The Billionaire’s Contract Wife: HE Fell First

Chapter 1

The rain hammering against the cracked window of the kitchen sounded like a ticking clock.

Maya kept her eyes fixed on the man sitting across her scarred linoleum table. His name was Silas. He smelled of cheap peppermint gum and wet wool, and he was currently using a switchblade to clean the dirt out from under his fingernails.

"I don't have it," Maya said.

She fought to keep her voice from shaking, pressing her palms flat against her thighs under the table.

Silas didn't look up. He just scraped the blade against his thumb. "Five million is a lot of money to not have, Maya. Your father certainly enjoyed spending it. Before he wrapped his sedan around a streetlamp, anyway."

"My father's debts are his own."

"Not how it works." Silas finally raised his head. His eyes were dead. Flat and black like two stones. "The syndicate bought the paper. The interest compounded. The debtor expired. That means the debt rolls downhill. Congratulations. You caught it."

Maya’s throat tightened. The air in the tiny apartment felt suffocatingly thin. Down the narrow hallway, the rhythmic, mechanical hum of a portable dialysis machine droned on.

Silas tilted his head, listening to the sound. A slow, awful smile spread across his face.

"How is little Lily doing these days?" he asked softly.

"Don't talk about my sister," Maya snapped. The sudden spike of adrenaline tasted like copper on her tongue.

"Kidneys are in high demand," Silas mused, folding the switchblade shut with a sharp clack that made Maya flinch. "I hear she needs one. Funny thing about the black market. They supply organs, sure. But they also harvest them. Maybe your sister has a good cornea. Or a slice of liver. We could start piecing her out. It wouldn't cover the five million, but it would pay down the interest."

Maya lunged across the table. She didn't think. She just reacted, her hands curling into the collar of his damp jacket.

Silas didn't even blink. He grabbed her wrist, his grip like a steel vise, and twisted just enough to send a blinding flare of pain up her arm. He forced her back down into her plastic chair.

"Friday," Silas said. He stood up, smoothing his coat. "You have until Friday at midnight to deposit a minimum of five hundred grand to show good faith. Or we come back. And we won't bother knocking."

The front door clicked shut.

Maya sat frozen for a long time. The silence of the apartment pressed down on her chest until she couldn't breathe. She slipped off the chair, her knees hitting the peeling linoleum, and pressed her forehead against the cold edge of the table.

She didn't cry. Crying was a luxury for people who had a safety net. She was twenty-four, working three grueling jobs in architectural restoration, and she was utterly drowning.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, Maya forced herself up. She walked quietly down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door.

Lily was asleep. Her skin was terribly pale, almost translucent in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The tubes of the machine snaked across the bed, keeping her nineteen-year-old sister tethered to life. Maya walked over, gently brushing a lock of dark hair from Lily’s forehead. Her skin was too warm.

I will not let them touch you, Maya thought, her chest aching so violently it felt like a physical wound. I will burn the world down first.

She retreated to the kitchen and pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks. She opened her banking app.

Available Balance: $412.16.

A notification chimed at the top of her screen. An email.

Maya swiped it open, intending to delete another spam message. But the sender's address made her pause. ethorne@sterlinglegal.com.

Elias Thorne. He was a partner at the most ruthless corporate law firm in Seattle. Maya had submitted a portfolio to Sterling Global’s architectural division six months ago, begging for an entry-level position. They had rejected her outright.

She tapped the email.

Ms. Vance.

My client has a highly sensitive proposition for you. It requires extreme discretion, a two-year commitment, and a willingness to follow explicit instructions. If you accept the terms, you will be compensated with a lump sum of $5,000,000, tax-free. Be at the penthouse office of the Sterling Building at 8:00 AM sharp.

Elias Thorne.

Maya stared at the glowing screen. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Five million dollars. The exact amount she owed the syndicate.

It was impossible. It had to be a cruel joke, a scam, or a setup. Julian Sterling was the untouchable ice king of Wall Street. A billionaire prodigy who bought and dismantled companies for sport. He lived in a stratosphere Maya couldn't even look at without shielding her eyes. Why would a man like that offer five million dollars to a broke, rejected applicant?

She looked back toward the hallway. The hum of the dialysis machine echoed in the quiet apartment.

She didn't have a choice.

The Sterling Building was a towering monument of glass and steel that pierced the gloomy Seattle sky.

Maya stepped off the private elevator onto the penthouse floor at exactly eight o'clock the next morning. Her cheap trench coat was damp from the rain, and she felt profoundly out of place against the imported marble floors and minimalist artwork.

A sleek secretary wordlessly ushered her through a pair of towering frosted glass doors into the main office.

The room was vast and cold. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gray churn of Elliott Bay. The space was empty. Julian Sterling wasn't here yet.

Maya stood awkwardly near the center of the room. Her nerves were fraying. The silence in the office was heavy, thick with the scent of expensive cedar and rain.

She moved closer to the massive mahogany desk. It was immaculately organized. Nothing was out of place, except for a single manila folder resting squarely in the center of a black leather blotting pad.

Printed across the tab in stark, black letters was her name. MAYA VANCE.

Her breath hitched. She shouldn't touch it. She knew she shouldn't. But the overwhelming need to know why she was here clawed at her restraint.

Maya glanced at the closed office doors. The secretary was gone.

She reached out and flipped the folder open.

Inside were bank statements. Her bank statements. Medical records detailing Lily's failing kidneys. Her father's death certificate. Julian Sterling had investigated her down to her very marrow. He knew exactly how desperate she was.

Disgust warred with fear in her stomach. She went to close the folder, but her finger caught the edge of a photograph tucked beneath the medical files.

Maya pulled it out.

The blood drained entirely from her face. The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis.

It was a photograph of her. But it wasn't a surveillance photo taken yesterday. It was taken five years ago, in an alleyway she had spent a thousand sleepless nights trying to forget. In the picture, her hands were completely coated in blood.

The heavy click of the office door opening echoed like a gunshot behind her.