Contract Marriage To My Boss's Rival

The rain in Manhattan didn't wash things clean. It just made the grime slicker, harder to navigate without slipping.

Darian Klein stood on the sidewalk outside the Charles residential tower, the water soaking through the shoulders of her trench coat. It was a freezing, relentless downpour that numbed her skin, but it couldn't touch the burning knot in her stomach. She stared up at the penthouse windows, seventy floors above. The lights were on. A warm, golden glow against the charcoal sky.

She checked her watch. 11:42 PM.

For seven years, this time of night usually meant a summons. A text message demanding her presence for a crisis, a lost file, or a body to warm his bed. Tonight, she was here uninvited.

She walked into the lobby. The doorman, Ralph, straightened up, his smile automatic.

"Good evening, Ms. Klein. Nasty weather out there."

"It is, Ralph." Her voice was steady. Too steady. It sounded like it belonged to someone else, someone whose heart wasn't hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She bypassed the front desk and went straight to the private elevator. She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The light turned green. Access Granted.

He'd left it active. Of course, he had. The ultimate display of arrogant ownership. This wasn't an oversight; it was a leash left dangling, a silent dare for her to come crawling back. He wanted this confrontation on his home turf, where he was king.

For the last time.

The elevator ascended, the pressure building in her ears. She watched the floor numbers tick upward. 10... 30... 50... Each number was a layer of skin she was shedding. This steel box had been her confession booth, her dressing room, her place to cry before composing her face into the mask of the perfect Executive Assistant.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

The penthouse smelled of expensive leather, sandalwood, and him.

Soft jazz played from the hidden speakers-Miles Davis, Blue in Green. The melancholy trumpet notes floated through the air, clashing with the sound of feminine laughter.

Darian didn't announce herself. She walked down the long, marble hallway, her wet heels making no sound on the runner. She stopped at the edge of the sunken living room.

The fire was lit. The flames danced in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Grant Charles sat in his favorite armchair, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He looked relaxed, his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone.

And on his lap sat Aimee Austin.

Aimee was wearing a white dress shirt. His white dress shirt. It swallowed her petite frame, the cuffs rolling past her fingers, the hem barely covering her thighs. She was tracing the line of Grant's jaw with her index finger, giggling at something he had just said.

It was a cliché. A scene ripped from a bad movie. But the physical impact of it was like a punch to the solar plexus. Darian's breath