The Billionaire's Cruel Secret Contract Marriage Deal

The smell of stale beer and half-digested pizza was the first thing to assault Imogen's senses. She was on her knees, the rough fibers of the cheap synthetic rug biting into her skin through the holes in her jeans. Her hand moved in a mechanical rhythm, scrubbing at the stain Tyler had left behind after his party. The bleach fumes made her eyes water, but she didn't blink. If she stopped, the stain would set. If the stain set, Linda would deduct the cleaning fee from the imaginary ledger she kept of Imogen's existence. "You missed a spot." Imogen didn't look up. She knew that voice. It was the voice of a woman who had turned psychological warfare into a domestic art form. Linda descended the stairs, the hem of her silk robe brushing against the banister. She stepped over Imogen as if she were a piece of furniture, or perhaps a pet that had soiled the carpet. "I'm getting it, Linda," Imogen said, her voice hoarse. "Don't take that tone with me. Not after what we've done for you." Linda stopped by the bucket of gray, soapy water Imogen had placed beside her. With a casual flick of her slippered foot, she tipped it over. The water sloshed out, dark and foul, soaking instantly into the knees of Imogen's only white button-down shirt-the one she had ironed three times for her interview at the architecture firm tomorrow. Imogen froze. The cold, dirty water seeped through the fabric, chilling her skin. She watched the puddle expand, swallowing her hope for a clean appearance in the morning. "Oops," Linda said, her voice devoid of apology. She dropped a crumpled envelope onto Imogen's wet shoulder. "Electric bill is due. Since you're so eager to work, you can pay for the lights you use to draw those stupid pictures all night." Imogen's hands curled into fists, dripping with suds. She stood up, her knees cracking. "I paid the electric bill last week. And the water. And the internet." "Interest, Imogen. It's called interest." Rick walked in then. He was holding a fresh beer, though it was barely noon on a Tuesday. His eyes were glassy, scanning the room with the predatory gaze of a man looking for a reason to explode. "Chad called," Rick said, taking a swig. He burped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He's willing to drop the restraining order if you agree to dinner. Said he's got five grand for us if we convince you to stop being a stubborn bitch." Imogen felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm not seeing Chad. He broke my ribs, Rick." "He said he was sorry," Rick shrugged. "Besides, five grand covers a lot of your debt to this family." "I don't owe you anything!" Imogen's voice cracked, sharp and sudden. She reached into her back pocket, her wet fingers fumbling with her phone. She pulled up her banking app, thrusting the screen toward them. "Look! Look at the transfers! I have paid you back for every meal, every night in that closet you call a room, every textbook since I was sixteen!" Linda's eyes narrowed. She didn't look at the screen; she looked at the defiance in Imogen's posture. She hated defiance. She snatched at the phone. "Give me that!" Imogen twisted her body, shielding the device. Linda's momentum carried her forward, her hip checking the corner of the heavy oak coffee table. She let out a shriek that was too loud, too theatrical. "She hit me! Rick, she hit me!" The air in the room shifted. It became heavy, charged with violence. Rick set his beer down on the mantel with a terrifying calmness. He picked up the empty bottle next to it. Smash. The glass shattered against the wall inches from Imogen's head. Shards rained down, one slicing a thin, hot line across her calf. Imogen didn't flinch. She had learned long ago that flinching only excited him. "You ungrateful little parasite," Rick growled, stepping over the broken glass. "After we took you in? After nobody else wanted you?" He raised his hand. Imogen saw the palm, calloused and wide. She braced herself, tensing her neck muscles, but the impact still rattled her teeth. The slap echoed like a gunshot. Her head snapped to the side. A high-pitched ringing filled her left ear. She tasted copper. "Get out," Rick breathed, his chest heaving. "Get out before I kill you." Imogen looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the fear behind his anger-the fear of losing his punching bag, his paycheck. She spat blood onto the carpet she had just scrubbed. "Gladly." She turned and sprinted toward the utility closet that doubled as her bedroom. She grabbed the handle of the suitcase she kept packed-always packed-hidden behind the vacuum cleaner. "You walk out that door," Rick shouted from the living room, "and you don't get your papers! You hear me? I'll burn your passport! I'll burn your birth certificate!" Imogen froze at the front door. Her hand hovered over the knob. Without those papers, she was a ghost. She couldn't get a lease, couldn't get a verified job, couldn't leave the state. But then she heard Rick's heavy boots stomping down the hallway. Survival instinct overrode logic. Imogen yanked the door open and threw herself into the night. The rain hit her like a physical blow, icy and relentless. She dragged her suitcase over the threshold, the wheels catching on the uneven concrete of the porch. "Don't come crawling back!" Rick screamed into the storm. Imogen didn't look back. She ran. She ran until her lungs burned like she had swallowed fire. She ran until the suburban houses blurred into wet streaks of light. She ran until she reached the bus stop on the corner of 4th and Main, collapsing under the flimsy plastic shelter. She was shaking. Not just from the cold, but from the adrenaline crash. Her cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She knelt on the wet pavement and unzipped her suitcase, her hands trembling so badly she could barely work the zipper. She tore through the clothes-the worn sweaters, the jeans. Empty. The inner pocket where she kept her documents was empty. Linda. Linda must have found them while Imogen was at her morning shift. A sob trapped in her throat, choking her. She sat back on her heels, the rain lashing at her legs. She had forty dollars in her pocket. No ID. No home. And a face that was starting to swell. Her phone buzzed. A text from Chad. Rick says you're free. I'm coming to get you, baby. Imogen threw the phone into her bag as if it were toxic. She looked out at the dark, slick street. She wasn't going back. She would die in this gutter before she went back.