The Billionaire's Contract for Revenge

ntic thumping of my own heart and the distant, muted hum of Veridia's traffic far below. My gaze was fixed on the document lying

espair, hot and cleansing. How dare he? How dare this man, this stranger, sit there in his throne o

hisper. My good hand, my left hand, clenched into

am perfectly sane. I am a pragmatist. I have a problem that requ

er. "You think I'm a solution? I'm a person! You can't ju

of my mind. He held all the cards. The lawsuit, Mark's betr

by my outburst. It was like shouting at a mountain. "I am not asking for your affection. I am not asking for a partnership. I am pre

, smug and successful, built on my ruins, made my stomach clench with a toxic bitterness.

t the red haze of fury. I had to find a

rate and pathetic even to my own ears. "For your brot

areer as an architect is over. The prognosis for your arm is, I've been told, grim. You have no savings, no f

verything. He had dissected my life and laid my vulnerabilities bare on his polis

o Veridia with so many dreams. I had wanted to build things, to create spaces t

ground to stand on. If this was a business transaction, then I

icy gaze. "If I do this," I said, my voice sh

spect, entered his eyes. He inclined

act. Nothing more. There will be no... marital expectations. We will hav

," he said smoothly. "I have

what I wanted, wasn't it? But the cold, dismissive way

with a physical therapist. The best one. And you will cover all

epta

a small room, but it has to be mine. Untouchable." The thought of trying to draw again sent a phantom pa

his gaze unwavering. "A reasona

I want it in the contract. I want specifics. I want to know exactly how you will hold up your end

g to understand each other perfectly." He pressed a button on his desk intercom. "Sarah, please have my

ted the new clauses. We negotiated the terms of my life like it was a corporate merger. We defined 'public appearances,' stipulated the number of functions I would b

avy, weighted with the year of my life I was about to sign away. He pl

. My choices were clear: a future of debt, disgrace, and a literal prison, or a year in a gilded cag

the click echoing in the silent room. I thought of Mark's face when he screamed for the paramedic

d my name. Clara Evans. The signature was a clumsy

, signed his own name with a fluid, powerful st

as d

lian said, standing up, the business transaction clearly concluded in his mind. He was already mo

comfort or reassurance. He simply turned and walked back to his win

ense. The name felt like a costume, ill-fitting and strange. As I walked out of his office, the heavy door clickin

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