Chapter 1

~Harper~

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to marry me.”

I choke on air. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you, I’m just making sure I didn’t have a stroke. Marry you? I met you an hour ago and you had a gun to my head for half of it.”

“Exactly. We’re practically soulmates.”

I stare at him. He stares back, dead serious.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“I’m aware.”

“That’s illegal in like… most states.”

He snorts. “I own most states.”

Of course he does.

I stand up, start pacing because pacing feels productive. “Let me get this straight. You murdered a guy, kidnapped me, deleted my entire digital life, and now you want to marry me? Did I miss anything?”

“Yes. You’re going to give me an heir within one year.”

I stop pacing. “Come again?”

He walks over to a bar cart, pours himself something amber, doesn’t offer me any. “I need a legitimate child. You need to not go to prison for the next thirty years. Seems like a fair trade.”

“You’re joking.”

He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Do I look like I joke?”

He really doesn’t.

I laugh. Can’t help it. It comes out high and hysterical. “This is without a doubt the worst marriage proposal in history.”

“Not a proposal. A fact.”

I wipe my eyes, still giggling like a lunatic. “What happens if I say no?”

He sets the glass down, walks over until he’s crowding me against the window. Cold glass at my back, hot billionaire at my front. Great.

“Then those photos the ones I still have get sent to the FBI with your fingerprints all over them. You’ll be charged with murder one. You’ll spend the rest of your life in an orange jumpsuit making license plates and crying in the shower.”

My laughter dies. “You’re blackmailing me into marriage and pregnancy.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s… actually impressive in a completely fucked-up way.”

“Thank you.”

I drag both hands through my hair, try to breathe. “Why me? You could have killed me. Would’ve been easier.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then, softer, almost like he doesn’t want to say it: “Because the second I saw you hiding behind that dumpster, looking like a scared wet kitten with a camera, I wanted you.”

My heart does something weird. “That’s the creepiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Get used to it.”

It all started on a normal Tuesday night.

I never thought my biggest problem on a Tuesday night would be hiding in a dead body with my Nikon, but here we are.

I was on my knees in the alley behind the fancy glass tower on 57th, camera shaking in my hands, heart trying to punch its way out of my ribcage. The man on the ground wasn't moving. There was a neat little hole in his forehead and a lot of blood that was already soaking into the concrete. The shooter was still holding the gun, and the streetlight caught on his face just enough for me to recognize him.

Elias Voss.

Thirty-eight years old, net worth more than some countries, and currently the most reclusive billionaire on the planet. Also, apparently, a stone-cold killer.

And he was staring right at me.

“Shit,” I whispered, which was honestly was not the smartest thing to say that night.

He didn't even blink. Just tilted his head like he was trying to decide if I’m a stray cat or dinner. Then he lifted one finger to his lips. Shhh.

My brain short-circuited. I should have run. Instead my knees buckled and I stood frozen like an idiot while he walked over, slow and calm, gun still in his hand. His shoes didn’t even make noise. Who wears thousand-dollar sneakers to commit murder?

When he was two feet away he crouched down so we were eye level. Up close he was stupidly gorgeous in that sharp, I-could-ruin-your-credit-score-and-your-orgasms kind of way. Dark hair, blue eyes that looked almost black right now, and a jawline that could cut glass.

“Name,” he asked.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

He waited three whole seconds, yes, I counted, then sighed like I’m the inconvenient one here.

“Phone,” he tried again.

That time my voice worked. Barely. “W-what?”

“Give me the camera, little artist.”

Little artist? Who the hell was he calling little? I was five-seven in socks. Okay, five-six and a half, but still.

I clutched the Nikon to my chest like it’s a baby. “This is a limited edition. You can’t have it.”

A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. “I just killed a man. I think I can have whatever the fuck I want.”

Fair point.

But I’m broke, okay? That camera literally cost me two kidneys and my dignity on eBay. So I did the only logical thing: I stood up and bolted.

Or I tried to.

He grabbed my wrist before I made it two steps and yanked me back so hard I slammed into his chest. The gun was suddenly pressed under my chin, cold metal kissing my throat. My breath hitched.

“Try that again,” he murmured, voice low and way too hot for this situation, “and I’ll shoot you somewhere that doesn’t kill you right away. Understood?”

I swallowed. The barrel moved with motion. “Crystal.”

“Good girl.”

Why did that just make my thighs clench? I hated myself.

He plucked the camera from my hands like I’m a toddler with a toy. I watched him pop the memory card out, slip it into his pocket, then hand the empty camera back.

“There. Now you didn’t see anything.”

“I have backups in the cloud, asshole.”

His eyes narrow. “Do you?”

I bluff hard. “Yep. Auto-upload. Every photo goes straight to my G****e Drive. You’re already trending on Reddit.”

He studied my face for a long second, then laughed. Actually laughed. It was deep and rough and annoyingly sexy.

“You’re a terrible liar, little artist.”

“My name’s Harper.”

“I don’t care.”

Rude.

He grabbed my arm and starts walking, dragging me toward a black SUV idling at the mouth of the alley. The driver didn’t even glance back when Elias opened the door and shoved me inside like I weighed nothing.

I landed face-first on leather seats that probably cost more than my tuition. “Hey! You can’t just…”

“I can do whatever I want,” he said, climbing in after me and slamming the door. “Drive.”

The car pulled away smoothly. I scramble upright, yanking at the door handle. Locked. Obviously.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracked on the last word. Great. Real intimidating.

He leaned back, stretched his long legs out, and finally tucked the gun away somewhere inside his jacket. “Home.”

“Yours or a shallow grave?”

He side-eyed me. “Depends how annoying you are between here and there.”

I flipped him off. Mature, I know.

He smirks again. “Cute.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes. I spent it cataloging every detail in case I survived and needed to describe him to the police. Tall, six-three maybe. Black hoodie, black jeans, black soul probably. Smells like cedar and gunpowder. Stupid perfect cheekbones.

He caught me staring. “Like what you see?”

“Hard no. You have blood on your shoe.”

He glanced down, then shrugged. “It’ll come out.”

“Who was he?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Someone who talked too much.”

“Helpful.”

He turned his head fully now, eyes pinning me to the seat. “You’re very mouthy for a girl who’s one phone call away from being charged with accessory to murder.”

My stomach drops. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

I shut up for the rest of the ride. Smartest thing I’ve done all night.

Forty minutes later we were pulling into an underground garage that looked like it belonged to a Bond villain. Everything was matte black and glass and money. The elevator ride was silent except for my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

When the doors opened we were in a penthouse that took up the entire top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering below like someone spilled diamonds. I honestly hated how beautiful it was. Why did good people always have the best stuff?

He straightened and closed the laptop which snapped me back to real time.  

I look around the ridiculous penthouse, at the blood still on his shoe, at the gun probably still warm in his jacket.

He shrugs off his hoodie, tosses it on a chair. Underneath he’s wearing a plain black T-shirt stretched across a chest that should be illegal. I look away fast.

“Sit,” he says, pointing at a sleek couch.

I don’t move. “No.”

He exhales through his nose, walks over, and physically picks me up, hands under my arms like I’m a cat and drops me on the couch.

“Stay.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You growl enough.”

I flip him off again. He ignores it, disappears down a hallway, comes back with a laptop. Opens it, starts typing.

“What are you doing?”

“Deleting your cloud backups.”

My mouth goes dry. “You can’t…”

“Already did.” He turns the screen toward me. My G****e Drive, every folder empty. Even the trash. “You really should use two-factor authentication, Harper.”

I lunge for the laptop. He holds it over his head like a bully on a playground.

“Give it!”

“No.”

“I’ll scream.”

He leans down until his face is inches from mine. “Scream. These walls are soundproof. I tested them myself.”

Why is everything he says terrifying and hot at the same time? I need therapy.

“Okay,” I say finally, voice shaking. “But I have conditions.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You’re negotiating?”

“Hell yes. If I’m doing this and I hate that I’m even considering it I want things.”

“Name them.”

“Separate bedrooms. No touching unless I say so. I keep going to college, online if I have to. You buy me a new camera. A better one. And I want a dog.”

He blinks. “A dog.”

“Yes. A big one. Something that can eat you if you piss me off.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Fine. Anything else?”

“Yeah. You’re going to court me.”

Now he full-on grins, and it’s terrifyingly beautiful. “Court you?”

“Flowers. Dates. The whole thing. If I’m stuck with you for a year, you’re going to work for it.”

He steps closer, brushes a strand of hair off my face with surprising gentleness. “Deal. But when the year is up and you’re carrying my kid, you’ll beg me to touch you.”

I scoff, shove at his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Dream on, murderer.”

“Oh, I will,” he murmurs. “Starting tonight.”

And that’s how I end up engaged to a billionaire psychopath before midnight.

Someone please send help, I cry but no one hears.