The Billionaire's Dare: My Secret Husband

The burn of the third tequila shot did nothing to warm the ice in Calla's veins. It sat in her stomach, a pool of liquid courage that felt more like poison. The music in the private VIP box at the Omnia was deafening, a bass that rattled her ribcage, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the voice in her head telling her she was making a mistake.

She stared across the velvet-roped enclosure. In the corner, shadowed and still, sat Christ Carlson.

He was a tear in the fabric of the party. While everyone else was a blur of sequins and sweat, he was static. A monolith in a black bespoke suit that probably cost more than the tuition Francis paid for her art school. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, his fingers long and pale against the glass. He wasn't drinking it. He was just holding it, watching the chaos with eyes that looked like they had seen the end of the world and found it boring.

"I bet you won't," Gemma shouted over the drop of the beat. Her breath smelled like peppermint and vodka. "Go on, Calla. You've been complaining about how suffocating the manor is for months. Poke the bear."

Calla looked at Gemma, then back at Christ. The "bear." The machine. The man who signed the checks that kept the Carlson empire-and Calla's comfortable, caged life-afloat. He was technically Francis's uncle, though only ten years older than his nephew. To Calla, he had always been the looming shadow in the hallway, the figure who barely acknowledged her existence unless she made a noise he didn't like.

The alcohol surged. It hit her brain with a dizzying wave of rebellion.

"Watch me," Calla slurred.

She stood up. The room tilted. She steadied herself on the back of the sofa, took a breath that tasted of recycled air and expensive perfume, and walked toward him.

A bodyguard stepped forward, a wall of muscle in a cheap suit. Christ didn't even look up, but his index finger lifted off the glass. One inch. The bodyguard froze and stepped back into the shadows.

Calla stumbled the last few steps. She didn't stop until her knees bumped against his. She leaned down, planting her hands on his thighs to keep from falling. The muscle beneath the expensive wool was rock hard.

He looked up.

His eyes were dark, devoid of light, like looking into a well. There was no surprise in them. No annoyance. Just a terrifying, hollow focus.

Calla leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, brushing against his lapel. "Uncle," she whispered, the word heavy and clumsy on her tongue. "Do you dare to marry me? Right now?"

The air around them seemed to vacuum out of the room. The music faded into a dull thrumming in her ears.

Christ set his glass down on the table. The clink of crystal against marble was the loudest sound in Vegas.

He looked at her hands on his