Buying The Exiled Heir: He Is Mine

A dull throb hammered behind Alyssa's eyes the second she opened them.

The harsh morning sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, burning her retinas and forcing her to blink rapidly.

She recognized the ornate, gold-leafed ceiling of the Plaza Hotel penthouse immediately.

Her stomach did a slow, sickening flip when she realized the custom silk gown she wore last night was gone.

She looked down.

She was wearing a massive men's dress shirt.

The fabric swallowed her frame, and the buttons were fastened in the wrong holes, exposing one of her bare shoulders to the cold air of the suite.

The silk duvet slipped off her legs.

Goosebumps erupted across her skin, and the sudden chill snapped the fragmented memories of last night back into place.

She remembered dragging Benton here.

She remembered pouring shots down his throat, desperate to humiliate the man who had just been publicly exiled from his own family empire.

The sound of running water echoed from the master bathroom.

Through the frosted glass door, she could see the tall, broad silhouette of a man moving under the showerhead.

Alyssa swung her bare feet over the edge of the mattress, her toes sinking into the thick carpet.

She grabbed the heavy brass sculpture off the glass coffee table, her fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal.

The water stopped abruptly.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Steam rolled out into the bedroom, bringing with it the sharp, clean scent of cedar and expensive soap.

Benton stepped out, a single white towel slung low around his hips.

Water dripped from his dark hair, sliding down the hard, defined lines of his chest and stomach.

His dark eyes locked onto hers instantly, pinning her in place.

Alyssa took a step back, her heel hitting the edge of the bed.

She forced her chin up, refusing to let him see the sudden spike in her heart rate.

Benton looked at the heavy brass sculpture in her hand.

A slow, cold smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, making the air in the room feel instantly heavier.

He walked right past her, completely ignoring her defensive posture.

He stopped at the minibar, poured a glass of ice water, and swallowed it down, his throat bobbing with the movement.

Heat rushed to Alyssa's face.

She slammed the brass sculpture down onto the glass table, the loud crack echoing in the quiet room.

She spun around and dug through her Birkin bag scattered on the sofa.

Her fingers found her checkbook and her Montblanc pen.

The pen scratched harshly against the paper as she wrote down the exact amount of her entire quarterly trust fund dividend.

She ripped the check from the pad.

She marched over to Benton, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and slapped the piece of paper flat against his bare chest.

"Consider this charity for a bankrupt heir," she said, keeping her chin high. "This buys your services from last night, and whatever dignity you have left."

Benton didn't even look at the check.

He let it flutter to the floor between them.

He stepped into her space, his chest almost brushing hers.

The cold cedar scent of him completely hijacked her oxygen supply, making her lungs burn.

He turned and pulled a thick stack of legal papers from beneath the sofa cushion.

He tossed the document onto the coffee table.

The bold letters at the top read Angel Investment Performance Agreement.

"If you want to play investor, Alyssa, we play by Wall Street rules," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Alyssa flipped open the first page.

Her stomach tightened as she read the terms, realizing the contract demanded she surrender absolute control of the funds to him.

"Why would I ever sign something this insane?" she demanded, looking up at him.

"Because you don't have the stomach for real capital games," Benton mocked, his eyes dark and dismissive. "You only know how to play dress-up with daddy's money."

The dismissal in his eyes felt like a physical blow to her chest.

Her blood boiled, drowning out any rational thought.

She didn't even look at the penalty clauses on the back pages.

She flipped to the last page and aggressively signed her name on the dotted line.

She shoved the heavy stack of papers back into his chest.

"I own you now," she declared, her breathing shallow and fast.

Benton took the papers, his expression unreadable.

"Once the game starts, you don't get to call a timeout," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.