isn't the place for nerds to study."

Jacqueline pinched the soft flesh of her palm. The sharp sting grounded her. She pasted on the flawless, professional smile she used for difficult parents.

"I have an appointment," she said, her voice steady and clear. "The DK Suite."

The bouncer's sneer vanished. The color drained from his face so fast it left his thick neck looking sickly pale. He snatched his hand off her ID as if the plastic had suddenly caught fire.

Without another word, his entire demeanor shifted into frantic submission. He practically tripped over his own boots to unhook the velvet rope blocking the private VIP elevator.

Jacqueline picked up her ID, her face a blank mask, and walked past him.

The elevator doors slid shut, instantly slicing off the chaotic noise of the club. The sudden silence was heavy, pressing against her eardrums. She looked at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her face was entirely too pale. She pinched her palm again, harder this time, leaving a crescent-shaped indentation in her skin.

Breathe. It's just an interview.

The elevator glided upward and stopped with a soft, crisp chime.

Jacqueline stepped out. The hallway was lined with a Persian rug so thick it completely swallowed the sharp click of her heels.

Men in identical black suits stood at intervals along the walls. Their eyes were dead, tracking her movements with a cold, mechanical precision that made the hair on her arms stand up. A wave of somatic nausea rolled through her gut.

She kept her chin high, walking until she reached the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall. The gold plaque read DK.

She took three deep breaths, raised her right hand, and knocked.

The door wasn't