The Phantom CEO's Runaway Contract Lover

Hope Perry watched him from the bed, her phone cool and heavy in her hand.

Drake Malloy stepped out of the master bathroom, a low-slung white towel clinging to his hips. Water dripped from his dark hair onto the defined lines of his shoulders and chest. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement casual, easy. The air in the penthouse bedroom was still thick with the scent of them, a warm, intimate haze that she was about to shatter.

She swiped her thumb across the screen, the motion smooth and practiced. The Swiss bank app opened, its sterile blue and white interface a stark contrast to the rumpled silk sheets around her.

Drake paused, his hand stilling in his hair. He noticed the phone, the focused set of her jaw. His deep blue eyes, usually warm, held a flicker of question.

Hope didn't look up. Her finger hovered over the keypad. She typed in a number. Seven figures. It was obscene, far more than the generous monthly fee they had agreed upon a year ago. It was the last of the trust her mother had left her, a final bastion of independence. She was using it now not just to end a contract, but to buy back a piece of her own soul.

She took a shallow breath, the kind you take before delivering bad news in a boardroom.

"This is the last one, Drake."

Her voice was calm, level. It didn't belong in this bedroom.

"Our contract is terminated."

He didn't move, but something in the room shifted. The warmth evaporated. His body, which had been relaxed moments ago, went rigid. A single drop of water traced a path down his abdomen and hung there, suspended in the sudden, frozen silence.

He walked toward the bed. Each step was deliberate, silent on the plush carpet. The feeling of him being a paid companion, someone she controlled, vanished. Now, he was just a man, a large and powerful one, and he was closing in.

"Why?" The word was low, a rumble that vibrated in the air between them.

She finally forced herself to meet his gaze. There was no sentiment in her eyes, only the flat, detached assessment of a transaction being closed.

"My fiancé is coming back."

She let the word "fiancé" hang in the air, a deliberate, calculated barb. She wanted to see it land. To see him react.

He did. A slow, mocking smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. Those were turning into chips of ice. He leaned over her, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. The scent of clean soap and damp skin filled her senses, overwhelming her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

"So that's all this was?" His voice was dangerously soft now. "For the past year, I was just a substitute?"

"You always knew it was a transaction," she said, her own voice sounding