Lena stared at him. “Why?”
She didn’t. The ninth month, they kissed.
The enemy, as it turned out, was not biology. contract marriage with the devil billionaire
The first month was a study in silent warfare. Dorian’s penthouse was all glass and steel—beautiful, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth. They slept in separate wings. He had a chef; she made toast in the dark at 3:00 AM because old habits die hard. He left for work before dawn; she wandered his library, trailing fingers over first editions that cost more than her life.
“I know.” He kissed her again. “I’m a terrible contract lawyer.” Lena stared at him
“Go away,” she said.
“Calling the head of cardiothoracic surgery at Mass General. He owes me a favor.” His voice was flat, efficient, but his hands—those hands that signed billion-dollar deals—were shaking slightly as he typed. “You’ll be on a private jet in twenty minutes. You’ll be there before he wakes up.” The enemy, as it turned out, was not biology
Dorian Black—billionaire, monster, contract killer of hearts—smiled. Not the sharp smile of a predator. Something softer. Something human.