The Tycoon's Unwanted Contract Wife

Three days passed.

Gregorio hadn't returned to the penthouse. He used work as an excuse, sleeping at the corporate suites.

Annabel sat on the living room sofa, staring at the blank television screen.

Her phone buzzed. It was an encrypted message from Kiersten.

Come to my studio in Chelsea immediately. We need to fulfill the 'additional terms' of our agreement.

A second message arrived a second later. It was a photo of her mother's room at Oakwood, taken from the hallway outside the restricted wing. Below it was a single chilling line: The check hasn't cleared yet. I can still stop it.

Annabel's stomach twisted into a hard knot. Gregorio had already secured her mother's medical care, but he knew nothing of the hidden loan sharks Kiersten's money was supposed to silence. If Kiersten canceled the check before it cleared, those men would find her mother no matter how thick the walls of Oakwood were. She had no leverage that could stop that.

She went to the closet, pulled on a long trench coat, and ordered a car.

The studio was located in a massive, industrial loft in Chelsea.

Annabel pushed the heavy metal door open. The air inside was thick and suffocating. It smelled strongly of oil paint, turpentine, and a heavy, distinct sandalwood incense.

Kiersten stood in the center of the room, wearing a paint-splattered apron. A massive, blank canvas sat on an easel in front of her.

When she saw Annabel, Kiersten's face morphed into an expression of tortured artistic agony.

"I have to finish my final avant-garde project," Kiersten sighed, touching her forehead. "Before I retire to raise the baby. I need you to model for me."

"I'm not doing that," Annabel said immediately, backing toward the door.

Kiersten's eyes hardened. "Then I cancel the check. The men who want your father's blood will find your mother. Oakwood's security won't stop them if the debt isn't paid."

Annabel stopped. Her breathing turned shallow.

Kiersten walked over to a table and picked up a legal document. "It's a Non-Disclosure Agreement. The painting will only be shown in private, elite circles in Europe. It will never be published. If I leak it, I owe you one hundred million dollars."

Annabel read the penalty clause. She knew, deep down, that this piece of paper was practically worthless in the real world. Against Kiersten's army of corporate lawyers, she had absolutely zero chance of ever enforcing a hundred-million-dollar penalty. But with her mother's safety hanging by a thread, this hollow document was the only fragile straw she could grasp. The massive financial threat gave her a desperate, false sense of security. She slowly nodded.

"Take off your clothes," Kiersten ordered. "Stand under the spotlight."

Annabel's fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her trench coat. She let it fall to the floor. She stripped off her sweater and her jeans.

The cold air of the loft hit her bare skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, crossing her arms over her chest. Tears of pure humiliation leaked from her eyes.

Kiersten stared at Annabel's body. She saw the fading bruises Gregorio had left on her skin. A flash of psychotic jealousy contorted Kiersten's face.

"Drop your arms," Kiersten snapped. "Arch your back. Look at the floor."

For three agonizing hours, Annabel stood frozen under the harsh lights. Every stroke of Kiersten's brush felt like a physical violation, stripping away her dignity layer by layer.

Finally, Kiersten threw her brush down. She grabbed a large black cloth and threw it over the canvas, hiding the painting completely.

"We're done," Kiersten said, wiping her hands. "You were a perfect muse."

Annabel scrambled to put her clothes back on. She didn't say a word. She grabbed her bag and practically ran out of the loft, desperate to escape the cloying smell of sandalwood.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Kiersten pulled out her phone.

She dialed a number.

"Page Six?" Kiersten smiled, her voice dripping with malice. "I have an exclusive for you. A very... revealing portrait of the new Mrs. Harrison."

She walked over to the easel and pulled the black cloth down.

The painting wasn't art. It was a grotesque, hyper-sexualized distortion of Annabel's body, designed to make her look completely depraved.

The trap was set.