Chapter 2

~Harper~

I wake up to a man I don’t know staring at me from the foot of the bed.

Not Elias. This one’s older, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a three-piece suit at, I check the clock, 7:03 a.m. He’s holding a garment bag like he’s about to dress a corpse for its funeral.

I scream very loud. 

The man doesn’t even flinch. “Good morning, Miss Harper. I’m Reginald. Mr. Voss instructed me to prepare you for the ceremony.”

I yank the blanket up to my chin even though I’m wearing one of Elias’s T-shirts that hangs to my knees. “Ceremony? What ceremony? And why are you in here?!”

The bedroom door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall. Elias storms in wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants and a scowl that could melt steel.

“Reginald,” he growls, “I said knock.”

“I did knock, sir. Three times. She sleeps like the dead.”

Elias’s eyes flick to me. “Clearly not anymore.”

I point a shaky finger between them. “Somebody explain what the hell is happening before I start throwing lamps.”

Elias rubs a hand over his face like I’m the exhausting one. “We’re getting married. Today. Reginald is the stylist.”

“Today?!” My voice cracks so hard it sounds like a thirteen-year-old boy. “You said I had time to, I don’t know, mentally prepare for selling my soul!”

“You had eight hours of sleep. That’s plenty.”

Reginald unzips the garment bag and pulls out a wedding dress. White silk, off-the-shoulder, looks expensive as hell. I hate how pretty it is.

I stare at it, then at Elias. “You bought me a wedding dress. While I was unconscious.”

“I guessed your size.” His gaze drags down my bare legs slow enough to set them on fire. “I was close.”

Reginald clears his throat. “Shall I run her a bath, sir?”

“Yes. And burn whatever she wore yesterday.”

“Hey!” I yelp. “Those were my favorite jeans!”

“They had blood on them,” Elias says.

“Whose blood?”

He just looks at me.

Right. Dumb question.

Reginald disappears into the bathroom the size of my old apartment. I hear water running.

I flop back on the pillows and pull the blanket over my head. “This isn’t happening. I’m still drunk from that one wine cooler I had in 2022. Wake up, Harper.”

The blanket gets ripped away. Elias is leaning over me, hands braced on either side of my head. Morning stubble, bed hair, and those stupid blue eyes that make my stomach flip even when I want to knee him in the balls.

“Get up,” he says.

“No.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He scoops me up like I’m made of air, blanket and all, and walks straight into the bathroom. I squeak and thrash but it’s like wrestling a brick wall that smells really good.

Reginald is pouring something into the tub that makes mountains of bubbles. He doesn’t even glance at my flailing.

Elias dumps me on my feet. “Strip.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I cross my arms. “Not with Reginald watching like this is a weird rich-people porno.”

Elias sighs, nods at Reginald. The man bows, actually bows, and leaves without a word.

The door clicks shut.

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Better?”

“No. I’m not getting naked in front of you either.”

He steps closer. “You’ll be naked under me every night for the next year. Might as well start now.”

My face goes nuclear. “You said no touching unless I say so!”

“I said no touching your pussy unless you say so. I didn’t say anything about looking.”

I hate him. I hate him so much my vagina is confused.

He reaches for the hem of the T-shirt I’m wearing, his T-shirt, and tugs it up. I slap his hands away.

“I can undress myself, caveman.”

“Then do it before I lose patience.”

I glare at him for five full seconds. He stares back, completely unbothered. Finally I yank the shirt over my head and throw it at his face. He catches it one-handed.

I’m in nothing but panties now. Plain cotton ones with little avocados on them because of course today’s the day I get kidnapped by a billionaire, today’s laundry day.

His eyes darken as they slide over me, slow, greedy. “Cute.”

“Shut up.”

I stomp to the tub and climb in, bubbles up to my chin instantly. The water is perfect and I hate how good it feels.

Elias leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I’m his new favorite show.

“Can you leave?” I snap.

“No.”

“Privacy?”

“You lost that privilege when you took pictures of me shooting a man in the face.”

Touché.

I sink lower until only my eyes are above the water. He smirks.

Reginald knocks once and comes back in with the dress and a makeup case the size of a suitcase. He sets everything down and starts laying out shoes, jewelry, veil.

I point at the veil. “Absolutely not. I’m not wearing a veil. That’s where I draw the line.”

Elias shrugs. “Fine. No veil. Everything else is non-negotiable.”

Two hours later I’m dressed, hair curled, makeup so perfect I look like a filter in real life. The dress fits like it was sewn onto me. I keep catching my reflection and wanting to cry or throw up, maybe both.

Elias walks in wearing a black tux that makes him look like sin in formal wear. He stops dead when he sees me.

For the first time since I met him, he looks, I don’t know, stunned?

“What?” I mutter, tugging at the skirt. “I look stupid?”

He clears his throat. “You look like mine.”

My heart does a stupid flutter. I squash it dead.

Reginald hands Elias a ring box.. Inside are two rings, one massive diamond, one plain platinum band.

Elias pockets the diamond, holds up the band. “This one’s for you. Until you stop being a brat.”

“Romantic.”

He grabs my left hand and slides the band on. It’s a perfect fit. Of course it is.

“Time to go,” he says.

“Go where? City Hall?”

He snorts. “Please. We’re doing this properly.”

We end up in a helicopter. A fucking helicopter. I spend the entire flight gripping the seat and trying not to puke while Elias watches me with that stupid amused look.

“Where are we even going?” I yell over the noise.

“You’ll see.”

We land on a rooftop in the middle of nowhere upstate. There’s a chapel, tiny, stone, looks centuries old. Rose petals all over the ground. A priest standing there like this is normal.

I climb out on shaky legs. “You rented an entire chapel for a blackmail wedding?”

“I own the chapel.”

Of course he does.

There’s no one witness, some guy in a suit who looks bored. No music. No flowers inside. Just candles and the priest who keeps checking his watch.

Elias takes my hand and pulls me down the aisle. My legs feel like jelly.

The priest starts talking. I don’t hear a word. I’m too busy having an internal meltdown.

“Do you, Elias Voss, take this woman..”

“I do,” Elias says instantly, eyes locked on me.

The priest turns to me. “Do you, Harper…”

“I….uh..” My voice cracks.

Elias squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt. Message received.

“I do,” I mutter.

“Are you sure you wanna do this? He asks again. Elias gives him a dead ahh stare and he says okay..

Next we exchange rings. Vows. Kiss the bride.

Elias doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs my face and kisses me like he’s starving. Tongue and teeth and possession. My knees buckle. He holds me up like it’s nothing.

When he pulls back I’m dizzy and my lipstick is gone and the priest is already packing up.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Voss,” Elias says against my mouth.

I shove at his chest. “Don’t call me that.”

“Get used to it.”

The bored witness claps twice, checks his phone, and leaves.

That’s it. I’m married. To a murderer. In under ten minutes.

Elias scoops me up again, I swear he has a carrying fetish, and walks us back to the helicopter.

“Where now?” I ask, voice small.

“Home. Then I’m putting my kid in you.”

I choke. “You’re joking.”

He buckles me in, leans over to kiss my neck. “I don’t joke about breeding you, Harper.”

The helicopter lifts off. I spend the ride staring out the window, ring heavy on my finger, trying not to cry.

When we land back on his rooftop, he carries me straight to the bedroom, our bedroom now I guess, and tosses me on the bed.

I scramble backward. “Whoa whoa whoa, we had a deal! No touching until I say!”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m not touching. Yet. I’m just getting comfortable.”

He strips down to boxer briefs and climbs in beside me, props his head on one hand, and stares.

“What are you doing?” I squeak.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You to stop shaking long enough to realize you’re turned on.”

“I am not…”

He reaches out, slow, and brushes one finger down my arm. Goosebumps explode everywhere.

I slap his hand. “Stop that!”

“Make me.”

Finally I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “This is the worst wedding night in history.”

He chuckles, low and dark. “Give it an hour.”

I turn my head. He’s already half-hard and not even trying to hide it.

I groan and pull a pillow over my face. “I hate you.”

His hand slides under the pillow, finds mine, laces our fingers.

“I know,” he says softly. “But you won’t for long.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because part of me, the stupid, horny, terrified part, is starting to believe him.

And that scares me more than the gun ever did.