MARRYING A RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

Aspen gasped for air, her upper body shooting up from the mattress.

Her lungs burned as if they were still filled with the freezing rainwater from the night she died. She clawed at her own throat, her fingernails digging into the soft skin, expecting to feel the jagged tear of the steering wheel that had crushed her windpipe.

There was no blood. There was no rain.

Her chest heaved, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared at the familiar, suffocating floral wallpaper of her bedroom in the Hogan estate. Her skin was covered in a cold sweat, making the cotton sheets stick to her legs.

She looked at her hands. They were unscarred. The calluses from her five years in the "Underworld" training camps were gone. She was nineteen again.

It was the night before the Hogan family planned to sacrifice her.

The memories of her past life crashed into her skull, bringing a sharp, throbbing pain to her temples. She remembered Sloane taking her place, Julian draining her bank accounts, and the final, agonizing moments bleeding out in the wreckage.

And she remembered him. Deron Fitzpatrick. The man the world called a cripple. The man who had burned down half of New York to avenge a woman who had never truly belonged to him.

Aspen's breathing slowed. The panic in her veins turned into something else. It turned into ice.

She threw off the covers. Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor, the chill grounding her. She walked straight to Sloane's adjoining closet. She bypassed her own cheap clothes and pulled out a crimson silk slip dress that Sloane had bought for a Hamptons party.

Aspen stripped off her pajamas and let the cold silk slide over her naked skin. It clung to her curves, a piece of armor masquerading as lingerie.

Forty minutes later, an Uber dropped her off at the service entrance of the Waldorf Astoria in Manhattan. The smell of stale pine air freshener from the car faded, replaced by the crisp, metallic scent of the city wind.

She bypassed the security cameras in the loading dock with practiced ease, slipping through the blind spots. She took the service elevator to the penthouse level.

She stood before the heavy mahogany doors of the presidential suite. She pulled a rigid piece of plastic-cut from a discarded hotel keycard-from her pocket. She slid it into the door's mechanism, wiggling it with millimeter precision.

Click.

The heavy door yielded. Aspen pushed it open and slipped inside, letting it shut silently behind her.

The suite was pitch black, illuminated only by the neon glow of the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled of expensive scotch and a faint, sterile trace of antiseptic.

"You have thirty seconds to explain yourself before my security throws you off this balcony."

The voice came from the shadows. It was low, gravelly, and completely devoid of warmth. It made the hairs on the back of Aspen's neck stand up.

She didn't flinch. She turned her head and saw the silhouette of the man sitting in the wheelchair near the glass. Deron Fitzpatrick. Even seated, his broad shoulders and rigid posture projected a dangerous, suffocating authority.

Aspen walked toward him, her bare feet making no sound on the thick Persian rug. She stopped inches from his footrests.

"Deron Fitzpatrick," she said, her voice steady, looking straight into the dark abyss of his eyes. "I'm here to make a deal."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He hadn't expected the intruder to know his full name, let alone speak to him without a tremor of fear.