The penthouse office smelled like money and danger—dark oak, leather, and something metallic that made the hairs on Elara Voss's arms stand up. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked down on Lagos at night, the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds. She clutched the strap of her worn messenger bag, heart hammering so hard she was sure the receptionist had heard it from three floors down.
Logan Kane didn't look up from the contract on his desk. He was bigger than the tabloids made him seem—broad shoulders straining against a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing faint scars that looked like they'd been carved by knives. His dark hair was messy in that expensive way, and when he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes were the color of storm clouds right before lightning.
"Sit," he said. His voice was low, rough, like gravel dragged across velvet.
Elara sat. The leather chair was colder than she expected.
"You read the terms?" he asked, sliding the thick folder toward her.
She had. Every terrifying page. One year of marriage. Live in his mansion. Appear at his side for every gala, board meeting, and hostile takeover. In return, he would pay off her brother's hospital bills—every last naira—plus a trust fund that would keep her family afloat for life. All she had to do was sign, smile for the cameras, and never ask questions.
"I did," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "But I still don't understand why me. There are a thousand socialites who'd kill for this contract."
Logan leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Because you're not one of them. You're broke, stubborn, and you look at me like I'm the villain in your story. That sells better than some polished gold-digger who already knows the game."
Elara's cheeks burned. "I'm not here to sell anything. I'm here because my brother will die without that money."
Something flickered in his gaze—something almost like respect. He tapped the contract with one long finger. "Sign, and the first payment hits his account tonight. Refuse, and you walk out with nothing but the memory of my offer."
Her hand hovered over the pen. The room felt too small, the air too thick. She could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something wilder, like rain on pine needles. For one insane second she wondered what it would feel like if those big hands touched her.
She signed.
Logan's smirk deepened into something darker. "Smart girl."
He stood, all six-foot-four of him unfolding like a predator rising from a crouch. When he rounded the desk, Elara had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Up close, the scars on his forearms looked fresh, pink at the edges, as if they'd healed hours ago.
"Rules," he said. "One: You sleep in my bed. The press will check. Two: No questions about my past or my… habits. Three: If anyone asks, you're madly in love with me." He leaned down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair. His breath brushed her ear. "And Elara? Don't fall in love for real. I'm not the kind of man who does gentle."
A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with fear. "Don't worry," she whispered back. "I've read enough fairy tales to know the beast never changes."
His laugh was short and rough. "Good. Then we understand each other."
He straightened, and for a split second she saw something flash in his eyes—hunger, raw and unmistakable. Then it was gone, locked behind that cold CEO mask.
"Car's waiting downstairs. Pack light. Everything else will be provided." He paused at the door. "Oh, and Elara?"
She looked up.
"Welcome to the rest of your life."
The elevator ride down was silent except for the soft ding of floors. Logan stood beside her, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. When the doors opened to the underground garage, a sleek black Maybach waited, engine purring like a contented predator.
He opened the door for her—gentleman on the outside, beast on the inside. As she slid into the buttery leather seat, her phone buzzed.
Payment confirmation: ₦87,450,000 credited to Michael Voss Medical Trust.
Tears stung her eyes. She looked up to thank him, but Logan was already in the driver's seat, knuckles white on the wheel.
"First rule already broken," he muttered.
"What?"
"You're looking at me like I'm your hero." He revved the engine. "I'm not."
The car shot forward into the Lagos night, city lights streaking past like shooting stars. Elara gripped the seat, heart racing with equal parts terror and something dangerously close to excitement.
She had no idea that two blocks away, a black SUV with tinted windows was already tailing them.
And she had no idea that the man beside her had just extended three-inch claws into the steering wheel to keep himself from reaching for her right then and there.