Trapped In His Cruel Six Year Contract

Essie opened her eyes on the massive velvet bed. The morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows was blinding. She squinted, her hand instinctively reaching out across the mattress. The high-thread-count sheets on the other side were cold. The man had been gone for hours. Essie pushed the heavy down comforter off her body. The cold air in the penthouse hit her bare skin, making her shiver violently. She picked up the silk robe scattered on the thick rug and wrapped it tightly around herself, tying the belt with numb fingers. Her bare feet stepped onto the freezing marble floor. She walked toward the massive, double walnut doors of the bedroom. She grabbed the cold brass handle, pressed it down, and pushed the door open. Essie walked down the hallway and stepped into the expansive living room. The morning sun spilled across the Persian rug, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She immediately saw Kieran Cortez standing by the panoramic windows. His back was to her. He raised his hands, casually adjusting the platinum cufflinks on his custom-tailored suit. He turned around. His deep, ruthless eyes swept over Essie. There was absolutely zero warmth in his gaze. Kieran walked over to the massive marble kitchen island. He casually set a cup of black coffee on the counter. He picked up a freshly delivered print copy of the New York Times and tossed it onto the marble surface right in front of Essie. The thick newspaper landed with a heavy thud, sliding until its edge touched her fingertips. Essie looked down. Her eyes locked onto the color photograph taking up half the front page. It was a picture of Kieran standing next to a stunning blonde socialite. The bold headline screamed: MEDIA MOGUL ENGAGED TO WATTS HEIRESS. Essie's heart violently contracted. Her lungs forgot how to pull in air. She forced her head up. She strained every muscle in her face to maintain a neutral expression, pulling her lips into a stiff, unnatural smile. "Congratulations," Essie said softly. Her voice shook. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Since you are getting married..." Essie started, her voice barely a whisper. "Does that mean... our six-year contract... is it over?" Kieran's hand, which was reaching for his coffee cup, stopped in mid-air. The dark liquid rippled inside the porcelain. He slowly lowered the cup. The ceramic hit the marble with a sharp, piercing clink. A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth tightened into a cruel line. Kieran took a step forward. His expensive leather shoes clicked against the floor, each sound carrying a suffocating weight as he closed the distance between them. He backed Essie right up against the edge of the island. He planted both his hands on the marble on either side of her hips, completely trapping her in his shadow. Kieran lowered his head. His hot breath washed over her ear. "You don't have the right to call this off," he whispered. Essie brought her hands up, pressing them flat against his rock-hard chest. She pushed, trying desperately to shove him away. Kieran's hand shot out. He grabbed her slender wrist, his grip so crushing she felt like her bones were going to snap. "The neurological repair trial at New York-Presbyterian," Kieran said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "It would be a shame if Charles lost his spot." All the blood drained from Essie's face. Her pupils dilated in pure, unfiltered terror. Kieran watched the fear consume her features. A look of dark satisfaction crossed his face. He lowered his head and bit down hard on her bottom lip. Essie gasped as the sharp pain hit, followed instantly by the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Kieran let go of her wrist. He stepped back and calmly straightened his tie. "Wait for me here at eight o'clock tonight," he ordered. He turned around and walked out the front door without looking back. The heavy door clicked shut. Essie's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the freezing marble floor, her back sliding down the side of the island, staring blankly at the newspaper above her.