The Billionaire's Cruel Secret Contract Marriage Deal

The smell of stale beer and half-digested pizza was the first thing to assault Imogen's senses. She was on her knees, the rough fibers of the cheap synthetic rug biting into her skin through the holes in her jeans. Her hand moved in a mechanical rhythm, scrubbing at the stain Tyler had left behind after his party.

The bleach fumes made her eyes water, but she didn't blink. If she stopped, the stain would set. If the stain set, Linda would deduct the cleaning fee from the imaginary ledger she kept of Imogen's existence.

"You missed a spot."

Imogen didn't look up. She knew that voice. It was the voice of a woman who had turned psychological warfare into a domestic art form. Linda descended the stairs, the hem of her silk robe brushing against the banister. She stepped over Imogen as if she were a piece of furniture, or perhaps a pet that had soiled the carpet.

"I'm getting it, Linda," Imogen said, her voice hoarse.

"Don't take that tone with me. Not after what we've done for you." Linda stopped by the bucket of gray, soapy water Imogen had placed beside her. With a casual flick of her slippered foot, she tipped it over.

The water sloshed out, dark and foul, soaking instantly into the knees of Imogen's only white button-down shirt-the one she had ironed three times for her interview at the architecture firm tomorrow.

Imogen froze. The cold, dirty water seeped through the fabric, chilling her skin. She watched the puddle expand, swallowing her hope for a clean appearance in the morning.

"Oops," Linda said, her voice devoid of apology. She dropped a crumpled envelope onto Imogen's wet shoulder. "Electric bill is due. Since you're so eager to work, you can pay for the lights you use to draw those stupid pictures all night."

Imogen's hands curled into fists, dripping with suds. She stood up, her knees cracking. "I paid the electric bill last week. And the water. And the internet."

"Interest, Imogen. It's called interest."

Rick walked in then. He was holding a fresh beer, though it was barely noon on a Tuesday. His eyes were glassy, scanning the room with the predatory gaze of a man looking for a reason to explode.

"Chad called," Rick said, taking a swig. He burped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He's willing to drop the restraining order if you agree to dinner. Said he's got five grand for us if we convince you to stop being a stubborn bitch."

Imogen felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm not seeing Chad. He broke my ribs, Rick."

"He said he was sorry," Rick shrugged. "Besides, five grand covers a lot of your debt to this family."

"I don't owe you anything!" Imogen's voice cracked, sharp and sudden. She reached into her back pocket, her wet fingers fumbling with her phone. She pulled up her banking app, thrusting the screen toward them. "Look! Look at the