BURN FOR ME.... Mr COLE

The rain slammed against the glass walls of Cole Tower like it was trying to break in.

Sixty floors up, New York looked like a painting. Lights. Cars. People with problems smaller than mine.

But my world had shrunk to one room.

His office.

The air smelled like leather, expensive cologne, and power. The kind of power that buys hospitals, buys judges, buys people.

And today, it was going to buy me.

Damian Cole sat behind a desk that probably cost more than my apartment.

32 years old. CEO of Cole Industries. Net worth: 4.7 billion.

Black suit, white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to show forearms that looked like they could break stone.

Dark hair, slightly messy. A jawline that could cut glass.

And eyes. God, his eyes.

Black. Cold. The eyes of a man who’d never lost.

The man who destroyed my father three years ago.

“Stop staring, Ms. Sinclair,” he said without looking up. “It won’t make this easier.”

I flinched. Ava Sinclair. That was my name. Not "Ms." Not yet.

In front of me on the desk was a stack of papers. Thick. Legal. Final.

*MARRIAGE CONTRACT*

*PARTY A: DAMIAN COLE*

*PARTY B: AVA SINCLAIR*

*TERM: 12 MONTHS*

*COMPENSATION: $2,000,000 USD*

*PURPOSE: MEDICAL TREATMENT FOR LIAM SINCLAIR*

My little brother. Nine years old. Leukemia.

The doctors at St. Mary’s said 48 hours. Without the bone marrow transplant at Cole Private Hospital, he wouldn’t make it.

I didn’t have $2 million.

I had $2,340 in my bank account and a mountain of debt from Dad’s failed company.

“Read clause four again,” Damian said. He finally looked at me.

I did. My voice shook.

“Party B agrees to perform all customary wifely duties and public appearances as required by Party A for the duration of the contract.”

Customary wifely duties.

That was lawyer-speak.

It meant his bed. His name. His events. His rules.

“Any questions?” He leaned back. That smirk. The one that ruined lives.

“Why me?” The words came out before I could stop them. “You hate me. You said it yourself in court three years ago. ‘The Sinclairs are thieves.’ So why not pick someone else? Any model. Any actress. They’d sign this in a second.”

For a second, something flickered in those black eyes.

Pain? Memory?

No. Probably just irritation.

“Because this is personal, Ava.” He stood.

He was tall. 6’2 at least. He came around the desk and stopped a foot away from me. Close enough that I could smell him. Cedar and smoke and something dangerous.

“My mother died in a one-room apartment because your father embezzled from our company.

My sister dropped out of college.

I spent 5 years building this empire from nothing to bury your last name.”

His finger came up. Tilted my chin. His touch was cold.

“And now I get to finish it.

I get your name. I get to parade you around as Mrs. Cole.

I get to watch you every day and remember what your family did to mine.

That’s revenge, Ava. Sweet and legal.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. I refused to let them fall. Not in front of him.

“What happens after 12 months?” I whispered.

“After 12 months, you’re free.” He dropped his hand. “With $2 million. And I never have to see your face again.”

Free.

The word felt like a lie.

Liam’s face flashed in my head. Pale. Tubes. The way he whispered “Avi, don’t cry” last night.

I picked up the pen. Mont Blanc. Heavy.

My hand shook so bad I could barely write.

A... V... A...

S... I... N... C... L... A... I... R

The moment the last letter was done, Damian took the contract.

He didn’t smile. He just looked... satisfied. Like a predator who finally caught his prey.

“Good,” he said. “Lawyers will file it tonight. Wedding is tomorrow. 8AM. City Hall. Private ceremony. No press.”

“Tomorrow?” I choked. “That’s—”

“12 hours,” he finished. “Yes. Problem?”

I shook my head. There was no problem I could afford to have.

“White dress will be delivered to your apartment at 6AM. Stylist too.

You’ll move into the penthouse after. My housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis, will handle your things.”

I nodded, clutching my purse. It was the only thing I owned that still felt like mine.

“One more thing.” He walked back to the window. Hands in pockets. Looking at the city like he owned it. Which he did.

“Clause seven. No dating. No male friends. No leaving the country without my permission.

You break it, the contract is void and you owe me $5 million.”

My stomach dropped. “That’s not—”

“That’s the contract you just signed.” He turned. “Don’t test me, Ava.”

I left without another word.

---

My apartment was small. Two rooms. The second one was Liam’s.

Posters of space on the wall. A half-finished Lego set on the floor.

I packed one suitcase. Clothes. Liam’s photo. Mom’s locket.

That was it. Twelve years of my life fit into 20 inches.

At 11PM, Mrs. Ellis arrived. 60s. Kind eyes. But she worked for him.

“Mr. Cole asked me to make sure you’re comfortable, dear,” she said.

Comfortable. In a gilded cage.

The Cole Penthouse took my breath away.

Floor to ceiling windows. Marble floors. A kitchen bigger than my apartment.

And the master bedroom...

A king-size bed in the middle. White sheets. Too big. Too empty. Too much.

My room, apparently, was the guest room next to it.

“Mr. Cole said you would prefer privacy,” Mrs. Ellis said gently.

Privacy. Right. Until he decided otherwise.

I couldn’t sleep. At 2AM my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

*D: The hospital transfer went through. Liam is in Room 402, Cole Wing. Best oncologist in the country is with him now.*

Another text, 2 seconds later:

*D: Don’t thank me. You’re paying for it.*

I stared at the screen until it went black.

He was a monster. But he was keeping his word.

At 6AM sharp, a knock.

A white dress. Simple. Elegant. $10,000 probably.

A stylist did my hair and makeup in 40 minutes.

At 7:30AM, a black Bentley was waiting.

City Hall was empty except for a judge, two witnesses who looked like they worked for Damian, and him.

Damian Cole in a black suit. No tie.

He looked at me when I walked in.

His eyes went from my face to the dress to my hands.

And for half a second, his jaw tightened.

He didn’t like white.

Good.

“Do you, Damian Cole, take this woman—”

“I do.” Cut off. No hesitation.

“Do you, Ava Sinclair—”

I looked at Damian. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the judge.

Like this meant nothing.

Like I meant nothing.

“I do,” I said. My voice was steady. I was proud of that.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I froze. The contract didn’t say anything about—

Damian stepped forward. One hand came to my waist. The other to my jaw.

He didn’t kiss me. Not really.

It was a press of lips. Cold. Brief. Possessive.

A stamp. A claim.

It lasted 2 seconds.

It felt like 2 hours.

When he pulled back, his eyes met mine.

And for the first time, they weren’t cold.

They were burning.

“Mrs. Cole,” he murmured, so only I could hear.

“Let’s go home.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

But inside me, a storm had just started.

I was married to the devil.

To save my brother.

And I had no idea that the man who wanted to destroy me

was about to burn for me instead.