The Oracle's Revenge: My Purchased Marriage

Sunlight didn't filter into the room; it assaulted it. The harsh morning rays cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tribeca penthouse, landing directly on Heda Roman's face.

She woke with a gasp, her body a map of dull aches. Her lower back throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the cold transaction disguised as intimacy that had taken place hours ago. She didn't move immediately. It was a rare and calculated command performance; at the Hamptons estate, they slept in separate wings. Here, in this glass box in the sky, she was entirely his property. Instead, her hand slid under the pillow, fingers trembling slightly until they brushed the cold, hard plastic of the invisible earpiece.

It was still there. Good.

The sound of the bathroom door handle turning made her flinch. Instantly, her breathing shallowed, her posture collapsing inward. The door swung open, slamming against the marble wall. A cloud of steam billowed out, followed by Gustavus English.

He wore only a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, trailing down to the defined ridges of his abdomen. He looked like a statue carved from resentment. On his shoulder, a fresh red scratch mark stood out against the pale skin-her mark.

He didn't look at her like a husband. He looked at her like a stain on his Egyptian cotton sheets.

Heda instinctively grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to her chin. She scrambled backward, pressing herself into the corner of the headboard, widening her eyes. It was a practiced motion. The frightened doe. The girl from the trailer park who had never seen sheets with a thread count higher than two hundred.

Gustavus walked to the bedside table. He didn't speak. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating, filled with the unspoken toxicity of the night before.

He pulled a checkbook from his discarded suit jacket.

Scritch. Scratch.

The sound of the fountain pen tearing across the paper was louder than a scream in the quiet room. He ripped the check out with a sharp snap.

He didn't hand it to her. He let it go in the air above her.

The slip of paper fluttered down, the sharp edge grazing her cheek before landing on the duvet. Heda didn't flinch. She let a single tear slide down her nose. It was perfect timing.

Her hand shook as she picked it up.

$2,000,000.

Two million dollars.

Inside her chest, Heda Roman felt nothing but cold amusement. The English Group's stock fluctuated more than this in a single second of bad trading. She could burn this check and not feel the heat. But Heda, the girl from Appalachia, stared at the zeros as if they were a lifeline.

"Service fee," Gustavus said. His voice was gravel, rough from disuse and the meds. "Last night was a mistake."

Heda bit her lip, forcing her voice to pitch higher, layering on the thick twang of the mountains. "I thought we were... husband and