The CEO's Accidental Bride

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med, reflecting the blinding sparkle of crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire family's struggling construction business. The air itself fel

g woman desperately clinging to a flimsy hope. My dress, a borrowed sapphire blue that felt both elegant and entirely out of place, seemed to hum with the nervous energy radiating

ion, my father's legacy, was teetering on the brink. One wrong move, one missed payment, and it would all be gone. This charity auction, a glittering spectacle of philanthropy and power pla

lk. Another priceless trinket, another antique vase or diamond necklace, had just found its way into another billionaire's already overflowing collection. My gaze drifted across the room, a frantic search for the elusive Mr. Henderson, ou

d nerves, was instead making me feel strangely detached, a little too bold, like I was watching a movie of my own impending doom. My thoughts drifted, untethered. Wha

hion of deep crimson velvet. It looked ancient, almost mystical. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, his voice dropping to a more reverent tone

ust a company; it was an empire, built by a man who seemed to have ice in his veins and gold in his pockets. I'd seen his picture in glossy business magazines – sharp jawline, eyes that could cut glass, a perpetual air of brooding intensit

five million dollars," the auctioneer declar

uck. My hand, still clutching the champagne flute, felt light, disconnected from my arm. My eyes scanned the room again, a frantic, unfocused search for Mr. Henderso

? Something to make us memorable, to show we weren't just another struggling small business? It was a stupid, reckless thought, bo

voice. It sounded strangely clear, ringing

his eyes wide, a flicker of disbelief and then pure, unadulterated excitement crossing his face. My own eyes widened in horror as the fog of alcohol began to lift, replaced by a cold, sickening

absorb the light, he exuded an aura of power that made the air crackle. Alexander Thorne. His gaze, sharp and piercing, like shards of obsidian, locked onto mine across the stunned silence of th

ewildered excitement, his gavel striking the podium with a deci

ne. My hand trembled so violently I nearly dropped the champagne flute, the delicate glass threatening to shatter in my grip. Ten million dollars. I didn't have te

tor, sleek and confident, and I felt like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes never left mine, and in their depths, I saw not anger, as I might have expected, but a calculating glint, a shrewd inte

rp and clean, like ambition. "An interesting bid, Miss..." His voice was a low rumble, smooth as aged whiskey, yet with an underlying steel that promised trouble

-ending, life-ruining mistake. And the man who owned the artifact, the man who now, inexplicably, seemed to own a piece of my future, was standing right in front of me, looki