His Contract Bride, The Real Heiress

Breakfast at the Sterling penthouse was a blood sport played with silverware.

The dining table was a slab of Italian marble long enough to land a small plane on. Victoria sat at the head, Julian at the foot. Stella and Serena sat on opposite sides, a demilitarized zone of floral arrangements between them.

The silence was deafening. The only sounds were the scrape of silver against china and the ticking of a grandfather clock that cost more than Serena's supposed childhood home.

Victoria watched Serena eat oatmeal. She watched it with the intensity of a hawk watching a field mouse.

That outfit, Victoria said, finally breaking the silence. She gestured vaguely at Serena's jeans and t-shirt with her fork. "It's an eyesore. We have a dress code in this house, dear. You look like the help. Actually, the help dresses better. Martha wears a uniform."

Serena swallowed a spoonful of oats. "Comfortable," she said simply.

Victoria let out a sharp breath through her nose. She reached into her Hermes bag sitting on the table and pulled out a wallet. She extracted a single, crisp bill.

One thousand dollars.

She flicked her wrist. The bill fluttered across the table, landing squarely in Serena's bowl of oatmeal. The beige sludge soaked into the corner of the expensive paper.

Buy something that covers your... poverty, Victoria sneered. "I won't have you embarrassing Julian at the office today."

Julian stopped eating. He held his coffee cup mid-air, watching. He wanted to see this. He wanted to see if the girl had a breaking point. Would she cry? Would she throw it back? Would she pocket it greedily?

Serena looked at the money in her food. She didn't look angry. She looked at it like one might look at a dead fly.

She reached into the bowl with two fingers. She pinched the dry corner of the bill and lifted it out, dripping oatmeal onto the table.

Martha? Serena called out, her voice calm.

The maid hurried in from the kitchen. "Yes, Miss?"

Serena held out the soggy thousand-dollar bill.

For your trouble, Serena said. "Sorry about the mess on the table."

Martha's eyes widened. She looked at Victoria, then at the money. "I... Miss, I couldn't..."

Take it, Serena insisted gently. "Buy something nice. Or pay rent. Whatever."

Martha took the bill with trembling fingers, whispering a thank you before fleeing back to the kitchen.

Silence fell over the table again. But this time, it was different. It was shocked.

Victoria's face turned a shade of puce that clashed with her dress. Stella's mouth hung open.

Serena wiped her fingers on a napkin. Just then, a vibration buzzed against her thigh.

She slipped her hand under the table and checked her "dumb phone." It was a burner, but the encrypted app running on it was state-of-the-art.

Notification: Vane Trust Quarterly Dividend. Deposit Confirmed: $5,000,000.00.

Serena suppressed a smirk. She took a sip of her black coffee. It tasted bitter and perfect.

Julian stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Let's go, he commanded, looking at Serena. "Grandfather wants you at the office. To 'learn the ropes.' Which means you sit in a corner and don't touch anything."

Serena stood. "Ready when you are, boss."

They went down to the garage. It was a showroom of automotive excess. Ferraris, Bentleys, a vintage Porsche. Julian walked toward a black Maybach.

The driver held the back door open. Julian slid in. Serena moved to follow him.

Julian put his hand up, blocking her.

Don't touch anything, he warned. "Don't speak to anyone unless spoken to. You are invisible today. Understand?"

Crystal, Serena said, sliding onto the leather seat.

She sat as far to the left as possible, pressing herself against the door. Julian sat on the far right. The distance between them was filled with tension and the hum of the engine.

Julian opened his laptop immediately. He began typing furiously, reviewing a merger spreadsheet.

His phone rang. He groaned, seeing the caller ID. It was the London partners. He answered it, his voice switching to a crisp, professional baritone. He placed the laptop on the center armrest, the screen still glowing, as he gestured with his free hand while arguing about equity splits.

Serena glanced sideways. The screen was angled just enough. Her eyes, sharp and trained, scanned the dense grid of numbers.

Row 45. Column G.

There was a discrepancy. Not a typo, but a logic error in the formula reference that was pulling data from the wrong fiscal quarter. It was subtle-a difference that would compound into a massive valuation gap.

He's using Q3 projections for Q4 actuals, she noted silently. That's a three hundred million dollar overestimation.

It was a trap laid by whoever built the sheet, or just incompetence.

Serena's lips parted. She almost said, Your valuation is inflated.

She stopped herself. Stop. You are a hillbilly. You don't know what Excel is. You think a spreadsheet is something you put on a horse.

She looked out the window, biting the inside of her cheek. Letting him lose money was painful to her obsessive-compulsive need for accuracy, but blowing her cover was worse. She forced herself to focus on the passing grey blur of the city.

The car pulled up to Sterling Corp, a skyscraper that dominated the skyline.

They entered the lobby. The air changed. People stopped and stared. They stared at Julian with fear and reverence. They stared at Serena with confusion. Who was this girl in flannel walking beside the God of Commerce?

Julian didn't introduce her. He walked straight to the elevator, swiping his key card.

They went to the 40th floor. Marketing and PR.

He marched her to the office of the Executive Assistant to the VP, a woman named Scarlett. Scarlett was beautiful, sharp, and one of Vanessa's best friends. She looked at Serena like a cat looks at a wounded bird.

This is the intern, Julian said, not even using Serena's name. "Keep her busy. Keep her invisible. If I hear she caused trouble, it's your head."

Scarlett smiled, a predatory baring of teeth. "Understood, Mr. Sterling. I have just the thing."

Julian turned and left without a backward glance.

Scarlett pointed to a desk in the corner, piled high with paper that needed shredding.

Sit, Scarlett ordered. "And don't make eye contact with the creatives. You might infect them with... mediocrity."

Serena sat. She looked at the shredder.

Game on, she thought.

Two hours of shredding paper. It was meditative, in a way. Serena imagined she was shredding the NDA she had signed, or perhaps Julian's favorite tie.

The office was a hive of panic. People were running back and forth, shouting into headsets. Apparently, a "Situation" was unfolding in Conference Room B.

Scarlett stormed out of her office, looking frantic. She spotted Serena.

You! Scarlett snapped. "Country girl. Get up."

Serena stood, brushing paper dust off her jeans. "Yes?"

The interns are all crying in the bathroom and I need hands. We need coffee for the VIP in Conference Room B. Go to the break room. Get the blackest coffee you can find. No sugar, no milk. If you mess this up, I will fire you myself, fiancée or not.

Who is it? Serena asked.

Landon, Scarlett whispered the name like a curse. "The pop star. He's threatening to pull his endorsement deal because his latte foam wasn't symmetrical. Just... go."

Serena went to the break room. She poured a cup of the sludge that passed for corporate coffee. It smelled burnt.

She walked to Conference Room B. The walls were glass, but the blinds were drawn tight. She could hear screaming from inside.

I said NO ALMOND MILK! Are you deaf? Do I pay you to be deaf?

Serena pushed the door open.

The room was chaotic. A team of executives was cowering against the wall. In the center of the room, pacing like a caged tiger, was Landon.

Landon, the global heartthrob. The boy with the platinum hair and the voice that made teenage girls faint. He was currently throwing a stress ball at his terrified agent.

I want competence! Landon shrieked, spinning around to face the door. "I want-"

He froze.

His eyes landed on Serena.

He stopped mid-shout. His mouth hung open. The stress ball dropped from his hand, rolling across the carpet and bumping against Serena's boot.

The room went silent. The executives held their breath, waiting for Landon to eviscerate the intern.

Landon's face went pale. He stared at her eyes-those distinct, mismatched hazel eyes he had seen through the smoke and blood in Syria two years ago. The eyes of the soldier who had dragged him from a burning SUV. He didn't know her name. He only knew her as "Zero."

You... Landon breathed, taking a step forward. "It's you."

Serena didn't blink. She raised a single finger to her lips in a universal gesture of silence. Shhh.

She tapped the side of the coffee cup with her ring finger. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. A rhythmic pattern they had used to signal 'safe' during the extraction.

Landon swallowed hard. He saw her warning. She was undercover. He saw the flannel, the boots, the terrified staff behind her.

He cleared his throat, his entire demeanor shifting instantly. The diva vanished. In his place was a puppy wagging its tail.

Is... is that coffee for me? Landon asked, his voice trembling with reverence.

Serena walked forward and placed the cup on the table. "Black. Burnt. Just how you like it."

Landon picked up the cup. He took a sip. It was objectively terrible.

It's perfect, Landon whispered. "Best coffee I've ever had."

Outside the glass walls, Scarlett and the PR team were watching, their jaws on the floor. They couldn't hear the words, but they saw the body language. The monster was tamed.

Landon pulled out a chair. "Please," he said, gesturing. "Sit. Join me."

Serena sat. She leaned in close. "I'm an intern here," she murmured. "From a commune in Montana. I milk goats. Play along, or I break your arm."

Landon grinned. It was the first genuine smile he'd worn in months. "Loud and clear, boss."

He turned to the room, his voice booming. "Wow! This intern! She has such... rural charm! I love it! Tell me more about... agriculture!"

Scarlett burst into the room, unable to contain her confusion. "Mr. Landon? Is everything okay? This is just our intern, she doesn't know anything about branding..."

Landon glared at Scarlett with sudden ferocity. "Don't interrupt us. She is explaining the... the intricacies of soil pH. It's fascinating. Leave us."

Scarlett backed out, terrified.

Just then, Julian walked past the glass wall. He was on his way to a board meeting, flanked by lawyers. He glanced into the conference room.

He stopped.

He saw Landon-Landon the playboy, Landon the notorious womanizer-leaning across the table, his face inches from Serena's. Landon was looking at her with an intensity that looked suspiciously like adoration. Serena was whispering something, a small smile playing on her lips.

A hot, irrational spike of acid hit Julian's stomach.

Jealousy? No. Impossible. It was... protectiveness. For the company's image. Yes.

He opened the door, the temperature in the room dropping as he entered.

Mr. Landon, Julian said, his voice like a whip crack. "I see you've met our... staff."

Landon looked up. His eyes narrowed. He sensed the hostility in Julian, and his instinct was to protect his savior.

She's the only competent person in this building, Sterling, Landon snapped. "In fact, I want her on my account. Exclusively."

Julian's jaw tightened. He looked at Serena. She looked back, innocent and wide-eyed.

She's an intern, Julian said coldly. "She shreds paper."

Not anymore, Landon said, crossing his arms. "She's my liaison. Or I walk."

Julian looked at Serena. He looked at Landon. The air crackled with testosterone.

Fine, Julian spat. "But she answers to me."