Chapter 9
Hilary Winthrop
My usual mask doesn’t fit. I can’t force a fake smile onto my face.
I sigh and pull on my nicest blazer and skirt set before tossing my work bag, purse, and high heels onto the bed.
After locking my wardrobe and stretching my feet, I fit the shoes onto my feet and buckle the straps around my ankles. I cram my purse into my bag and sigh.
I forgot to lock my new charger into my wardrobe, but whatever. Momo can have it. I’ll buy another.
I’d prefer to deal with her kleptomania rather than her anorexia.
My stomach sours as I replay my caustic thoughts. It’s wrong for me to think about her like that. She’d never trust me again if she knew I was so mean.
I refuse to acknowledge the resentment lurking in my soul.
She never asked me to bear her burdens. It’s not her fault she needs so much help.
It’s none of their faults they can’t reciprocate.
They’ve never had to take care of anyone but themselves.
I put myself in this position. I have no right to feel so lonely.
I stand and hook my bag over my forearm.
The room spins.
I rub my forehead. Although I choked down the energy bars and extra waters stashed in my work bag and at the top of my wardrobe, I haven’t eaten a full meal since my trip to the museum with Destiny.
I unlock my door and pull it open only to freeze with my foot in the air.
Three grocery bags full of snacks and drinks sit in front of my door. Guilt gnaws at my insides as I recall Aisha knocking to let me know about them. I completely forgot.
With a groan, I bend down, pick them up, and carry them to the kitchen counter.
Trash covers nearly every surface of the living room and dining table. Most are from stores I don’t frequent because they’re too expensive. With suspicion growing in my bones, I open the fridge. I slam it closed and try the freezer next. Another slam. The cabinets are full, too.
Every last ounce of hurt pulsing through me switches to red-hot hatred.
Only one person would dare bribe my sisters like this.
Connor Pen thinks he can manipulate his way into my good graces through my sisters.
I’ll kill him.
I slam the apartment door behind me and stomp down the hall to the elevator. All through my commute, I seethe. Those forced to stand near me keep as much distance as the crowd allows. Any eyes I meet turn away wide and frightened.
No one questions me when I roll through security without my normal greetings, although I’m sure they’ll whisper behind their hands about my rudeness. Or maybe they all understand since I work directly under our bosshole.
I step off the elevator and stride down the hall with my attention trained on the CEO’s office.
The receptionist hails me before I make it halfway down the hall.
“Ms. Winthrop, Mr. Pen is waiting for you in conference room D,” she says.
I take a deep breath, unlock my jaw, and thank her with as much kindness as I can muster before changing direction.
Conference room D is a smaller, simpler meeting room than the three large, flashy executive conference rooms, but it’s more public than Mr. Pen’s office, so I don’t balk at the redirection.
When I burst through the door without knocking, he stands and dismisses the three men sitting opposite him. They shake hands. I can’t force myself to care who they are. All I want is to slug the smug bastard in his unfortunately handsome mug.
“Good morning, Ms. Winthrop. Please, have a seat.”
With leashed fury in every movement, I settle in the chair across from him.
“You called my sister,” I accuse without preamble.
He leans back in his chair.
“I spoke with your emergency contact, yes,” he responds.
The unapologetic calm in his voice nearly breaks my composure.
“Why?” I demand.
“Because I was concerned,” he says.
I grit my teeth and speak with the contempt festering in my soul.
“Your concern does not constitute an emergency. It was wrong of you to contact her.”
“My communication with Ms. Thompson was cordial and brief. I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“I requested one day off work. One day. The first day in years, and you had to worry my family? You couldn’t give me one day of peace?”
I don’t mention how my time away from work was anything but peaceful. He doesn’t need to know how much he hurt me.
“I apologize for overstepping,” he says.
I drop my hands into my lap and tighten my fists.
His easy capitulation does nothing to appease my anger. With nowhere to direct it, it threatens to turn inward.
I dig my nails into the fleshy part of my hands and use the pain to center myself.
Connor sits so still I wonder if he’s even breathing. The intensity in his gaze pulls me in, and I swallow as his sincerity dissipates parts of my rage.
I will never believe he contacted my sister out of concern—he’s too calculating and manipulative for that—but if all he did was buy them treats, then maybe I overreacted.
It still feels like a breach of trust and a violation of my privacy.
I take a deep breath and loosen my hands.
“I also apologize for Friday night,” he says.
Every cell in my body contracts, and I fight to appear unaffected.
“Are you apologizing as Mr. Pen or Connor?” I challenge.
He leans forward and props his forearms on the table, but instead of emanating menace and intimidation, regret and sincerity shine from his clear green eyes.
“Both. I didn’t present my intention correctly and caused you harm as both Ms. Winthrop and Hilary. I’m sorry,” he says.
I swallow my emotions, lean back, and drape my forearms across my armrests as though at ease.
“I believe you’re sincere in your apology, but I’m not currently in a position to forgive you,” I say.
He follows my lead and lounges back.
“I’ll accept that answer only because it comes from you,” he drawls.
My stupid heart skips a beat.
“Allow me to try again without Connor fucking everything up.”
The self-reproach in both his words and his tone shocks me into silence. He slides a black folder across the table to me.
Dread congeals in my veins. I don’t want to try again. I need this job too much.
When I press my palm down on it to push it back across the table, he props his elbow on his armrest, drops his chin into his palm, and quirks a brow.
The judgmental challenge taunts my competitive side.
Deciding not to fear a few pieces of paper, I give him an overly sweet smile and flip open the folder.
The words are so ridiculous they don’t make sense. I scan the paper several times, but they remain just as ludicrous as at first glance.
When I lift my eyes from the sheet of black and white, my boss and long-ago lover remains in the same sardonic pose.
“A contract marriage. Between you and me,” I say in disbelief.
“Yes,” he responds.
The unwavering surety in his stare gives me pause.
This isn’t a joke. He means it.
“Read the terms, Ms. Winthrop,” he commands.
Like a puppet on a string, I lower my eyes and flip to the next page.
Five years. One million dollars upon signing the agreement, another million after attending our wedding and obtaining our marriage certificate, plus two million every year of marriage.
Half ownership of all new projects. Two vacation homes.
Three highly sought after apartments in expensive neighborhoods.
The list goes on and on. It’s too much.
The requirements are just as long.
It’s worse than paying for one night of sex. He wants a slave for five years.
Even as the dollar amounts swim in my head, I know I can’t accept. I love my sister and want the best for her, but not like this. I can’t make myself this vulnerable to any man, much less Connor Pen. He already proved he has the power to hurt me deeper than anyone else.
I take a deep breath and prepare to make the worst mistake of my life. Either way, I’m losing everything.
I lift my head and meet his emerald orbs.
“You’re a monster. I’m not agreeing to this.”
“I am a monster. I’m your monster,” he quips.
I roll my eyes, prop my elbows on the table, and tap the contract.
“This is exactly the same thing you tried to pull on Friday night,” I say.
He leans forward and weaves his fingers together on the desk. I curse my overeager body as it leaps into arousal.
“How so?” he asks.
I throw my hands up and push away from the table.
“You’re buying me like a whore,” I explain.
Fury darkens his countenance. The light seems to dim around him. He flattens his palms on the table and rises. For the barest of moments, he looms over me. My insides turn to goo, but my fury won’t allow me to back down. I stand and mimic his pose.
“You’re not a whore, Hilary,” he growls.
I shove the folder across the table at him.
“Oh really? This makes me feel like one,” I snarl.
He grabs my wrist. I curl my hand into a fist but don’t try to pull it away.
“I’m doing this to protect you,” he murmurs.
My fool heart wants to believe him, but I’m not a na?ve bimbo.
“Protect me from what? You?” I scoff.
“No, my family.”
His answer isn’t what I expect. My response bursts from my mouth before I have time to stop it.
“You don’t have a family.”
“Neither do you.”
All the blood drains from my head until nothing but a hollow echo chamber remains.
I yank my wrist free and stomp toward the door.
As I reach for the handle, he grabs my forearms from behind and pulls them above my head before pinning me against the wooden panel with his bulk. I hiss as he presses harder against me, flattening my breasts and digging my hips into the hard surface.
His ragged breathing doesn’t match the exertion.
“I’m sorry, Hilary. That’s not what I meant to say,” he murmurs next to my temple.
Heat throbs deep in my core.
“Well, you said it. You can’t take it back now,” I snarl.
“I wish I could. You didn’t choose your family any more than I did mine,” he rumbles into my ear.
I search for an escape, but aside from throwing my head back, which will only lead to me hitting his shoulder and hurting my neck, I can’t move.
“No, see, you apparently have a family that you didn’t choose. You have one, you just chose not to have them in your life.”
“That’s not true, my gladiator goddess,” he murmurs.
“Don’t start that nickname crap with me. I won’t—”
“My father’s wife murdered my mother.”
He says the admission with a voice so devoid of emotion I recognize it as the driving force behind all his efforts.
“What does that have to do with this contract marriage? Wouldn’t marrying you put me in more danger?” I ask.
He shifts and winces.
“I wouldn’t make the offer if it jeopardized your safety,” he vows.
“How could it not?” I snap.
My attempt to buck him off only ends in delicious friction between our bodies.
“They don’t know I’m alive,” he growls.
I freeze.
“Let me guess, it’s some super rich and famous family and you’re the illegitimate heir.”
His silence chills me to my soul.
“Connor, this isn’t funny. I’m done. Get off me.”
“Alex Koch is my biological father. Jocelyn Koch murdered my mother but failed to kill me,” he says.
I shake my head and dig my nails into my palms.
“You want to use me as a pawn in your game of revenge,” I hiss.
“Not a pawn, Hilary. My queen,” he vows.
The dark promise in his tone fills me with want. He teases the shell of my ear with his lips. The lust simmering in my veins bubbles and steams.
“I won’t have a child with you. I don’t want a baby. Ever,” I promise.
“That’s not what your body says,” he growls with a nip to my ear and a roll of his hips.
My breath catches as his hard cock grinds against my ass. I shake my head and tug at my arms, but he leans his shoulders against me and flicks his tongue over my ear.
I turn my head and stare in the opposite direction. Sure, he could attack my other ear, but the movement represents my denial clearly enough.
“Connor, I’m serious. Attraction and being responsible for a new life are two completely separate matters,” I shudder.
He drops his forehead to the door beside the back of my head and sighs, ruffling the hairs on my nape.
“We’ll add it to the contract,” he relents.
I blink, needing a moment to process his capitulation.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Why are you asking when you brought it up?”
The tightness in his voice pulls me out of my thoughts and focuses my attention on him. A slight trembling affects his entire body and an almost imperceptible wheeze follows his every inhale.
“Don’t most cheesy inheritance plots say the first one to have an heir wins it all?” I ask.
He scoffs. My worry compounds at the hint of wetness in the sound.
“We’re not in a cheesy movie. We’re in a tale of revenge, but I’m not so much of a monster I’ll force an innocent life into existing in this mess,” he rumbles.
He turns his face and nuzzles the back of my head. Since he can’t see my face, I bite my bottom lip and enjoy the sting as he loosens his grip on my forearms and covers the back of my hands with his. Every nerve ending in my body tingles with sensitivity as he interlocks our fingers.
“Sign the contract, Ms. Winthrop. Marry me, Hilary. Take your rightful place by my side, my warrior queen.”
My heart gives a prolonged squeeze as hunger throbs in my core and fresh arousal floods my panties.
He stiffens before disappearing.
I blink in shock and stumble backward. He coughs. The wet, phlegmy sound fills me with alarm.
He turns his back to me, grabs a napkin off the desk, and spits into it. I step around him and grab his wrist.
Horror steals my thoughts as I stare at the red blotch on the napkin.
He coughed up blood.
Indignation, worry, and purpose flow through me.
I wouldn’t put it past him to be hiding a terminal illness or some horrible disease while on his quest for revenge, which would explain his willingness to part with so many of his assets.
I shove the thought aside. I’ve seen his medical reports. He’s in obnoxiously perfect health.
Concern builds in my chest, but I focus on my indignation and meet his eyes.
His flawless green irises reach into my depths while his handsome face and full lips fuel the hunger in my core.
I scowl.
Connor Pen will not offer me millions of dollars to marry him and then die from some mysterious injury before he can pay me.
This is a contract marriage. I’m doing this to fund my sister’s treatments and to provide for my family. Emotions have no place in this transaction.
So if the deepest, darkest recesses of my heart and soul rejoice at the thought of being tied so intimately to this man, I refuse to acknowledge them.
He’s the boss I’ve suffered under for eight years after an ill-timed one-night stand and my soon-to-be husband on paper.
Nothing more.
I cling to the lie and don an unimpressed expression as I lift his wrist.
He will explain. Now.