The Ruthless CEO's Forgotten Amnesiac Wife

The Maybach slowed as it approached massive wrought-iron gates.

The gates swung open, revealing the sprawling, heavily fortified grounds of the Delaney estate in Beverly Hills.

The car glided up the long driveway and stopped in front of the main house.

A line of maids and a head butler stood in perfect formation on the marble steps.

The car door opened.

Grace stared at the blinding wealth. The marble columns. The manicured lawns. Her stomach twisted with a sickening realization of how out of her depth she was.

Bryce stepped out first.

He ignored the staff. He turned around and held his large, scarred hand out to Grace.

Grace looked at his hand.

She ignored it. She slid across the leather seat and jumped out of the car herself, putting three feet of distance between them.

Bryce's hand hung in the empty air.

His knuckles turned white. He slowly lowered his arm, his face hardening back into stone.

The butler stepped forward to take the boys inside.

The boys grabbed fistfuls of Grace's cheap shirt.

"She stays with us!" the eldest boy yelled. "She is our nanny now!"

Bryce looked down at his sons. His eyes were pitch black.

"Go wash up. Now," Bryce commanded. The tone left zero room for negotiation.

The boys flinched. They let go of Grace's shirt and dragged their feet up the stairs, looking back at her with desperate eyes.

The heavy oak doors closed.

Grace and Bryce were left alone in the massive, echoing foyer.

The silence was thick and suffocating.

Bryce tilted his head toward the sweeping staircase. "My study."

Grace hesitated, her muscles tight, but she followed him up the stairs.

They walked into a massive room smelling of old paper and expensive cigars.

Bryce walked in and pushed the heavy door shut.

Click.

The sound of the lock engaging echoed like a gunshot.

Grace's spine snapped straight. She took a fast step backward until her shoulder blades hit the wood of the door.

Bryce walked over to a crystal decanter. He poured two glasses of amber whiskey.

He held one out to her.

"Let me out," Grace said, her voice shaking with anger. "I have an audition. I am already late."

Bryce didn't put the glass down.

His dark eyes slowly dragged over her face. He memorized every curve, every breath she took.

"October 14th," Bryce said softly. "A rooftop in Brooklyn. It was raining."

Grace's eyebrows pulled together.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped.

Bryce set the glass down hard.

He crossed the room in three long strides.

He planted his hands flat against the door, trapping Grace between his arms.

His chest brushed against hers. The heat coming off his body was scorching.

He lowered his head. His lips hovered an inch from her ear.

"Gracie," he whispered.

The nickname sent a violent shudder through Grace's body.

But it wasn't a shudder of recognition. It was pure, visceral revulsion.

She shoved both her hands hard against his chest.

"Get off me, you psycho!" she screamed.

Bryce stumbled back a step.

The physical rejection hit him harder than a bullet.

He stared at her angry, disgusted eyes. She really didn't remember. The girl who used to look at him like he hung the stars now looked at him like a predator.

Bryce closed his eyes. He inhaled sharply, burying the agony deep in his chest.

When he opened his eyes, the broken man was gone. The ruthless billionaire was back.

He walked behind his massive mahogany desk and sat down.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

He threw the papers onto the center of the desk. The heavy thud echoed in the room.

"My sons need a mother figure," Bryce said, his voice stripped of all emotion. "You need money and resources."

Grace frowned. She pushed off the door and walked slowly toward the desk.

She looked down at the bold black letters printed across the top page.

Prenuptial Agreement.