Oops! The Escort I Dragged to the Altar is a Ruthless CEO

Serena's POV

The car door slammed shut behind me, sealing us in silence.

I collapsed against the leather seat, my wedding dress—a mountain of silk and tulle—bunched around my legs like tangled bedsheets. The partition between us and the driver was already up. Smart man. He'd seen enough brides flee in his time to know when not to ask questions.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Drive," I commanded, my voice cracking on the single syllable. "Anywhere. Just go."

The engine hummed to life. Through the tinted windows, I could make out the chaos we'd left behind—guests flooding the cathedral steps, my mother's unmistakable silhouette gesturing wildly, Marcus's father turning an alarming shade of crimson.

Good. Let them watch me leave.

I reached down and yanked at my heels, each step an agony I'd been ignoring for hours. The Jimmy Choos hit the floorboard with twin thuds. I massaged my swollen ankles, grimacing at the tender spots where the straps had bitten into my skin.

"Are you injured?"

I glanced up sharply. The stranger—my husband—sat across from me, perfectly composed. His dark suit was barely rumpled, his tie still knotted at his throat. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a board meeting, not a hasty altar-side wedding.

The audacity.

"I'm fine." I snapped the words like I was issuing a reprimand. "And you can stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're amused."

One corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly. Barely a twitch. But I caught it.

"Your feet are bleeding."

I looked down. He was right—a thin line of red traced my left heel where the strap had chafed through the skin. Wonderful. Add it to the list of casualties from this disaster of a day.

"It's nothing." I grabbed a tissue from my clutch and dabbed at the wound, refusing to meet his eyes. "What I want to discuss is your performance."

"My performance."

"Don't play dumb. I paid for a service, and frankly—" I gestured at him with the bloodied tissue. "—you barely cracked a smile up there. You looked like you were repo-ing a car, not marrying your wife."

He tilted his head slightly. Still watching. Still unreadable.

"The agency said charming and attentive. You were about as warm as a foreclosure notice."

"Is that what you wanted? Warm?"

"I wanted someone who could sell it." I shoved the tissue back into my clutch and yanked out a small notepad

—the one I'd used to draft my speech, the one that now held nothing but angry scribbles. "Someone who didn't make me look like I was marrying my own executioner."

I began to write, my handwriting jagged and rushed. Monthly retainer. Public appearances only. No personal questions. No touching outside of designated events. Weekly hours to be negotiated.

"The agency sent the wrong man," I muttered, scratching out a line and rewriting it. "I'll be filing a complaint. And deducting your tip."

I ripped the page free, fished several hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, and slapped both onto the leather seat between us.

"Sign it."

The bills fluttered. The paper curled at the edges. The stranger—Julian, according to the text confirmation I'd received—didn't move.

"Your terms are very specific."

"I'm a specific person."

He reached forward, his fingers long and tanned against the white paper. He lifted the note, and something shifted in the air—something heavy and electric. His gaze traveled slowly from the handwritten words to my face.

Then lower.

To the red mark the wedding dress had pressed into my collarbone. The skin there was raw, abraded by lace that cost more than most people's rent. I resisted the urge to touch it. To cover myself.

"Ms. Serena." His voice was low. Rumbling. Like the engine purring beneath us. "Do I look like someone who needs your money?"

I blinked.

He held up the bills, letting them catch the dim light filtering through tinted windows. Then he folded them— once, twice—and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"A retainer implies I work for you."

"You do work for me. I'm the client."

"Are you?"

The question landed somewhere between my ribs. I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how small the car had become. How close he was. How the scent of him—cedar and pine and something darker—had wrapped around me like smoke.

"I'm the one paying," I said firmly. "So yes. I give orders. You follow them."

"Interesting."

He unfolded the contract. Read it again, his expression unreadable. Then he reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a pen—black and heavy, with a gold clip. Not a cheap pen. Not something an escort would carry.

He signed his name at the bottom of the page. One fluid motion. No hesitation.

I exhaled, unaware I'd been holding my breath.

"Done," I said, reaching for the paper. "Now—"

He moved.

One moment he was leaning back against the seat. The next he was above me, close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his dark irises caught the passing streetlights like struck flint.

I pressed back into the leather, my pulse skittering. "What are you—"

His hand found my collarbone. Not pressing. Just resting. Warm and heavy against the raw skin.

"You forgot to add one clause."

"I—what?"

His thumb traced the edge of my wedding dress. Followed the neckline. Where silk met flesh.

"Physical contact outside of events." His voice dropped lower. Rougher. "You banned it completely. But you forgot to account for this."

The paper appeared between his fingers—the signed contract. He slid it down, down, down, until the folded edge tucked neatly into the neckline of my dress. The cool paper pressed against the swell of my breast.

I couldn't breathe.

"The terms are agreed upon," he murmured. "Signed by both parties."

His face hovered inches from mine. I could feel his breath. Could count his eyelashes if I tried.

"I always honor my contracts."

The car hit a bump. I jolted forward—and his palm caught my waist, steadying me. Holding me. His fingers splayed across the silk of my gown like he owned it.

Like he owned me.

I opened my mouth to protest. To reassert control. To remind him who was paying whom.

But then his lips brushed my ear, and his low voice swallowed every thought I'd ever had.

"Let's discuss your tip."