Billionaire - Contract Marriage With The Devil

It began with a signature—not in blood, as the legends warned, but in crisp black ink on a twenty-three-page nondisclosure agreement.

“I have a proposal,” he said, sliding a black card across the Formica. No name. Just a symbol: a serpent eating its own tail. “Marry me for one year. In return, I will pay off every cent you owe, put your brother in the best cardiac program in the country, and give you five million dollars upon completion.”

Their honeymoon was a press conference.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

She signed. The wedding took place three days later in a courthouse so gray it could have been a mausoleum. Dorian’s lawyer served as witness. Lena wore a white dress from a thrift store. Her husband wore a scowl. contract marriage with the devil billionaire

She stayed. She held a cold cloth to his head, made him drink ginger tea, and read aloud from the ridiculous romance novel she’d hidden in her nightstand. He complained the entire time. But when she tried to leave for water, his hand—hot and weak—caught her wrist.

“This is a violation of clause seven,” he murmured against her mouth. It began with a signature—not in blood, as

And again.