The fire had left nothing but ash and the acrid stench of burnt wood and melted vinyl. Evelyn Wright stood in the doorway of what was once Wright Notes, her fingers curling into the frayed sleeves of her cashmere sweater—one of the few things she'd managed to save from the blaze. The fire marshal had left an hour ago, his words hanging in the air like smoke: "Arson. Professional job." Her studio, her life's work, the place where she'd poured her soul into every note of her debut album Echoes, was gone. And with it, any hope of paying the $500,000 in debt that had piled up overnight—insurance denied, creditors hounding, her dream crumbling into dust.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a number she didn't recognize, but she answered anyway, her voice hoarse from smoke and exhaustion. "Wright."
"Miss Wright, this is Elias Voss, attorney for Mr. Nicholas Grayson. He'd like to arrange a meeting with you at your earliest convenience. It's regarding a proposition that could solve your… current financial predicament."
Nicholas Grayson. The name sent a shiver down her spine—not from fear, but from the faint, lingering memory of a night three months prior, in the back of a dimly lit Manhattan club. She'd been celebrating a small victory—securing a distribution deal for her album—and he'd been there, leaning against the bar, a glass of scotch in his hand, his dark eyes fixed on her like a predator. He was devastatingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and hair that fell in unruly waves, streaked with a hint of chestnut. She'd been drunk on champagne and ambition, and he'd been drunk on power and boredom. Before she knew it, they were in the backseat of his black Rolls-Royce, his hands on her body, his lips searing against hers, the world outside fading into a blur of neon and leather.
He'd been rough, but not cruel—his fingers digging into her hips, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered filthy things in her ear, things that made her skin prickle and her heart race. She'd surrendered to him, lost in the heat of the moment, the way his body pressed against hers, hard and warm, the way he'd made her forget everything except the pleasure coursing through her veins. When it was over, he'd left her with a kiss on her forehead, a crisp $100 bill on the seat beside her, and a smirk that said he knew she'd remember him. She'd never expected to hear his name again.
"I don't have time for games, Mr. Voss," she said, tearing herself from the memory, her voice sharp. "I'm in the middle of a crisis."
"This is no game, Miss Wright. Mr. Grayson is prepared to offer you $500,000 upfront, plus full funding to rebuild your studio. All he asks is a small… favor in return."
Her stomach flipped. She knew there was a catch—nothing in life, especially from a man like Nicholas Grayson, came for free. But the thought of saving her studio, of getting justice for the fire that had destroyed everything, was too tempting to ignore. "Where and when?"
"The Grayson penthouse, 8 PM tonight. 740 Park Avenue. No need to dress formally—but I'd advise you to look presentable. Mr. Grayson values punctuality."
The line went dead. Evelyn stared at her phone, her mind racing. She thought of the fire, of the creditors, of the way Nicholas Grayson had touched her that night—rough, possessive, intoxicating. She knew she was walking into a trap, but she had no other choice. She went home, showered off the smoke, and slipped into a simple black dress that hugged her curves, the fabric soft against her skin, a silent reminder of the night she'd shared with him. She applied a touch of red lipstick, ran a brush through her chestnut hair, and headed out into the Manhattan night.
The Grayson penthouse was everything she'd imagined—opulent, cold, and impersonal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, the lights twinkling like stars below. A grand piano sat in the corner, its black surface polished to a shine, and for a moment, Evelyn wondered if it was his. The man himself was standing by the bar, pouring a glass of scotch, his back to her. He was wearing a tailored black suit, the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a white dress shirt underneath, the top two buttons undone, exposing a hint of his toned chest. He turned when he heard her enter, his dark eyes locking onto hers, and that familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Miss Wright," he said, his voice deep and smooth, like velvet, "you look even better than I remember."
Evelyn felt her cheeks heat up, but she held his gaze, refusing to show weakness. "Mr. Grayson. Your attorney said you have a proposition."
He walked toward her, the scotch in his hand, his steps slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could smell the woody scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint aroma of scotch and his own warm, masculine scent. It made her dizzy,勾起 memories of that night in the car—the way he'd smelled, the way he'd felt, the way he'd made her feel alive.
"I need a wife," he said, cutting to the chase, his eyes never leaving hers. "My grandfather is dying. His will states that only a married man can inherit Grayson Group. My brother, Samuel, is breathing down my neck, ready to take everything if I don't comply. I need someone to play the part—for 18 months. In return, you get $500,000, your studio rebuilt, and I'll help you find out who set that fire."
Evelyn's breath caught. The fire—he knew. Or at least, he could help her find out. She stared at him, trying to read his expression, but his face was a mask, cold and unreadable. "A contract marriage," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Exactly," he said, taking a step closer, their bodies almost touching. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, the touch light but electric, sending a shiver down her spine. "We'll be husband and wife in public—attend events, smile for the cameras, play the part. In private… we can keep things as they are. Or not." His voice dropped to a low growl, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, the gesture intimate, possessive. "I remember how you tasted that night, Evelyn. How you begged for more. We could make this… bearable. Even enjoyable."
His words sent a flush of heat through her body, pooling between her legs. She remembered it too—the way he'd made her beg, the way he'd taken her, the way she'd felt like she was burning from the inside out. She wanted to say no, to walk away, to tell him she wouldn't be his toy again. But the thought of her studio, of finding the person who'd destroyed her life, was too strong. And deep down, a part of her craved his touch again—craved the heat, the passion, the escape from the pain she was feeling.
Nicholas noticed the change in her expression, the way her breath quickened, the way her eyes darkened with desire. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Say yes, Evelyn. Let me help you. Let me have you. Again."
His lips grazed her neck, soft at first, then harder, sucking gently on the sensitive skin, and she couldn't hold back the soft moan that escaped her lips. He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist, pressing her body against his, hard and firm. She could feel his erection through his suit, and it made her dizzy with desire. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the heat between them, to the man who was offering her everything she needed—even if it meant selling her soul.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice breathless. "I'll do it."
Nicholas pulled back, his eyes dark with desire, a smirk playing on his lips. He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Good girl," he said, his voice low and husky. "My attorney will have the contract ready tomorrow. But until then…" He leaned in, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth, exploring, dominating. She kissed him back, hungry and desperate, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The world around them faded away—there was no fire, no debt, no contract. Only the heat of their bodies, the taste of his lips, the promise of pleasure and pain, all wrapped up in a single, dangerous kiss.
When he pulled away, they were both breathless, their chests heaving. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the rough passion of their kiss. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Grayson," he said, his voice laced with irony and something else—something Evelyn couldn't quite place. "Let's make this interesting."