FORTUNE SECRET WITH THE BILLIONAIRE'S

The $50,000 bottle of Armand de Brignac shattered beautifully against the marble floor.

Scarlett Hayes stood in the doorway of the penthouse bedroom, champagne dripping from her trembling fingers, staring at the tangled sheets and the two naked bodies that had just scrambled apart. Her fiancé Marcus. Her stepsister Elena. In her bed. The bed where she'd stupidly saved herself for marriage because Marcus had said he wanted their wedding night to be special.

"Scarlett-baby, this isn't-" Marcus grabbed a pillow, his perfectly styled hair disheveled in a way that would have been charming yesterday.

"Isn't what?" Her voice came out remarkably steady. "Isn't you fucking my stepsister twelve hours before our wedding?"

Elena had the audacity to smirk as she reached for her dress. "Oh, Scarlett. Did you really think someone like Marcus would be satisfied with someone like you?"

Someone like her. Plain. Boring. The housekeeper's daughter who got lucky when her father married into society.

Except that wasn't the whole truth, was it? That secret burned in her chest, the one even Marcus didn't know. She was actually-

"How long?" Scarlett asked.

Marcus had the decency to look ashamed. "Six months."

Six months. They'd been engaged for eight.

Scarlett laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Of course. Since right after Dad died."

Elena's smirk widened. "Your father was so inconvenient, wasn't he? Always going on about legacy and protecting you. Good thing Mother took care of that problem."

The words hit like a physical blow. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," Elena said quickly, but her eyes flickered with something that looked like fear.

"Victoria killed him." The words came out as a statement, not a question, because suddenly everything made sense. Her father's "accidental" fall down the stairs. The rushed cremation. The will that mysteriously left everything to Victoria instead of Scarlett. "She killed my father for his money."

"You can't prove anything," Elena said, but she was backing toward the door. "And even if you could, who would believe the bastard daughter of a housekeeper?"

Marcus reached for his phone. "Elena, shut up-"

But Scarlett was already moving. She crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Elena by her thousand-dollar hair extensions. "Tell me the truth."

"Get off me, you crazy-"

"Tell me!"

Elena's face contorted with malice. "Fine! Yes, Mother pushed him. He was going to change his will, cut us off, give everything to you. The precious Montgomery heiress. But surprise,you're not an heiress anymore. Mother forged new documents. As far as the world knows, your father left everything to his devoted wife. You're nobody, Scarlett. A nobody with no money, no family, and after tomorrow's cancelled wedding, no reputation either."

Scarlett released her, and Elena stumbled backward into Marcus's arms.

"You're insane," Marcus said, but his eyes told a different story. He'd known. Maybe not about the murder, but he'd known about the money. "Security will be here any second-"

"Good," Scarlett said coldly. "Let's tell them about your six-month affair. Let's tell them about murder. Let's tell everyone everything."

"Do it," Elena challenged. "Mother has every judge in Manhattan in her pocket. You have nothing. No proof. No witnesses. No money for lawyers. You're just a delusional girl trying to destroy a respectable family's name."

She was right. Scarlett had nothing except a trust fund that was now legally Victoria's, an apartment she could no longer afford, and a wedding dress hanging in the closet that cost more than most people's cars.

A wedding dress she'd never wear.

Unless...

An idea formed, reckless and brilliant and probably suicidal. The charity gala. Tonight was the Wolfe Foundation Gala, the most exclusive event of the season. Victoria would be there, playing the grieving widow. Every major player in Manhattan society would be there.

Including Damien Wolfe himself.

Everyone knew the story. Thirty-two years old, self-made billionaire, ruthlessly handsome, absolutely untouchable. He'd built Wolfe Industries from nothing after his father's company collapsed in scandal, and he'd done it without mercy or conscience. He collected enemies like other people collected wine, and his romantic life was a revolving door of models and socialites who never lasted more than a month.

He was also, according to Forbes, looking for a wife. Something about a business deal with traditional Chinese investors who valued family. The tabloids had been speculating for weeks about which lucky woman would become Mrs. Wolfe.

What if it was her?

The thought was insane. She'd never even met Damien Wolfe. She definitely wasn't invited to his gala. And she had exactly forty-seven dollars in her checking account.

But she did have that wedding dress.

"You're right," Scarlett said, backing toward the door. "I have nothing. No money, no proof, no power." She smiled, and it felt like baring her teeth. "Yet."

She turned and walked out, leaving champagne and broken dreams in her wake.

Four hours later, Scarlett stood outside the Wolfe mansion on Fifth Avenue, wearing her wedding dress like armor.

The limestone palace glittered with lights, and through the windows, she could see Manhattan's elite gliding through rooms that probably cost more than her father's entire estate. Security guards flanked the entrance, checking invitations against a guest list that definitely didn't include her name.

She needed a plan. She needed-

"Scarlett?"

She turned to find Oliver Chen, her father's former assistant, staring at her with wide eyes. He was dressed in an expensive tuxedo, an invitation visible in his hand.

"Oliver." Relief flooded through her. "What are you doing here?"

"I work for Wolfe Industries now. Junior VP of International Relations." He took in her wedding dress, her tangled hair, her smudged makeup. "What are you doing here? Isn't your wedding tomorrow?"

"Was. It was tomorrow." She grabbed his arm. "Oliver, I need your help. I need to get inside."

"Scarlett, this is a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate charity gala. I can't just-"

"My stepmother killed my father."

Oliver went pale. "What?"

"I have no proof, no money, and no time. She's in there right now, playing the grieving widow, and I need to make a move before she destroys what's left of my father's legacy." Scarlett met his eyes. "Please. For my dad."

Oliver had loved her father. They'd worked together for fifteen years, and when the company collapsed after the "accident," Oliver had been one of the few who'd reached out to offer condolences.

He looked at the mansion, then back at her. "This is a terrible idea."

"I know."

"You're going to cause a scene."

"Probably."

"Damien Wolfe eats people like you for breakfast."

"Then I'll be a memorable breakfast."

Despite everything, Oliver smiled. "Your father would have loved this. He always said you had more fire than anyone gave you credit for." He offered his arm. "You're my plus-one. You're an old friend from college. Stay close, don't draw attention, and for God's sake, don't actually approach Damien Wolfe. He's... intense."

Scarlett took his arm, her heart pounding. "I can handle intense."

She had no idea how wrong she was.

The Wolfe mansion was a study in controlled opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over marble floors, and every surface gleamed with the kind of wealth that whispered rather than shouted. Waiters in white gloves circulated with champagne probably not $50,000 bottles, but close and the air hummed with the particular energy of people for whom money was merely a tool, not a goal.

Scarlett felt eyes on her immediately. The wedding dress had been a statement, but now she wondered if it was too much. Women in sleek designer gowns gave her curious looks, and men's gazes lingered in a way that made her skin crawl.

"There's Victoria," Oliver murmured, nodding toward a woman in severe black by the windows.

Scarlett's stepmother stood with a circle of sympathetic socialites, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked every inch the grieving widow:elegant, dignified, tragic. A remarkable performance from a woman who'd murdered her husband six weeks ago.

"I want to march over there and expose her right now," Scarlett said through gritted teeth.

"Don't. Not yet. You need leverage first." Oliver grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed her one. "Drink this. You look like you're about to commit murder yourself."

"Tempting."

"Scarlett-"

"I know. I'll behave." She sipped the champagne, letting the bubbles distract her from the rage burning in her chest. "Where's Wolfe?"

"Haven't seen him yet. He usually makes an entrance around-"

The crowd shifted, a ripple of awareness that traveled through the ballroom like an electric current. Conversations quieted. People turned.

And there he was.

Damien Wolfe commanded attention the way gravity commanded planets;absolute, inexorable, natural. He was tall, well over six feet, with dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly and sharp features that belonged on a Roman coin. His tuxedo was perfect, his bow tie slightly loosened in a way that suggested he found formal events tedious, and his eyes-

His eyes were the color of winter ice, and they swept the room with the kind of assessment that made her think of predators calculating which prey to take down first.

"Wow," Scarlett breathed.

"Told you," Oliver said. "Intense."

Intense didn't cover it. Damien Wolfe looked like he could buy and sell souls before breakfast and still have time for a workout. As Scarlett watched, he moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting greetings and deflecting conversations with a few well-placed words. People leaned in when he spoke, laughed too hard at his dry comments, and generally behaved like planets orbiting a very attractive, very dangerous sun.

He was also, she noticed, alone. No date on his arm, no woman trailing hopefully behind him.

"I need to talk to him," Scarlett said.

Oliver choked on his champagne. "Are you insane? You can't just walk up to Damien Wolfe-"

"Why not? He's just a man."

"He's one of the richest men in America. He has people to filter out random women in wedding dresses."

"Then I'll have to be unmemorable." Scarlett drained her champagne and set the glass on a nearby table. "Thanks for getting me in, Oliver. I'll take it from here."

"Scarlett, wait-"

But she was already moving, weaving through the crowd with the same determination that had gotten her this far. She had one shot at this. One chance to change her circumstances from powerless to powerful.

She just had to convince a billionaire to marry her.

Easy.

She was halfway across the ballroom when Victoria spotted her.

Their eyes met across the crowd, and Scarlett watched her stepmother's face cycle through surprise, fury, and calculation in rapid succession. Victoria excused herself from her circle and began moving toward Scarlett with the purposeful stride of someone about to cause a scene.

Scarlett changed course, angling toward Damien Wolfe. If she was going to be thrown out, she might as well make it spectacular.

She was ten feet away when a hand closed around her wrist.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Elena hissed, materializing beside her in a red dress that probably cost more than Scarlett's rent. "You don't belong-"

"Let go of me."

"Mother's going to have security throw you out. Everyone's going to see. You'll be humiliated-"

"Good."

Scarlett yanked her arm free and stumbled forward,directly into a wall of expensive tuxedo and solid muscle.

Strong hands caught her shoulders, steadying her. A voice like smoke and expensive whiskey said, "Careful."

She looked up into winter-ice eyes.

Damien Wolfe raised one eyebrow. "Are you all right?"

Up close, he was devastating. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled but would be beautiful if it did. He smelled like cedar and something darker, more complex. Power, maybe. Or danger.

"I'm fine," she managed. "Sorry, I-someone grabbed me."

He looked past her at Elena, who had gone pale. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem," Elena said quickly. "Just a misunderstanding. She's leaving-"

"I'm not leaving." Scarlett met Damien's eyes, and something sparked in the air between them. Curiosity, maybe. Or the mutual recognition of two people who understood calculated risks. "I need to talk to you."

"Scarlett, you need to leave," Victoria said, appearing beside Elena. She'd composed her face into concerned sympathy. "Mr. Wolfe, I apologize. This is my stepdaughter. She's been under a lot of stress lately:grief, you understand and she's not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking very clearly," Scarlett said. She kept her eyes on Damien, watching for any sign of interest or dismissal. "I have a business proposition."

That got his attention. His eyes sharpened, focusing on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "A business proposition. In a wedding dress. At my charity gala." The corner of his mouth twitched. "This should be interesting."

"It's not appropriate," Victoria said firmly. "Scarlett, let's go outside and-"

"Does she need to leave?" Damien asked, still looking at Scarlett.

"I-yes, I think that would be best-"

"I wasn't asking you." He turned those ice-blue eyes on Victoria, and Scarlett watched her stepmother actually take a step backward. "I was asking her. Do you need to leave?"

Scarlett's heart was hammering so hard she was sure everyone could hear it. This was it. Her one chance.

"No," she said. "I need to stay. I need to talk to you. Privately."

The ballroom had gone quiet around them. People were definitely staring now, phones probably recording. Tomorrow's gossip columns would have a field day.

Good. Let them watch.

Damien studied her for a long moment, and Scarlett had the unsettling feeling he could see straight through her dress, through her skin, down to the desperate, furious core of her.

Then he smiled, a small, dangerous expression that made her stomach flip.

"All right," he said. "Let's talk."

He offered his arm, and when she took it, she felt the coiled strength beneath the expensive fabric. He led her through the crowd, and it parted like the Red Sea, people stepping aside with whispers and wide eyes.

Victoria called after them, "Scarlett, this is inappropriate-"

"Mrs. Hayes," Damien said without looking back, his voice carrying across the ballroom, "your stepdaughter is an adult. If she wants to speak with me, that's her decision. If you have concerns, I suggest you take them up with your lawyer."

It was a dismissal as cold and final as a door slamming shut.

He led Scarlett out of the ballroom, down a corridor lined with what were probably original Rembrandts, and into a wood-paneled library that smelled of leather and old money. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk, windows overlooking the city. This was clearly his private study.

The door clicked shut, and suddenly they were alone.

Damien released her arm and moved to a bar cart, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. "You have five minutes to explain why I shouldn't have security escort you out."

"I need you to marry me."

The glass paused halfway to his lips. He set it down carefully and turned to face her. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I need you to marry me," Scarlett repeated, her voice steadier than she felt. "I know you're looking for a wife for that Chinese business deal. I know you need someone respectable, someone who won't interfere with your life, someone who understands it's a business arrangement."

"And you think you're that someone." It wasn't a question. He was studying her like she was a particularly interesting puzzle. "A woman in a wedding dress who crashes my gala and makes demands. Why would I possibly agree to this?"

"Because I'm desperate," she said bluntly. "And desperate people are predictable. I won't fall in love with you. I won't expect romance or fidelity or anything except the terms we agree on. I'll play the perfect wife in public, stay out of your way in private, and when the contract is up, I'll walk away without drama."

"What makes you think I need a contract wife?"

"Forbes. Business Insider. The Wall Street Journal. You've been very public about needing to settle down for the Chen-Wolfe merger." She took a breath. "I need money and protection. You need a wife who won't complicate your life. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Damien picked up both glasses and crossed to where she stood, offering her one. "You haven't told me your name."

"Scarlett Hayes."

"And what are you so desperate to escape, Scarlett Hayes?"

His use of her full name felt intimate somehow, like he was tasting the syllables. She accepted the glass and took a sip;whiskey, expensive and smooth.

"My stepmother murdered my father and stole my inheritance. My fiancé has been sleeping with my stepsister. And in about twelve hours, I'm going to be homeless, broke, and at the mercy of people who want me to disappear." She met his eyes. "So yes, I'm desperate. But I'm also smart, capable, and I have nothing to lose. That makes me the perfect candidate."

"You realize this sounds insane."

"It is insane. But you're known for making insane deals work."

He laughed, a low sound that did unfortunate things to her pulse. "You've done your research."

"I had four hours and Google."

"And in those four hours, did you learn anything that made you reconsider this plan?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But I came anyway."

That earned her another of those small, dangerous smiles. He moved to his desk, set down his glass, and pulled out his phone. "Oliver Chen works for me. I assume he's how you got in."

Her stomach dropped. "Don't fire him. This wasn't his fault-"

"I'm not going to fire him. I'm going to have him run a background check on you." He typed something, then looked up. "Scarlett Hayes. Twenty-six years old. Graduated Columbia with a degree in art history. Father was William Hayes, died six weeks ago in a fall down the stairs at his home. Left everything to his widow, Victoria. Engaged to Marcus Rothschild, wedding scheduled for tomorrow." He paused. "Wedding that's clearly not happening, given the dress."

"You already knew who I was."

"I make it my business to know who crashes my events." He pocketed his phone. "What I don't know is whether you're telling the truth about your stepmother."

"I have no proof. Not yet. That's part of why I need your help."

"Even if everything you're saying is true, why would I risk my reputation on someone I met five minutes ago?"

"Because you're not risking anything," Scarlett said. She moved closer, emboldened by whiskey and desperation. "A contract marriage with a scandal-free art history graduate looks better than whatever flavor-of-the-month model the tabloids are currently linking you to. I'll sign whatever prenup you want. I'll follow whatever rules you set. And when it's over, I'll walk away quietly. You get your business deal. I get time and resources to take back what's mine. Everyone wins."

Damien considered her, and the silence stretched between them like something physical. Outside, the sounds of the gala continued;music, laughter, the clink of crystal. Inside this room, there was only the two of them and a proposition that was either brilliant or suicidal.

"You're very confident for someone in a wedding dress with forty-seven dollars in her bank account," he said finally.

She should have been surprised he knew that. She wasn't. "Confidence is all I have left."

"That and audacity." He moved closer, close enough that she could see flecks of silver in those winter eyes. "You understand what you're proposing? A marriage to me comes with scrutiny, pressure, and enemies. My ex-fiancée is a shark. My board of directors will investigate every aspect of your life. The media will tear you apart for sport."

"They can't destroy me more than I've already been destroyed."

"You say that now." His voice dropped lower, intimate and dangerous. "But you have no idea what you're walking into."

"Then tell me. Give me the worst-case scenario. Scare me off."

He smiled again, and this time it had teeth. "The worst case? You become collateral damage in a war you don't understand. People I've crossed will use you to get to me. Every mistake you've ever made will be front-page news. Your stepmother will come after you harder than before, because now you're married to someone with the resources to fight back. And at the end of twelve months, you'll walk away wealthier but wounded, wondering if it was worth the price."

"It's worth it," Scarlett said without hesitation.

"Why? For money? Revenge?"

"For justice." The word came out fierce. "My father built something good, and Victoria destroyed it. She doesn't get to win. She doesn't get to take everything and leave me with nothing."

Understanding flickered across Damien's face, there and gone. "You want revenge."

"I want what's mine."

"Same thing, different packaging." He finished his whiskey and set the glass aside. "I'll have my lawyers draw up a contract. Twelve months. You'll live here, play the devoted wife in public, and stay out of my business in private. In exchange, I'll provide security, legal support, and enough money to investigate your father's death. At the end of the term, you'll receive a settlement:let's say ten million and we'll part ways with a friendly divorce."

Ten million dollars. More money than she'd ever imagined having.

"What about the prenup?" she asked.

"Standard terms. You don't get any of my existing assets, just the settlement. You don't speak to the media without approval. You don't cheat not because I care about fidelity, but because it would complicate the optics." His eyes locked on hers. "And you don't fall in love with me."

"That won't be a problem."

"Famous last words." He pulled out his phone again. "I'm going to have Oliver take you to a hotel for the night. Tomorrow, we'll meet with lawyers. If you're still sure about this after reading the contract, we'll make it official."

"How official?"

"Courthouse wedding, immediate press announcement, moving your things into the mansion by evening. We'll do a proper society wedding later for appearances, but legally, you'll be Mrs. Wolfe by tomorrow night." He paused. "Last chance to back out, Scarlett Hayes. Once we start this, there's no going back."

She thought about Marcus and Elena in her bed. About Victoria's smirk. About her father's legacy crumbling to nothing.

"I'm sure," she said.

Damien studied her for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression;respect or recognition. "You're either very brave or very foolish."

"Can't I be both?"

That earned her an actual smile, brief but genuine. "Welcome to the game, Scarlett. Try not to get destroyed too quickly."

He opened the door and called for Oliver, who appeared looking worried and confused. Damien gave him instructions in a low voice, then turned back to Scarlett.

"One more thing," he said. "That wedding dress. Burn it."

"Why?"

"Because you're not that person anymore. The woman who was going to marry Marcus Rothschild, who let people walk over her, who played by other people's rules,she's gone. The woman who becomes my wife needs to be someone different. Someone stronger." His eyes glittered. "Someone dangerous."

Scarlett felt something fierce and wild unfurl in her chest. "I can be dangerous."

"Good." Damien stepped closer, and his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Because in my world, the weak don't survive. And I need you to survive, Scarlett Hayes. At least for the next twelve months."

Then he was gone, striding back toward the ballroom and leaving her standing in his study with Oliver and a racing heart.

"Did that actually just happen?" Oliver asked weakly.

Scarlett looked down at her wedding dress, at the white silk that suddenly felt like a costume from a life that no longer fit. Tomorrow she would burn it. Tomorrow she would sign a contract with a billionaire she'd just met. Tomorrow she would become someone new.

Someone dangerous.

"Yes," she said, surprising herself with how steady she sounded. "It did."

Outside the study window, Manhattan glittered with a million lights, and somewhere in that city, Victoria and Elena were probably plotting her destruction.

Let them try.

She was about to become Mrs. Damien Wolfe.

And in twelve months, she was going to take back everything that had been stolen from her.