The Billionaire's Limited-Time Romance

Through the hidden acoustic panels of the VIP room at The Sterling, the low, thumping bass of a curated jazz playlist vibrated.

Ansel Schultz leaned back against the tufted leather of the Chesterfield sofa.

Stretching his long legs out under the solid mahogany table, his fingers expertly flipped a custom clay poker chip over his knuckles.

The chip’s soft, rhythmic clicking punctuated the air.

With a sharp slap that broke the low hum of the saxophone, Sterling Prescott-Lowell tossed his hand of cards onto the polished wood.

Sterling leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

A mocking gleam lit his eyes as he stared directly at Ansel.

"You missed the yacht party again this weekend, Ansel."

By the private bar, Jax Adler stood swirling a heavy crystal glass of bourbon over a single large ice cube.

He took a slow sip and let out a dry laugh.

"Maybe our boy finally got a leash put on him by that little Brooklyn girl."

The rhythmic motion of Ansel’s thumb over the edge of the poker chip ceased.

A sharp spike of irritation hit the back of his neck.

He willed his expression into a mask of utter relaxation.

He allowed a lazy, indifferent smile to curve his lips.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the chip perfectly into the center of the pile on the table.

The chip clattered loudly against the others.

"Don't project your own domestic nightmares onto me, Jax," Ansel said.

Jax walked over and dropped into the armchair across from the sofa.

"It is not just us talking. The Wall Street Journal had a front-page rumor yesterday about the Schultz and Lamb families announcing a merger."

Suddenly, the air in the room grew thick.

Sterling and Jax both locked their eyes on Ansel's profile.

Under the dim amber lighting, Ansel was a marble statue, his jawline sharp and unmoving.

He reached for his own glass of dark liquor.

He took a swallow, letting the burn of the alcohol coat his throat.

"The press writes what sells papers. There is no engagement."

Sterling raised a single eyebrow.

"Isela Lamb flies back into JFK from Paris next week. You cannot dodge that bullet forever."

The muscle in Ansel's jaw ticked.

To ground himself, he pressed his thumb hard against the rim of his glass, tracing the cut crystal.

He kept his posture wide, taking up space on the sofa to project absolute control.

Jax leaned in closer.

"So, if the merger happens, what are you going to do with Ellie? The good student is not going to fit into the new family portrait."

Ellie's name was a physical blow; Ansel's heart skipped a single, hard beat against his ribs.

His chest tightened.

He let out a harsh scoff, a sound meant to crush the unfamiliar physical reaction.

He set his glass down on the leather coaster with a heavy thud.

He leaned his head back against the sofa.

"Ellie is a convenience. A pressure valve for