Page 7 of The Billionaire's Bargain

Not the answer I wanted, but not a refusal either. Progress. I reach into my jacket and withdraw a card—not my standard business card, but a special one with my private number, the one less than ten people in the world possess.

"My number," I say, placing it on the table between us. "Call me with your decision. But don't take too long, Alice. This offer has an expiration date."

"How long?" She doesn't touch the card yet.

"Until tomorrow night. After that, I'll assume your answer is no."

She inhales sharply. "That's not much time."

"I'm not a patient man." I stand, buttoning my jacket. "And some decisions are better made quickly, before doubt and fear cloud your judgment."

She remains seated, looking up at me with those wide eyes. "And if I say yes? When would this...arrangement start?"

"Immediately." I allow myself to reach out then, just a brief touch, my fingertips grazing her cheek. Her skin is as soft as I'd imagined, and she doesn't pull away.

A visible shiver runs through her at my touch. Not fear—desire. It takes everything in me not to pull her from the chair and into my arms right there.

Instead, I step back, giving her space. "Think carefully, Alice. But remember—this opportunity won't come again."

I turn and walk toward the door, feeling her eyes on me. Just before exiting, I glance back. She's still sitting there, my cardnow in her hand, her expression a complex mixture of anxiety, calculation, and something that looks remarkably like hope.

I don't wait for her to notice my gaze. I push through the door and step into the afternoon sunlight, a smile tugging at my lips. She'll call. Her practical nature won't allow any other outcome.

And when she does, when she finally belongs to me, even if only for thirty days—I'll make sure she never wants to leave.

four

. . .

Alice

The medical billsfan across our kitchen table like a losing hand at poker. I've been staring at them for so long the numbers have started to swim, merging into one massive, unpayable sum that pulses like a second heartbeat in my temples. Mom's breathing is labored from the next room, the familiar rattle in her chest a constant reminder of why I'm even considering the business card burning a hole in my pocket.

Alexander Grant.

Even his name feels heavy, weighted with power and the indecent proposal he whispered against my ear last week when I served him coffee at the diner.

Our apartment smells like soup and medicine, the two scents permanently embedded in the peeling wallpaper. The single window in our living room lets in anemic light that does nothing to brighten the stack of unpaid notices on the counter or the worn-through patches on our secondhand furniture. I hear Toby's video game sounds leaking from the earbuds he refusesto remove lately. At fourteen, he's retreating into digital worlds where problems can be solved with cheat codes and extra lives. I don't blame him.

I pick up Mom's newest prescription—the one the insurance won't cover—and turn the bottle in my hands. One month's supply: $427. Might as well be a million.

"Alice?" Mom calls from her bedroom, voice threadbare. "Did you eat something?"

"Yes," I lie, placing the bottle down with trembling fingers. I've been subsisting on diner leftovers and coffee for days now. "Do you need more water?"

No answer means she's drifted back to sleep. The silence lets me continue my mental calculations, the same ones I've been running obsessively since Alexander slid his business card into my apron pocket seven days ago.

The memory of his fingers brushing against my hip still makes my skin tighten.

Now, staring at the impossible mountain of bills, I understand what he meant by practical. It's not a choice between right and wrong anymore. It's a choice between drowning and grabbing the only lifeline in sight, even if it's attached to the devil himself.

The doorbell rings, making me flinch so hard I knock a glass of water onto the bills. As I'm frantically trying to blot them dry, the bell rings again, more insistently this time. Probably the landlord, coming for the rent we're already ten days late on.

When I swing the door open, it's not the landlord. It's worse.

"Your building's security is abysmal," Alexander Grant says, stepping past me into our apartment without waiting for an invitation. He fills the tiny entryway like a storm cloud, darkening everything with his presence. His cologne—something expensive and subtle—displaces the medicinal smell,and suddenly our apartment feels even smaller, shabbier, more desperate.

"I haven't called you yet," I say, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

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