President's Contract Wife

Nina Morrison finishes her late-night shift, exhaustion weighing heavily on her. She changes out of her waitress uniform and stares through the rain-streaked window. Her heart sinks. It's well past the last bus, and she knows a taxi would cost more than five dollars-money she needs for her father's dinner. Sighing, she braces herself for the long walk home.

Pulling her thin coat tighter around her, Nina steps into the storm. Cold rain pelts her face, and gusts of wind whip her hair into a mess. Her shoes, already cracked and worn, squelch with each step, but she presses forward, determined. "I have to get home," she mutters under her breath, ignoring the sting of water seeping into her shoes.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of headlights cuts through the downpour. Tires screech on the wet pavement, and the loud "Creak!" of brakes fills the air. Nina freezes as a silver car careens toward her, barely stopping in time. Her body jerks, and before she can react, the force of the near-collision knocks her to the ground.

Pain explodes in her knees and arms as she hits the pavement hard. Wincing, she struggles to push herself up, but her legs tremble beneath her, refusing to cooperate.

The car door slams, and a man storms toward her, his voice a growl. "Are you crazy, you bitch? Trying to get yourself killed?"

Nina looks up, her vision blurred from the rain and pain, but fury quickly replaces her shock. "You ran a red light!" she shouts, her voice shaking with both fear and rage. "You think because you're rich you can break the law? I've got your license plate. I'll report you!"

The driver sneers, but before he can respond, the car window rolls down slowly. A deep, commanding voice cuts through the tension. "Give her $100,000. Let's be done with it."

The driver instantly switches tones, bowing his head slightly. "Yes, sir."

Without warning, a thick pile of cash is thrown at Nina, the bills slapping her cheek as they hit the wet ground around her. The insult stings more than the impact. Her hands shake as she glares at the driver, his smirk daring her to pick up the money like a beggar. Rage surges through her.

With a swift, furious motion, Nina grabs the crumpled banknotes and hurls them back at the driver. "I don't need your filthy money!" she yells, her voice cutting through the rain. The bills hit him square in the back, and he spins around, eyes burning with fury, his fists clenching.

"Ryan!" The voice from the car halts the driver's advance. The man in the backseat speaks with a chilling calm that instantly commands attention. Nina looks into the car, her eyes locking onto the man's face.

His features are sharp, almost too perfect, like a sculpture carved from stone. The streetlight glints off his black eyes, which glimmer with amusement. "Come here," he says, his voice low but compelling, his finger beckoning her forward.

Against her better judgment, Nina finds herself drawn to the car, her feet moving as if under a spell. Her heart pounds in her chest, a mixture of fear and confusion rising inside her. 

Just as she nears the window, his hand shoots out like a viper, grabbing her chin in a painful grip. "What the-" Nina gasps, trying to wrench herself free, but his hold is ironclad.

The man's lips curl into a mocking smile. "How could there be a woman who doesn't love money?" His voice drips with condescension, as if she's just another pawn in a game only he understands.

Nina's eyes blaze with defiance. "Let go of me!" she spits, her voice shaking with fury and humiliation. "You think you can get away with this just because you're rich? I'll go to the police! You ran a red light and now you're harassing me!"

His grip tightens, and Nina feels the sharp pain shooting up her jaw. She winces but refuses to look away, glaring at him with every ounce of strength she can muster.

The man's dark eyes narrow, and for a moment, something flickers in his gaze-something cold and dangerous. "A brave little mouse," he murmurs, almost amused, before finally releasing her.

Nina stumbles back, barely catching herself as her legs give way. Her heart races, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she rubs her aching jaw. Before she can respond, a sleek gold card is tossed from the window, landing in a small puddle at her feet.

"Take that to the police if you want," the man says, his tone dripping with arrogance. "Or if you need medical care, you can come find me at Gray Group."