The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife

Aimee Berry stared at the piece of paper on her desk. The bright red "OVERDUE" stamp glared back at her, the ink so thick it looked like fresh blood against the crisp white invoice.

Her temples throbbed. A sharp, rhythmic pain pulsed behind her eyes, syncing perfectly with her accelerated heartbeat. She pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead, pushing hard enough to make her vision blur.

This was the final notice for the raw materials. The Berry Custom Workshop, a small Brooklyn-based manufacturing business her father had built from the ground up, was drowning. If she didn't come up with the money by tomorrow morning, the loan sharks her father had desperately turned to would come to seize the heavy machinery. They would take everything.

The frosted glass door of her cramped office swung open with a violent creak.

Davina Le strutted in. Her sharp stiletto heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum floor. She was holding a neon pink gift box that practically glowed in the dim, fluorescent lighting of the workshop.

"Delivery for the most stressed-out woman in Brooklyn," Davina announced, dropping the box right on top of the overdue bills.

Aimee blinked, her exhausted brain struggling to process the bright color. She assumed it was a box of artisanal coffee or pastries. She reached out, untied the black ribbon, and pulled the item from the tissue paper.

Her fingers wrapped around a heavy, aggressively shaped silicone adult toy.

Aimee's entire body froze. The blood drained from her face, rushing straight to her ears. She sat there, paralyzed, holding the neon pink object in mid-air.

Davina burst into a loud, echoing laugh. She clutched her stomach, leaning against the edge of the battered wooden desk. "You should see your face! Aimee, ever since the workshop hit this financial crisis, you've been living like a nun. You need to release some tension before your head literally explodes."

Aimee dropped the toy back into the box as if it had burned her skin. She rubbed her palms against her faded denim jeans, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation.

"Davina, I don't have time for this," Aimee said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any humor. She pointed a trembling finger at the stack of papers beneath the pink box. "The loan sharks are coming tomorrow. They are going to chain the doors. My father will have a heart attack when he finds out."

Before Davina could offer an apology, the cell phone on Aimee's desk vibrated.

The screen lit up with a Manhattan area code. The caller ID displayed the name of a top-tier corporate law firm.

Aimee's stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out across her palms. She froze, her mind instantly jumping to the worst-case scenario. Was this a new tactic from the loan sharks? Had they hired some ruthless suit to intimidate her into signing over the deed to the workshop before the deadline? She sucked in a sharp breath, deciding she couldn't hide