Framed By Betrayal: Billionaire's Possessive Contract

The chatter in the ballroom was a physical thing, pressing against Haylie's eardrums like cotton wool. She stood near a marble pillar, her fingers wrapped so tightly around the stem of her champagne flute that the glass felt warm against her skin. The Wall Street annual charity gala was a sea of tailored tuxedos and diamonds that caught the crystal light, and her rented navy dress felt like a neon sign screaming "outsider."

She scanned the room for the hundredth time. Bryan was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. He had insisted this event was crucial for his image at Logan Group, and he wanted her by his side. But her phone sat dark in her clutch, and the crowd only grew louder.

A waiter glided past, his silver tray balanced perfectly. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She reached out, swapping her half-empty glass for a fresh one from his tray. "Thank you," she murmured.

She brought the flute to her lips and tilted her head back. The liquid was colder than she expected, with a sharp, bitter edge that lingered on the back of her tongue. She swallowed it down anyway, needing the moisture, needing something to steady the tremble in her hands.

Three minutes. Maybe four. The change didn't creep in; it slammed into her like a freight train. A flush of heat ignited in her lower belly, spreading with terrifying speed through her veins. Her skin prickled, suddenly too sensitive against the fabric of her dress. The edges of her vision began to swim, the crystal chandeliers blurring into streaks of gold.

Haylie shook her head, trying to clear the fog. She had barely finished one glass. This wasn't alcohol. This was something else. Something very wrong.

She took a step toward the restrooms, but her legs felt heavy, disconnected from her brain, as if they were filled with wet concrete. The room tilted. She stumbled, her shoulder brushing against a man in a gray suit.

"Well, well," the man slurred. He was older, his face flushed from drink, his eyes dropping immediately to the neckline of her dress. His hand landed on her waist, his palm sweaty and heavy. "Looking a little lost, sweetheart. Need a guide?"

Bile rose in her throat. Her stomach cramped violently. She shoved at his chest with what little strength she had left. "Get off me."

She pushed past him, her heels catching on the thick carpet. She didn't care where she was going, she just needed out. She needed air. She stumbled through a service door and into a dimly lit corridor. The noise of the party faded to a dull roar.

Her hip clipped a decorative vase on a console table. It wobbled, water splashing over the rim and soaking the hem of her dress. She didn't stop. She couldn't stop. The hallway spun around her, the walls closing in.

At the end of the corridor, a door loomed. A small brass sign read "VIP Lounge." She grabbed