Her Forbidden Deal With The Billionaire

"Ian, I'm home!" Emily called as she stepped inside, dropping her keys on the kitchen counter.

Not that she expected a response.

The five-million-dollar condo swallowed her voice before it could reach the living room. Los Angeles. Heart of the city. Close to the best clubs and nightlife—everything Ian wanted.

If it were up to her, they'd live in a small apartment in the Valley. Something quiet. Something theirs.

But nothing had been up to her since she'd been arranged to Ian Hunter three years ago.

In all that time, he'd never once touched her. Not the way a man should touch his wife.

Tonight was their third wedding anniversary.

Tonight, she was going to change that.

She'd made reservations at Havana Homes—the most exclusive resort in California. Ian loved their lobster. And if he wasn't in the mood to go out, she had a backup plan hidden beneath her coat.

Anticipation fluttered in her chest as she moved down the hallway toward his office.

"Ian? Are you home?"

That's when she heard it.

"Emily isn't here right now."

His voice drifted through the crack in his office door—low, rough, dripping with lust.

"You're one freaky girl, aren't you?"

Emily froze mid-step.

Her breath caught.

Shock rooted her in place, but curiosity—or maybe denial—pulled her forward until she could see through the narrow opening.

Ian sat in his leather chair, head tilted back, eyes closed. His hand moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

He was touching himself.

To whoever was on the other end of that call.

"Fuck yeah, that's it," Ian groaned. "Louder. Say my name."

His voice turned thick. Sensual.

"I want to taste every inch of you before I make you mine."

The words slammed into Emily like a fist.

She should leave.

But the weight of shock pinned her to the floor.

This was their anniversary.

She stood in the hallway, lingerie beneath her coat, clutching a reservation confirmation—listening to her husband pleasure himself to someone else's voice.

"Oh… yes, baby. Oh… Jane. Damn—"

Jane.

His secretary.

Emily's chest hollowed.

Her hand shot out to steady herself against the wall.

The hallway tilted beneath her feet.

She staggered back to the kitchen, tears blurring her vision.

She didn't know how long she stood there before the shower turned on down the hall.

He was washing away the evidence.

"You're home early."

Ian appeared in the doorway.

A towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his hair. He grabbed juice from the fridge and drank like he'd just finished a workout.

Emily's stomach turned.

"Yes." She forced a smile. Her cheeks ached from the effort. "It's our anniversary!" She moved toward him, arms open. "Congratulations to us!"

"Yeah, whatever…"

He barely glanced at her, redirecting her arms and walking past.

Emily's hands fell to her sides.

Her throat dried up.

She folded her arms, shame washing over her.

Then she gathered herself, swallowing the humiliation, and followed him.

She talked as he walked toward the bedroom they shared like roommates—not lovers.

"I made reservations for us at Havana Homes." Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "They have—"

"You can go without me. I have plans."

"But it's our—"

"Aren't you tired of trying?" He still didn't look at her. "How many times do I need to tell you your place?"

The words cut through her like a blade.

He grabbed clothes from the wardrobe.

She knew where he was going. To finish what they'd started on the phone.

Panic clawed at her ribs.

No. Not tonight. Tonight has to work.

In one desperate attempt, her hands shaking, she let her coat drop.

Revealing transparent red lingerie that left little to the imagination.

She closed the distance between them, took his hand, and placed it between her thighs—making him feel how ready she was.

"I'm your wife, Ian. Please."

Her voice shook despite trying to sound sensual, cracking on the last word.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes.

Then it died.

"You're disgusting."

He jerked away. "Let go before I throw you across the room."

Her breath hitched.

She stepped back, trembling.

As he dressed, desperation made her reckless.

"I'll tell Grandma Hilda you spent our anniversary with your secretary."

He turned fast.

Fear flashed across his face before twisting into fury.

His jaw clenched.

He grabbed her arm and yanked her close. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to bruise.

"You won't fucking dare. Remember—if I didn't marry you, your father would be rotting in jail. I saved your whole family."

Then he scanned her from head to toe, his lip curling in disgust—making her feel small and suddenly insecure, not just in her outfit but in her own skin.

"I will never touch you. You're pathetic. Know your place."

He released her and walked out.

Emily's knees buckled.

She crumbled onto the bed as memories washed over her.

Her father had been best friends with Ian’s grandfather, the late Hector Hunter and owner of Hunter Autos.

Emily's father was manager at Hunter Autos—until his gambling addiction led him to mismanage funds.

Ian had proposed the arranged marriage as payment for her father's debts.

She'd believed he was their savior.

Later, she'd learned he'd only done it to prove himself the perfect heir to Hunter Auto's inheritance.

Still, she'd tried to make it work.

A year ago, he'd asked her to fund his auto showroom expansion, promising to pay her back.

Without hesitating, she'd given him all her profit turnover.

His business exploded.

Hers collapsed.

She lost 80% of her clients—only two left. Hunter Autos and Everdale Pottery.

She was six months behind on rent. If Papa Chen, the building's caretaker, didn't "see her as a daughter," she would have lost that too.

As if on cue, her phone rang.

Papa Chen.

"Hi, Papa. I promise tomorrow—"

"You gotta move your things, or we'll both be in trouble."

His voice was tight.

"The building's got a new owner. He said anyone late on rent has to go. I'm sorry, Em."

The line went dead.

She sat in stunned silence.

This day literally couldn't get worse.

The bedroom door opened.

Ian walked in.

Behind him, in a tight black dress and heavy makeup, was Jane.

Emily's heart plummeted.

"What is she doing here?"

"Grandma Hilda is dead." Ian's tone was flat. "She's here to keep me company while I grieve."

Dread washed over Emily. 

Grandma Hilda? Dead?

Jane didn't hide her satisfaction.

Her eyes raked over Emily's tear-stained face and the red lingerie, and she laughed—soft, mocking, deliberate.

Emily's face burned with shame as she grabbed her coat, covering herself.

She never thought she'd be humiliated in her own home.

"Ian, baby," Jane cooed, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I'll be in your office."

Ian barely glanced at Emily. "Yeah. I'll be right there."

Emily's nails bit into her palms.