His Contract Bride

Erickson Blackwood was thirty-two years old, a billionaire, and the most feared man in New York's business world. But none of that mattered when his grandfather called.

"Erick, I have told you to get a wife. Do you plan to get me killed?"

Erickson rubbed the bridge of his nose, a headache already forming behind his eyes. He had just left a board meeting where he'd crushed a rival company without breaking a sweat. Now he was being bullied by an eighty-year-old man with a flair for theatrics.

"Grandpa, why not just enjoy your retirement? I've already taken over the company as you requested. What more do you want from me?"

Silence on the other end. Then his grandfather's voice, cold and deliberate.

"If you don't find a wife, I will kill myself. And everyone will know you caused my death."

Erickson's blood ran cold. His grandfather had done this before—used guilt as a weapon—but it never got easier. His parents had died when he was twelve. His mother's dying wish had been for his grandfather to raise him. And the old man had, with stern love and iron expectations. Erickson owed him everything.

"I'm coming over. Don't do anything stupid."

---

The Blackwood Mansion

Twenty minutes later, Erickson stood in his grandfather's penthouse, watching the old man lean dangerously over the balcony railing. The city sprawled beneath them—glittering, cold, indifferent.

Since you want to be the death of me, I will jump down this building!

Erickson lunged forward, grabbing his grandfather's arm and pulling him back from the edge. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"I'm sorry. Don't jump. I'll get a wife. I promise."

His grandfather turned, a sly smile curling his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing. The old man had raised Erickson after his parents died, had shaped him into the ruthless businessman he was today. And he knew Erickson's one weakness—family.

"Two weeks," his grandfather said, straightening his robe. "Get married in two weeks, or I'm jumping. Understood?"

Erickson clenched his jaw. The Blackwood family didn't produce many heirs. His uncle was a spendthrift, his cousin Richard a jealous snake who wasted money on clubs and women. Erickson was the only one who'd succeeded—the only one worthy of carrying the Blackwood name.

"Fine. Two weeks."

He stormed out of the penthouse, feeling like a caged animal. His phone buzzed. Tony.

"Yo man, Mr. Erickson remembered his brother today!"

Erickson rolled his eyes. "Meet me at West Side Club. I need a drink."

"Alright, man. Don't start without me."

---

West Side Club

The club was all dark velvet, golden lighting, and the low thrum of jazz. Erickson sat in a private booth, drowning glass after glass of whiskey. The ice clinked against the crystal. He didn't feel the burn anymore.

Tony slid into the seat across from him, two women draped on either side. Tony was Erickson's only real friend—annoying, reckless, but loyal. He'd known Erickson since college, back when the Blackwood name meant nothing and Erickson was just a scholarship kid fighting for survival.

"Man, what's wrong with you?" Tony asked, waving a dismissive hand at the women. They pouted but left. "Old Blackwood acting out again?"

"Yeah. Wants me to get married."

Tony laughed. "Then get a wife! There are millions of heiresses willing to marry you. You're New York's most eligible bachelor. Pick one, marry her, and save the old man the stress."

Erickson shot him a look that could freeze lava. "Are you stupid? Do you think I want a gold-digger in my house, scheming for my money?"

Tony raised his hands in surrender. "Just saying, man. You could do worse."

Erickson turned away, staring out the window at the rain-streaked streets of New York. He hated this city sometimes—all glass and steel, no warmth. He'd built an empire here, but it felt hollow. Empty.

Then he heard the commotion.

---

 "Please! I promise to pay back the money! Just give me a little time!"

Ava Bennett's voice cracked with desperation. She was backed into a corner near the private rooms, her uniform damp from the rain outside. Two thugs loomed over her—broad-shouldered, scarred, smelling of cheap beer and violence.

She'd borrowed from the wrong people. Her brother Liam was dying in a hospital bed, his brain hemorrhaging, and the surgery cost more than she'd ever see in a lifetime. She'd taken loans from anyone willing to give them. Now they all wanted their money back—with interest she couldn't afford.

Just yesterday, a different group had cornered her outside the hospital. Today, these two had followed her to work. She knew her manager would fire her if she caused a scene. But she couldn't let them touch her again.

"Listen to me, bitch," the bald thug snarled, his hand sliding down her hip. "You either pay up today, or we take payment another way."

Ava's stomach turned. She'd been humiliated before. She'd been threatened, harassed, and pushed to her limits. But she'd never let anyone touch her like that. Never.

Her hand found a bottle on the nearby table. Without thinking, she swung it at his head.

CRACK.

The glass shattered. The thug howled, clutching his bleeding scalp. Ava ran.

---

Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed. The club's hallways blurred past her—golden wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, shocked patrons.

Behind her, boots pounded against the marble floor.

"Get her!"

Ava didn't know where she was going. She just knew she couldn't stop. She burst through a door—

And collided with a wall of solid muscle.

"Ouch!"

She stumbled backward, falling onto something warm and hard. A chest. A pair of arms wrapped around her waist automatically, steadying her.

She looked up into the coldest grey eyes she'd ever seen.

Erickson Blackwood.

The man from every magazine cover, every business report, every whispered rumor. The billionaire,the most dangerous man in New York.

And she was sitting on his lap.

"Sir, please—" she gasped, tugging at his tie like it was a lifeline. "Please save me. I'll do anything."

The thugs burst through the door behind her. Ava whimpered and pressed closer to Erickson, her body trembling against his. She didn't care about pride anymore. She just wanted to survive.

Erickson Blackwood's jaw tightened. He inhaled—lavender. Her scent was faint, floral, soothing in a way he didn't expect. It reminded him of someone. Someone he'd lost.

Tony, across the table, stared with his mouth open. He'd never seen Erickson let anyone this close—not since Kate White, and even then, Erickson had only ever held her hand. Now this girl was on his lap. His arms were wrapped around her waist like he owned her.

"Hey, man! Let go of that chick! She's ours tonight!" the bald thug bellowed.

The leader of the thugs tried to shut him up. "Hey, listen—"

But the bald man kept talking. "She's ours! Let her go!"

Erickson looked up slowly. A lazy smile played on his lips—the kind of smile that promised pain.

"If you don't know me," he said, standing, "you must recognize him."

Before the bald man could react, Erickson's fist connected with his jaw. Bone crunched. Two teeth flew. The thug crumpled, blood spilling from his mouth.

Ava gagged. She'd eaten nothing since morning—just a steamed bun—and the sight of blood made her nauseous. She swayed, grabbing Erickson's arm for balance.

The leader of the thugs paled. "We're so sorry, Mr. Blackwood! We didn't know she was your people!"

Erickson rolled his eyes, too lazy to speak. "Get out."

"Yes, yes! Thank you, Mr. Blackwood!"

They dragged their unconscious friend out, leaving Ava alone with the two men.