Married to the CEO by Morning

The third shot of cheap tequila burned a violent path down Elenor's throat, forcing hot, physiological tears to the corners of her eyes.

She slammed the empty shot glass onto the sticky surface of the Tribeca bar.

The neon lights overhead buzzed, a harsh, grating sound that matched the pounding in her skull.

The bartender, a guy with too many tattoos and a sympathetic frown, slid a glass of ice water toward her.

"Do you need me to call you an Uber, miss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble beneath the heavy bass of the club music.

Elenor shook her head sharply.

Her vision blurred as she stared down at her phone, which was lying face-up on the counter. The screen lit up again. One Missed Call: Clemens.

Her stomach violently contracted.

Just three hours ago, under the crystal chandeliers of the Vincent family's annual charity gala, Clemens' voice had sliced through her chest like a serrated blade.

"She's just a charity case my family sponsors. Don't take her seriously."

The words echoed in her ears, magnifying until they drowned out the music.

Her lungs forgot how to process oxygen. She closed her eyes tightly, her trembling fingers reaching out to flip the phone face-down against the wood.

She just wanted the noise to stop. She wanted the crushing weight of her own pathetic existence to vanish.

"A neat whiskey. Macallan 25."

The voice came from right beside her. It was low, resonant, and carried an undeniable weight of authority that didn't belong in a dive bar.

Elenor's heavy eyelids fluttered open. She turned her head slowly, her alcohol-laced brain struggling to focus.

A man was sitting on the stool next to her. The dim, flashing neon lights caught the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw.

He was dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that screamed Upper East Side elite.

Elenor's brain was too numb to recognize the face that frequently graced the covers of financial magazines. She didn't see the youngest billionaire on Wall Street; she only saw a stranger.

The man turned his head. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto her bloodshot ones.

He didn't look away. He held her gaze for three agonizingly long seconds.

Then, he slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her in a silent, restrained, yet incredibly invasive toast.

The unwavering focus in his eyes felt less like interest and more like an assessment, cold and penetrating.

Elenor flinched, her hand jerking backward in sudden panic. Her knuckles clipped the glass of ice water.

The glass tipped, sending freezing water cascading directly onto the lap of her silk dress.

She gasped, the icy shock snapping her out of her stupor. She scrambled for the cheap paper napkins on the bar, frantically dabbing at the ruined fabric.

A hand entered her field of vision.

Long, elegant fingers held out a dark, monogrammed handkerchief. It smelled faintly of cedarwood and cold rain.

Elenor hesitated before taking it. As her fingertips brushed against his cool knuckles, a jolt of static electricity shot up her arm.

She recoiled instantly, but the man didn't pull his hand back.

Instead, he seamlessly shifted his grip, his large hand wrapping around her trembling wrist.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. There was a strange, almost imperceptible undertone of indulgence in his tone.

The combination of the alcohol, the freezing water on her dress, and the utter humiliation of the night finally broke her.

"I'm just a joke," Elenor blurted out, a bitter, broken laugh escaping her lips. "A pathetic, disposable joke."

The man's eyes darkened instantly. The temperature around them seemed to drop.

His thumb moved, slowly and deliberately stroking the erratic pulse at her wrist.

"Let's get you out of here," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Somewhere you can actually breathe."

Elenor stared into those deep, dangerous eyes. The alcohol whispered that she had nothing left to lose.

She nodded, a jerky, thoughtless motion.

They walked out of the bar together. The crisp autumn wind of New York hit Elenor, making her teeth chatter violently.

Without a word, the man stripped off his suit jacket. He draped it over her bare shoulders. The residual heat of his body seeped into her freezing skin.

A black Maybach glided silently to the curb. A driver immediately stepped out and opened the rear door.

Elenor slid into the cavernous, leather-scented backseat. The man followed, and the heavy door clicked shut, sealing them inside.

The soundproof cabin blocked out the city entirely. The air between them instantly became thick and suffocatingly hot.

Elenor turned her head. The dim reading light illuminated the strong column of his neck and the sharp bob of his Adam's apple.

The tequila eradicated her last shred of inhibition.

She leaned forward, her hands gripping his broad shoulders, and crashed her lips against his.