The Runaway Heiress's Accidental Contract Marriage

The heavy thud of the landing gear hitting the tarmac jolted Annabelle awake. She pulled off her sleep mask, blinking against the harsh cabin lights.

An hour later, she dragged her suitcase out of the JFK terminal. The New York sky was a bruised, angry gray. A vicious gust of wind whipped her hair across her face, chilling her to the bone.

She pulled up the address on her phone. It was a cheap rental in Brooklyn she had found online. She hauled her luggage down into the subway, navigating the confusing train lines until she emerged into a gritty neighborhood.

The apartment building looked like it was rotting. The hallway smelled strongly of stale beer and damp mildew. The floorboards groaned loudly under her sneakers.

She knocked on door 4B. The door swung open to reveal Burt Kowalski, the landlord. He had a massive beer belly straining against a stained undershirt. His greasy eyes immediately dropped to her chest, lingering there before moving down to her legs.

Annabelle's skin crawled. She crossed her arms defensively. "I'm here to see the room."

Burt smirked, revealing yellow teeth. He pushed open a battered wooden door. "In here, sweetheart."

Annabelle stepped inside. The room was the size of a closet. Peeling wallpaper hung in strips, and a flickering neon sign from the liquor store across the street bathed the dirty mattress in a harsh red glow. It felt like a prison cell.

Before she could speak, the door across the hall opened. A man in a dirty tank top stepped out. He held a lit cigarette. He looked at Annabelle, his eyes stripping her bare.

"New neighbor?" the man, Vic, asked, taking a drag. He stepped entirely too close, blowing a cloud of smoke into her face. "You single, honey?"

Annabelle's stomach violently turned over. Her fight-or-flight instincts screamed. She gripped the handle of her suitcase so hard her palm throbbed.

"I'm not renting this," she said coldly.

She spun around and walked out.

"Hey! You wasting my time, you stuck-up bitch?" Burt yelled after her.

Annabelle didn't look back. She practically ran down the stairs, her suitcase bouncing and crashing against the steps. She burst out the front doors and sucked in a lungful of fresh air.

Suddenly, the sky broke open. A torrential downpour hit the pavement like bullets.

Within seconds, Annabelle's trench coat was soaked through. The icy rain plastered her hair to her skull and filled her shoes. She dragged her heavy suitcase down the sidewalk, her vision blurred by the water.

She walked for what felt like miles, crossing into Manhattan, desperate for shelter. She remembered a high-end lounge on the Upper East Side that a fellow artist had mentioned was looking for coat-check staff. It was a desperate shot, but she needed immediate cash and a roof over her head.

Finally, she spotted a wide canvas awning jutting out from the establishment. She practically threw herself under it, shivering violently.

She pressed her back against the brick wall. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, she could see the warm, amber lighting of the lounge. People in tailored suits and designer dresses sipped champagne. The contrast between their luxury and her pathetic, dripping state made her throat ache with humiliation.

She tried to push her bulky suitcase behind a potted plant to hide it.

The heavy, carved wooden door of the lounge swung open. A wave of warm air, smelling of vanilla and expensive bourbon, washed over her.

A young woman in a stunning silk evening gown stepped out. A valet immediately opened a large black umbrella over her head. The woman paused, adjusting her diamond earrings.

She turned her head. Her dark eyes landed on Annabelle. She frowned, tilting her head as if trying to solve a puzzle.

Annabelle turned her face away, her cheeks burning with shame.

"Anna? Annabelle Jenkins?"

Annabelle froze. She slowly turned back.

The woman stepped out from under the valet's umbrella, ignoring the rain hitting her silk dress. She had a bright, beautiful face. It was Gabriella Barrera. They had met a year ago at an elite underground racing club in Europe. Annabelle had been a driver-a reckless, adrenaline-fueled rebellion against her suffocating family expectations before she finally abandoned that dangerous life to hide in the quiet world of art. Gabriella had been a spectator. They had bonded over cheap beer and fast cars.

"Gabriella?" Annabelle whispered, her teeth chattering.

"Oh my god, what are you doing out here? You're freezing!" Gabriella gasped.

"I... I needed a job. I thought they might be hiring," Annabelle admitted, her voice trembling against the cold.

Before Annabelle could protest, Gabriella grabbed her suitcase and shoved it at the confused valet. Then, she wrapped her warm hands around Annabelle's freezing arm.

"Come inside, right now," Gabriella ordered, pulling her toward the door.

"No, I'm dripping wet, I can't-"

"I don't care," Gabriella said fiercely. She dragged Annabelle through the doors.

The sudden heat of the lounge enveloped Annabelle. A waiter rushed over with a thick, heated towel. Gabriella draped it over Annabelle's shoulders and led her toward a private VIP room in the back, pulling her out of the storm and altering the course of her life forever.