One Star Review For My Billionaire Husband

Ella knew tonight was a trap, but she hadn't expected her stepsister to move so quickly. "Just one, for appearances," Chloe said, flashing the dazzling smile of a loving stepsister for the benefit of the nearby cameras. She pushed a flute of champagne into Ella's hand. The crystal was ice-cold against Ella's skin, a stark warning of the danger closing in.

Ella's fingers tightened around the stem. She didn't want it, but in the suffocating heat of the Waldorf Astoria's ballroom, refusing would cause a scene. "Fine."

She took a small sip. The champagne was too sweet, cloying. A strange aftertaste coated her tongue.

Chloe's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "See? Not so bad."

A few minutes later, the heat started. It wasn't the warmth of the room or the press of bodies. It was a fire starting deep in her belly, licking its way up her spine. The chandeliers above began to blur, their light splintering into a thousand painful shards. Her breath hitched.

She knew that taste. She knew this heat. She'd been drugged.

Chloe's hand was suddenly on her arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "You don't look so good, sister," she whispered, her breath hot against Ella's ear. "I have a surprise for you. You're going to love it."

She started pulling Ella toward the east wing, toward room 3302, where Ella knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that reporters were waiting. The drug was a wildfire now, scorching her veins, making her skin crawl. But a primal surge of adrenaline, of pure rage, cut through the haze.

"No," Ella snarled, the word tearing from her throat.

She ripped her arm from Chloe's grasp, shoving her stepsister hard. Chloe stumbled back, her perfect smile replaced by a flash of shock. It was all the opening Ella needed.

She ran.

She plunged into the crowded corridor, moving in the opposite direction, her borrowed gown tangling around her legs. Her body was screaming for something, a release she refused to give it. She just had to get away.

A room service cart stood in her path. She didn't hesitate, shoving it with all her strength. It crashed over with a clatter of metal and shattering porcelain, creating a wall of chaos behind her. People shouted. It bought her seconds.

At the far end of the hallway, a door was slightly ajar. The Presidential Suite. It was a dark maw, a potential trap, but it was better than the hell waiting behind her. A life raft.

She threw her body against the heavy wood and stumbled inside, slamming it shut.

The suite was dark, lit only by the sprawling galaxy of New York City lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A man stood before them, a tall, imposing silhouette against the skyline. He radiated an aura of absolute stillness, a dangerous energy that made the air crackle.

He turned at the sound of her intrusion. Even in the dim light, she could feel the arctic chill of his gaze.

***

Donovan Sinclair did not tolerate intruders. His entire life was a fortress built to keep people out, a necessity dictated by a rare psychological condition that made the touch of others unbearable, a crawling, repulsive sensation on his skin.

But the woman who had just burst into his sanctuary wasn't thinking about any of that. The drug had obliterated reason. Her body was an inferno. She saw the man, and her broken mind supplied the only answer it could: this was Chloe's "surprise."

She lurched toward him, a sob of pain and fury escaping her lips.

Donovan's hand went to the intercom on the wall, his finger hovering over the button to summon security. He would have her thrown out. Brutally.

Then she touched him.

Her small, feverish hand clamped onto his forearm. And nothing happened.

There was no revulsion. No crawling skin. No violent urge to recoil. There was only the searing heat of her body and the strange, alien sensation of a woman's touch that didn't feel like a violation.

He froze.

She clung to him like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood, muttering curses under her breath. Her body was trembling, her skin radiating a desperate heat.

His assistant, Ethan Price, stepped out from an adjoining room. "Sir, shall I...?"

Donovan silenced him with a single, sharp glance.

For the first time in over twenty years, a woman was touching him, and his world wasn't ending. A strange, possessive curiosity, cold and sharp, pierced through his shock. He had to know why. He had to understand this anomaly.

He had to have her.

He scooped her into his arms. The movement was fluid, decisive. She was surprisingly light. Against his chest, she went suddenly still, a shudder running through her before she sagged against him, a flicker of safety momentarily quieting the storm inside her.

He carried her into the bedroom, the city lights painting stripes across the walls. What followed was a blur of instinct and desperation, a chaotic collision in the dark.

The first ray of morning sun sliced through a gap in the curtains, hitting Ella's face. She groaned, her head pounding with a vicious rhythm. The memories came back in jagged, shameful pieces. The champagne. Chloe's face. The desperate flight. The man.

Her stomach churned. She was naked, tangled in sheets that smelled of a stranger's cologne, every muscle in her body aching from the sheer intensity of the night. Wincing at the sharp soreness between her thighs, she glared bitterly at the man sleeping soundly beside her, his back turned to her. Even with his dark, disheveled hair and the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw barely visible, he looked drop-dead gorgeous—a complete masterpiece of a man. Yet, his performance had been utterly abysmal, all ruthless, animalistic power and absolutely zero technique.

A wave of self-loathing washed over her. He was just a tool in Chloe's sick game. A high-priced escort hired to complete her ruin.

Rage, cold and clean, burned away the shame.

She slid out of bed, her body aching. Her dress was a crumpled heap on the floor. She found her purse, her fingers fumbling inside until they closed around the emergency cash she always kept. Five one-hundred-dollar bills.

She slapped the cash down on the nightstand with a sharp, resentful snap. It felt like an absolute ripoff given how painful the experience had been, but it served as the perfect insult for his lack of skill.

She needed paper. There was none. Her eyes landed on a crisp, white cocktail napkin. Perfect. She grabbed her eyebrow pencil and scrawled a few vicious words across the linen.

Looks & Body: 10/10. Performance: 0/10. Consider this an overly generous payment for your services. Keep the change.

Dressed in her wrinkled gown, every muscle screaming in protest, she slipped out of the room like a thief, leaving the sleeping man, the money, and her final, bitter judgment behind.

Donovan woke to the scent of her on his pillow. A faint, unfamiliar perfume. A strange sense of satisfaction settled in his chest, a feeling he hadn't experienced before. The anomaly had been... interesting.

He rolled over, expecting to see her. The other side of the bed was empty, but still warm.

Then he saw it.

The five hundred dollars sitting on his nightstand, and right next to it, a folded cocktail napkin.

He sat up, his brow furrowing. He picked up the napkin and unfolded it. He read the messy, angry script.

The faint smile on his lips vanished, instantly replaced by a mask of ice. The air in the room dropped ten degrees. No one had ever dared.

He picked up the bedside phone, his voice a low, controlled growl that promised retribution. "Ethan. Get me everything on a woman."

A moment later, Ethan Price entered the room, his face a neutral mask. He took one look at his boss's thunderous expression and felt a chill go down his spine. He had never seen Donovan Sinclair look like this.

Donovan crumpled the napkin and tossed it at him. "The woman who broke in here last night. I want her name, her address, her family, her favorite color. Everything. Now."

Ethan caught the small paper ball.

As he turned to leave, Donovan's voice stopped him, colder than a winter grave.

"And Ethan."

"Sir?"

"Call my grandfather. Tell him I've reconsidered. I'll agree to the marriage contract with the Long family."

Ethan froze, his hand on the doorknob. He turned back slowly, his professional composure finally cracking. The Long marriage? The one he'd been fighting for years? The one the world whispered was a union with the "old, ugly Mr. Sinclair"?

Donovan was looking out the window, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

No one humiliated him. No one.

This woman, whoever she was, had just made the biggest mistake of her life. He was going to own her.