Fifty Million Dollar Contract: My Enemy Husband

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. A completed call to Eloise's number. Forty-seven seconds. He had hung up first, right after she whispered "Yes." That single word had been burning in his skull for the past hour.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won. She called, didn't she? That's what you wanted."

Christian didn't answer. He took a long swallow of whiskey. He had wanted her to call. He had set the trap. But now that she had walked into it, he felt nothing but a sick, twisting rage. Not at her. At himself. Because ten years of telling himself she was just another gold-digger had just been proven right. And it didn't feel like winning.

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. Not because the traders were saying anything new—but because they were right. And hearing it made his blood run cold.

He stood up. He set his glass down with deliberate control—no shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away without a word.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He looked at his phone again. Then he walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door. He raised his fist and knocked—three sharp, controlled raps.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His eyes were cold, clear, and sober.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won."

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. The veins on the back of his hand popped against his skin. A dark, violent rage exploded in his chest, burning his lungs.

He set his whiskey glass down onto the marble surface with controlled force. It didn't shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance to the exit.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors of the club and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a completed call. It was Eloise's number. He had hung up first. He stared at the screen. Ten years of suppressed jealousy, anger, and a sick, twisted need for her clawed at his throat. He hated that she was willing to sell herself. He hated that the traders were right.

He walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life like an angry beast. He slammed his foot on the gas, tearing into the empty streets.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door used by the family for private entry. He didn't bother looking for the doorbell. He balled his hand into a fist and pounded on the solid wood. The loud, aggressive thuds echoed down the quiet estate grounds.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His grip was like iron. His eyes were wild, dark, and predatory.

He shoved the door forward. The force pushed Eloise backward. Christian stepped into the narrow entryway and reached behind him, slamming the door shut. He turned the deadbolt, locking them inside.

The entryway was tiny. Eloise stumbled backward until her spine hit the cold plaster wall. There was nowhere left to run.

Christian stepped into her space. He placed both hands flat on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"What was that phone call?" Christian demanded. His voice was rough, scraping against his throat. "Is that how it works? You'll sell anything for the right price?"

Eloise turned her face away, trying to escape his heavy, hot breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She bit her bottom lip, refusing to answer.

Her silence felt like a confession to him. The rage inside him boiled over.

He grabbed her chin with his large hand, his fingers digging into her jaw. He forced her head back around so she had to look at him. His eyes were full of a agonizing mix of hatred and desperate hunger.

Before she could speak, he crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was brutal and demanding. Eloise let out a muffled gasp of shock. She raised her hands and pushed hard against his solid chest, trying to shove him away.

Christian caught both of her wrists in one hand. He pinned her arms behind her back, pressing his heavy body flush against hers, trapping her completely against the wall.

His teeth scraped against her bottom lip. A sharp pain flared, followed by the metallic taste of blood spreading in her mouth.

Eloise couldn't breathe. The panic seized her lungs. She stopped fighting. Her body went limp against the wall. A single, hot tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek. It dropped right onto the back of Christian's hand holding her jaw.