Rejecting The Billionaire's Contract Marriage

Carra Roach smoothed the lapels of Vance Sterling's custom Armani suit. Her fingers brushed over the expensive fabric, making sure not a single speck of dust ruined his perfect image. The backstage hallway of the TCL Chinese Theatre smelled of hairspray and nervous sweat. Vance looked down at her. He flashed that signature, million-dollar smile that had plastered him across every billboard in Los Angeles. "I'll make this quick," Vance murmured, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Steak and wine at the apartment after this. Just you and me." "Go knock them dead," Carra said, stepping back. Two massive security guards pushed open the double doors. The deafening roar of fans and the blinding flash of cameras instantly flooded the dim hallway. Vance turned and walked into the light, leaving Carra in the shadows. She exhaled a long breath. Her shoulders dropped. She pulled out her tablet, her eyes scanning the list of media outlets waiting on the red carpet. She was in full publicist mode. Then, the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop. A sharp, icy scent of cedarwood cologne hit her senses. It was expensive. Dominating. Carra turned around, the heavy air pressing against her lungs. She bumped into a solid, impeccably tailored chest. Jory Elliott had silently closed the distance while she was distracted by her tablet, his towering frame casting a long, broad shadow that swallowed her own. She snapped her head up. Her breath hitched. She met a pair of eyes so dark and dead they made her chest tight. He didn't say hello. He didn't introduce himself. Jory raised his hand and shoved an unlocked black smartphone directly into her line of sight. The screen was glaringly bright. Carra blinked against the glare. It was a high-definition photo. Vance Sterling. He was standing on the balcony of the Beverly Hills Hotel, his hands tangled in the hair of a blonde woman. Their mouths were crushed together. Carra's brain flatlined. Her fingers went numb. The tablet slipped from her grasp, plummeting toward the marble floor. Jory's hand shot out. He caught the heavy tablet inches from the ground, silencing the crash that would have alerted the front desk. Carra stumbled backward. Her back hit the cold wall. "This is AI," Carra whispered, her voice shaking violently. "You're from a rival agency. You faked this to ruin his premiere." Jory let out a low, cruel sound that barely qualified as a laugh. He swiped his thumb across the screen. The next photo showed Vance and the blonde walking away, entering a private venue. Carra stopped breathing. There, on the back of Vance's neck, was the tiny, jagged crown tattoo. He had gotten it three years ago. She had held his hand while the needle inked his skin. The fake AI excuse crumbled into dust. "The Viper Room. West Hollywood," Jory said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the narrow space. "That is where they are meeting tonight." Carra turned her head toward the cracked double doors. Through the gap, she could see Vance on the red carpet. He was staring deeply into a camera lens, talking about how much he valued loyalty in a relationship. A violent wave of nausea slammed into her. Carra slapped a hand over her mouth. Her stomach muscles cramped so hard she had to bend forward. Bile burned the back of her throat. Jory reached into his tailored jacket. He pulled out a matte black card and held it out to her. It had no name, no title. Just the silver, embossed logo of the EK Group. Carra smacked his hand away. The card fluttered to the floor. She turned and sprinted toward the red carpet. She was going to rip the microphone from Vance's hand. She was going to scream. Two heavily built theater security guards immediately crossed their arms, forming a human wall in front of the doors. "Move!" Carra yelled, shoving at their solid chests. They didn't budge. Jory stepped up behind her. He didn't speak. His assistant materialized from the shadows, smoothly presenting a matte black titanium card engraved with the theater's highest-tier sponsor insignia. The guards took one look at the EK Group crest, realized exactly whose path they were blocking, and instantly stepped aside, bowing their heads in deference. Carra didn't care who this man was or why he had such terrifying authority. She spun around and ran toward the backstage exit. Her high heels hit a slick patch of marble. Her ankle twisted. She pitched forward, bracing for the impact of the hard floor. A hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. Jory yanked her backward, steadying her against his hard chest. The heat radiating from his palm was scorching. "Do you want to see it with your own eyes?" Jory asked, looking down at her pathetic state. Carra ripped her arm out of his grip. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she refused to let a single tear fall. She shoved the heavy metal fire door open. The cold Los Angeles night wind slapped her in the face. She pulled out her own phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped it once before dialing Vance's driver. "Where is he going after the premiere?" Carra demanded the second the line connected. "Uh, Miss Roach," the driver stammered, the guilt thick in his voice. "Mr. Sterling has an exclusive interview here at the theater. He won't be back at the apartment tonight." The lie was the final nail in the coffin. Carra ended the call. She didn't say goodbye. She ran onto Hollywood Boulevard, ignoring the rain starting to spit from the sky. She threw her arm out and flagged down a passing yellow cab. She yanked the door open and threw herself into the backseat. "The Viper Room," Carra choked out to the driver. "Now."