The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

Pain wasn't a sound. It was a color. A blinding, throbbing white that pulsed behind Aisha's eyelids before she even opened them.

She tried to inhale, but the air felt too cold, too sterile. It didn't smell like her lavender detergent. It smelled like expensive sage and crisp linen.

Her eyes snapped open.

This wasn't her bedroom. The ceiling was too high, crowned with intricate molding that blurred as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She pushed herself up, the heavy duvet sliding down her chest.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog.

She looked down. She was naked.

Aisha scrambled backward, clutching the sheet to her chin. Her breath hitched in her throat, jagged and shallow. Where were her clothes? Where was she?

Memories from last night were like shattered glass-sharp, fragmented, and dangerous to touch. The charity gala. The flashing lights. Her step-sister, Cathie, handing her a flute of champagne with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Drink up, Aisha. You look so tense.

Then darkness. And now... this.

The sound of a door handle turning made her freeze.

Steam billowed out from the bathroom, carrying the scent of sandalwood. A man walked out.

He was tall. Terrifyingly tall. Water droplets clung to broad shoulders and a chest defined by hard, lean muscle. A white towel hung low on his hips, clinging precariously.

He stopped when he saw her. He didn't look surprised. He looked annoyed.

Aisha grabbed a pillow from the bed, wielding it like a shield. "Stay back!" Her voice cracked, dry and brittle.

The man didn't flinch. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, sweeping it back from a face that was unfairly symmetrical. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of storm clouds.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was deep, a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "Finally."

"Who are you?" Aisha demanded, though her hands were shaking so hard the pillow wobbled. "Did Gretta send you? How much did she pay you to ruin me?"

The man's brows knitted together. He walked over to the dresser, completely ignoring her makeshift weapon, and picked up a watch. "I don't know who Gretta is. And nobody paid me anything. Yet."

Aisha's gaze darted to the bedside table. There, sitting next to a crystal lamp, was a stack of cash. Hundred-dollar bills.

Her stomach dropped.

"Oh god," she whispered. The air left her lungs. "You're... you're a pro."

The man turned, following her gaze to the money. A strange expression crossed his face-something between amusement and calculation. He didn't deny it. He just leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

"You think I'm an escort?"

"Are you?"

He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

It mattered. It mattered because if he was a professional, this was a transaction. A setup. Gretta had staged this perfectly. The drugged drink. The hotel room. The hired muscle.

Tears,