UNDERCOVER VOWS WITH THE SECRET DON

Lysander Thorne people called him the ruthless Don of the Thorne Syndicate wasn't easily surprised. He'd spent the last three years running a global crime empire, interrogating cartel leaders, and dodging special ops teams. So, undercover at some second-rate tech firm, hunting down a digital informant, he expected danger. Maybe a squad of assassins. But having a small, chaotic woman in a shapeless sweater tackle him to the floor? That was definitely new.

Now she was looking up at him, half-buried under his weight, pitching something so strange it took him a second to process. "You want a marriage contract," Lysander repeated, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. "You're proposing to me. Here. Right now. On the floor. Next to... a turkey sandwich."

"Technically, I'm offering a mutually beneficial corporate merger with a personal twist," she said, and she didn't seem remotely bothered by the fact that a dangerous man had her pinned. She squirmed, trying to free her arms from her sweater sleeves. "It's hard to negotiate when you're sitting on me. Could you please get up?"

Lysander watched her for a moment, eyes sharp, searching for any sign she was bluffing. Just annoyance. Wide hazel eyes, oversized glasses, not a flicker of fear. Only the kind of frustration reserved for ill-fitting knitwear.

Sheer audacity like this? He almost didn't know what to do with it. He pushed himself up, brushed imaginary dust from his pants, and reached down to her.

She took his hand her grip was soft, her hand vanishing between his fingers. He barely used any strength, but she still stumbled against his chest before getting her feet under her again.

"Alright, corporate gremlin," Lysander said-arms crossed, cool as ever, but he didn't take his eyes off her. "You've got two minutes. Start talking before I call the cops and tie you to a chair."

She drew herself up as much as possible in that knitted monstrosity. "The name is Vesper. Vesper Vance." Her voice was full of forced pride. She unplugged her mechanical keyboard and a flash drive, then stuffed them into a battered denim backpack. "And you don't want to call the police. You're obviously a highly trained operative who hit hard times. I mean, look at you."

He arched a brow. "Look at me?"

"Yeah. You're working night security. You drop two armed thugs like it's light housework, but you're on minimum wage. Fourteen fifty an hour." She jabbed a finger in his direction. "That means student debt, bad credit, or a gambling problem. Maybe all three. Hey, I'm not judging. The hustle's real."

Lysander had to fight a smile. If Nikolai, his underboss, were here, he'd probably have shot her for slandering the Thorne Syndicate's finances. But this was too ridiculous not to enjoy.

"Go on," he said, hiding his amusement.

"I, on the other hand, have a pile of cash but a major problem," she said, pacing across the floor her sneakers squeaked with every step. "My uncles? Greedy, manipulative, and hell-bent on marrying me off so they can snatch my trust fund. But if I get legally married to someone else and change my name, their claim vanishes. They can't touch me or the money. Simple."

She stopped in front of him, eyes bright with a wild kind of determination.

"My offer: Six-month marriage contract. We get the paperwork tomorrow. I become Vesper Thorne, or whatever you want my last name to be. In return, I pay off your debts, give you a ten grand monthly stipend, and buy you deli sandwiches for life. All you have to do is pretend to be my husband, crash at my place, and keep my family's goons off my back. Deal?"

Lysander just stared. He'd gotten million-dollar offers from politicians, territory from rival families hell, even assassination contracts. But he'd never been propositioned by a pint-sized lunatic offering to be his sugar mommy so she could dodge her evil relatives.

Then both their phones went nuts, a piercing alert slicing through the tension.

Vesper fished out her phone screen blaring red: GPS TRACER DETECTED WITHIN 500 METERS. ASSET LOCATION COMPROMISED.

Her face went pale. "Oh, hell. They found me. Their security team is already in the lobby checking IDs."

She looked up at him, her confidence wavering, sweater swallowing her whole, like a kid hiding from monsters under a blanket.

Lysander's eyes hardened. He despised greedy vultures who hunted their own for profit. And, honestly? He needed a solid, invisible cover in this city while he dismantled the Marcone cartel. Marrying a rogue tech heiress? No one would see that coming.

"Is it a deal or not, night guard?" Vesper said, glancing at her phone, her bravado stretched thin. "If not, tell me now I've got about twenty seconds to hurl myself out a bathroom window."

Lysander stepped closer, his frame blocking out the server room's cold light. A slow, lethal smile tugged at his lips.

He whipped out a black pen, grabbed a blank incident report from the desk, and scrawled his name with elegant finality: Lysander Thorne. He slid the paper to her.

"Sign it, corporate gremlin," Lysander said, voice low and even. "Six months. But let's be clear, wife: you have no idea what kind of animal you just climbed in bed with."

Vesper didn't hesitate she signed right beside him, her eyes shining.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

He leaned in, his presence swallowing her whole. "Try to keep up."

Before she could protest, he scooped her up just threw her casually over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

"Hey! Put me down! I can walk!" Vesper shrieked, kicking lightly as he headed for the rear exit.

"Your shoes are loud, your sweater is a liability, and we have paperwork to file," Lysander said, smirking. He patted her thigh to settle her down. "Hang on tight, sweetheart. We're out of here."