The Dying Billionaire's Secret Contract Wife

Hardin's gaze was heavy, a physical weight on her skin. He wasn't sneering anymore. His lips were parted slightly, his breathing shallow.

Elsie didn't stop. But she didn't continue undressing, either. Instead, she reached out.

She grabbed the lapels of his black shirt.

Hardin stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"Verification," Elsie whispered.

She yanked him forward. He stumbled a step, caught off guard by her strength. They were chest to chest now. She could feel the heat radiating off him.

Her hands slid up his chest, flattening over his heart.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was strong. Steady. Powerful.

"Funny," Elsie murmured, looking up into his eyes. "For a heart that's failing, it sure beats hard."

Hardin's panic was instant. He realized his mistake. He had let her get too close. He had let her touch the engine that was supposed to be broken.

Reaction overrode logic. He grabbed her shoulders. His grip was bruising.

"Get off!"

He shoved her. Hard.

Elsie flew backward. Her hip slammed into the edge of the heavy oak desk. Pain exploded in her side, sharp and blinding. She gasped, doubling over.

Hardin froze. He looked at his hands, then at her wincing form. Horror flashed across his face. He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out. "Elsie, I-"

He stopped himself. He couldn't care. He couldn't be the husband who checked for bruises. He had to be the monster.

He clenched his fist and dropped it to his side, leaning back against the wall as he gasped for air, clutching his chest. "Clause Four," he choked out, his voice strained. "No physical contact. You breached the contract."

Elsie straightened up, rubbing her hip. She saw him leaning against the wall, pale and sweating. "I breached the contract? You just assaulted me!"

"I protected... my health," Hardin lied, his voice ragged. "Stress... is fatal. Get out. Now."

Elsie rubbed her hip, wincing. Her eyes were wet, but not with tears. With shock.

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

"You're a maniac," she said breathlessly. "You're not just sick, Hardin. You're broken."

She saw the checkbook on the desk. The check he had written to make her leave.

She picked it up.

"Here's what I think of your money," she said.

She ripped the check in half. Then in quarters. She threw the confetti of paper at his feet.

"I'm staying," she said. "Not for the money. But because I signed a contract. And unlike you, I keep my word. I'll wait until you die, Hardin. But don't expect me to mourn."

She turned and limped out of the room.

Hardin watched her go. When the door slammed, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

He slumped against the desk, burying his face in his hands. His heart-his perfectly healthy, surgically repaired heart-was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Dammit," he whispered.

The shadows in the corner of the room shifted. Silas stepped out. He had been there the whole time, silent as a ghost.

"That was... messy," Silas observed dryly.

"She touched me," Hardin said, his voice ragged. "She felt it, Silas. She felt the heartbeat."

"She thinks it was adrenaline," Silas said soothingly. "Or anger. She doesn't know about Zurich. But you have to be more careful. If you shove her again, she might not just tear up a check. She might tear up the NDA."

"I didn't mean to shove her," Hardin said, looking at the torn paper. "She was just... too close."

"We need to keep her closer," Silas countered. "We found chatter on the dark web. Jed is looking for leverage. If we push her away, she becomes a target. If we keep her here, under the guise of this marriage, she's safe."

Hardin looked at the door where Elsie had exited.

"She hates me," Hardin said.

"Good," Silas said. "Hate is safer than love. Especially for her."

Elsie lay in the massive guest bed, staring at the ceiling. Her hip throbbed. A bruise was already forming, a dark purple bloom on her pale skin.

She pulled the duvet up to her chin. The house was quiet, but it felt alive. Watching her.

She picked up her phone. No messages from Jed. The lawyer had done his job.

But there was a text from Debbi.

How is he? Is he a crypt keeper?

Elsie typed back: He's a nightmare. But he's alive.

She deleted it.

She typed: He's just a job.

She sent it.

She rolled over, closing her eyes. But every time she drifted off, she felt the phantom sensation of Hardin's heartbeat against her palm. It didn't feel like a dying heart. It felt like a drum of war.

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