The Tycoon's Unwanted Contract Wife

"Take it off."

Maura's voice held no room for negotiation. The senior housekeeper stood in the center of the sprawling, temperature-controlled dressing room of the Manhattan penthouse. Her eyes scanned Annabel's soft cashmere sweater, one of the few remaining pieces of her own clothing rather than the endless couture provided by the Harrison estate, with undisguised disgust.

Annabel kept her hands at her sides. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Maura held up a hanger. Suspended from it was a crimson Oscar de la Renta haute couture gown. The fabric looked like liquid blood under the harsh recessed lighting.

"Mr. Harrison expects his wife to look the part tonight," Maura said. "Do not forget the public image confidentiality clause in your prenuptial agreement. You are a Harrison now. Act like it."

Annabel swallowed the thick lump in her throat. She reached out and took the heavy dress. The silk felt cold against her skin. She stripped off her sweater and stepped into the gown. It clung to every curve of her body, tight and restrictive.

Down on the street level, a car horn blared. Gus, the security driver, was waiting in the Maybach.

Annabel shoved her feet into a pair of stiff, red-soled heels. The leather pinched her toes immediately. She walked past Maura without a word and stepped into the private elevator.

The ride down to the garage was silent. Annabel slid into the back of the Maybach. The heavy scent of expensive leather and a faint, custom cedarwood fragrance hit her lungs. It was thick, aggressive, and suffocating, much like the man himself. It made her slightly nauseous.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a message from Nord Medical Center. It was another billing notice for her mother's life support. The number at the bottom of the screen had six zeros.

Annabel's chest tightened. Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back down. She locked the screen and shoved the phone away.

In the rearview mirror, Gus met her eyes. His expression was completely blank. He pressed a button, and the soundproof partition rolled up, sealing her in the back.

The Maybach pulled up to the curb outside the Wall Street Hotel.

The flashbulbs hit the tinted windows like lightning strikes. Annabel flinched. The sheer volume of reporters pressing against the barricades was suffocating.

"Use the side entrance," Gus's voice came through the intercom. "Go straight to the VIP holding room behind the stage."

Annabel nodded, even though he couldn't see her. She pushed the door open and slipped out, keeping her head down. She bypassed the red carpet entirely, navigating the narrow, dimly lit service corridor.

She reached the heavy oak door of the VIP room. She pushed it open.

Her breath hitched. Her heart missed a beat.

Gregorio was standing by the vanity mirror. He was leaning down. His large hand was gently tucking a stray blonde curl behind