Bound To The Billionaire's Cruel Contract

Night had fallen. Rain came down in sheets. Inside her cramped basement apartment, Carissa aggressively shoved her few items of clothing into a faded canvas duffel bag. The single bare bulb overhead flickered.

Suddenly, violent pounding shook her thin wooden door. Men shouted outside, hurling curses. Isiah had sent his street thugs to collect his hush money.

Carissa threw her body weight against the door, holding it shut. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She reached over to the kitchenette counter and grabbed a rusted butcher knife.

Outside, the thugs smashed her potted plants and kicked the metal trash cans. The noise was deafening.

She knew the door wouldn't hold. She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and ripped the door open.

She lunged forward with the knife raised high, a feral scream tearing from her throat.

The thugs, three men with hard faces and bad intentions, stumbled backward. Carissa sprinted through the gap between them, bursting out into the pouring rain.

"Get that bitch!" one of them yelled.

Carissa ran down the flooded street, the heavy rain blinding her. Her lungs burned. Water sloshed over her shoes.

As she rounded a dark corner, a massive, foul-smelling drunk stepped out of an alley. He grabbed her arm, his grip crushing down instantly. His face was red and bloated, his eyes glassy and mean.

He laughed, a wet, disgusting sound, and tried to drag her into the shadows. The thugs closed in from behind.

Carissa thrashed wildly. She slammed the heavy handle of the knife into the drunk's skull. He grunted and backhanded her across the face.

The force sent Carissa flying. She crashed into a deep puddle of muddy water, scraping her palms raw on the asphalt.

The drunk lunged for her.

Suddenly, twin beams of blinding LED headlights tore through the rain.

A black armored Maybach slammed on its brakes, sending a wave of dirty water crashing over the drunk's legs.

The car door kicked open. Guilford stepped out into the storm. He wore a black trench coat, his dark hair instantly plastered to his forehead by the rain. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

Before the drunk could turn around, Guilford's bodyguard materialized and kicked the man square in the chest. The drunk flew backward, hit the brick wall with a sickening crunch, and slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The thugs chasing Carissa skidded to a halt. They saw the armored car and the men in suits. They turned and ran.

Guilford walked over to where Carissa sat in the mud. He looked down at her, his jaw locked tight. Rain streamed down his sharp features.

He didn't offer his hand. Instead, he shrugged off his custom trench coat and threw it roughly over her head.

The heavy fabric engulfed her. It was warm, radiating his body heat, and smelled strongly of cedar and expensive cologne. Carissa's lips were blue. She looked up at him, stunned.

"Get in the car," Guilford ordered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't ruin my leather seats."

Carissa gritted her teeth. She didn't say thank you. She pulled the coat tight around her shivering body and limped into the back of the Maybach.

Guilford got in beside her. Water dripped from his hair onto his white shirt. He ordered the driver to head to Long Island, then told his guard through the window to "make sure those men learn a permanent lesson."

The cabin fell silent, save for the rain drumming on the roof. Water dripped from Carissa's hair onto the plush floor mats.

Guilford opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and slammed it into the cup holder in front of her.

Carissa hesitated. Then she grabbed the bottle and drank greedily. The cold water soothed her burning throat.

Guilford stared at the red handprint swelling on her cheek. "You rejected my money for those pieces of trash?" he mocked.

Carissa turned her head, staring out the rain-streaked window. "I don't have a family anymore," she said, her voice hoarse but absolute. "I only have my son."

Guilford's heart did a strange, uncomfortable stutter. He looked at her thin, rigid posture wrapped in his coat, and for the first time, he didn't have a cruel retort.

An hour later, the Maybach pulled up to the illuminated estate. Alistair was waiting with a black umbrella, his thin figure silhouetted against the mansion's golden lights.

Guilford stepped out first. "Put her in a guest room," he told the butler, and walked into the house without looking back.