The Billionaire's Contract for Revenge

For five years, I was the steady paycheck that funded my boyfriend Mark's musical dreams. I paid the rent, I believed in his genius, and I thought our future was finally about to begin.

He begged me for one last ride for him and his wealthy patron, Daniel. That favor ended in the screech of tires and the shattering of glass.

I came to in a haze of pain, my right arm shattered and my career as an architect over. But Mark ignored my injuries, screaming at the paramedics to save his patron's precious hands.

Then, at the hospital, Daniel's terrifyingly powerful brother, Julian, loomed over my gurney and promised me I would pay for what I'd done.

While I was lying in a hospital bed, Mark changed the locks on the apartment I paid for and gave a false statement to Julian's lawyers, ensuring I would be blamed for everything.

Broke, homeless, and facing prison, I was summoned to Julian Thorne's office. He didn't offer mercy. He offered a contract.

He slid a document across his desk and gave me a choice: ruin and prison, or marriage and revenge.

"You will marry me for one year," he said, his voice like ice. "In return, I will not only drop the lawsuit, but I will personally ensure the man who betrayed you is utterly destroyed."

Chapter 1

The final stroke of the pen felt like a prayer. I leaned back in my worn office chair, the springs groaning in protest, and stared at the sprawling design spread across my drafting table. Veridia Central Park, reimagined. My design. For months, this project had been my entire world-a symphony of winding pathways, native wildflower meadows, and serene water features designed to be the city's green, beating heart. The scent of graphite, paper, and the faint, sweet aroma of the potted jasmine on my windowsill filled the small space, a perfume of pure creation.

This was it. The culmination of sleepless nights and sacrificed weekends. This was the project that would finally elevate me from a junior associate at a middling firm to a name people recognized. More importantly, it was the final brick in the foundation of the life I had so carefully built with Mark.

*Our life,* I corrected myself, a soft smile touching my lips. Everything I did was for us.

For five years, I had been the steady bedrock to his soaring ambition. While Mark, with his poet's soul and guitarist's hands, chased his muse, I paid the rent on our cramped-but-cozy apartment. I covered the bills when his teaching gigs were scarce. I was the one who encouraged him to enter that prestigious competition, who stayed up all night helping him collate his press kit, who believed in his genius when he was ready to give up. His success was my success. His dream, our shared future. And now, with this park commission practically guaranteed, our future felt solid, tangible, as real as the heavy vellum under my fingertips. A stable home, finally. The kind I'd never had as a child, shuffled between relatives who always made me feel like a temporary guest.

My phone buzzed on the corner of the desk, pulling me from my reverie. It was a text from Mark.

*'Performance went brilliantly. Daniel is ecstatic. Drinks at his penthouse to celebrate. Don't wait up, C. Big things are happening.'*

A familiar pang, half pride and half something else-a quiet loneliness-settled in my chest. Daniel Thorne. The wealthy patron. The 'mentor' who had taken Mark under his wing a year ago. Daniel, with his family's old money and influential connections, was opening every door for Mark, doors I could only ever dream of knocking on. I should have been thrilled. I *was* thrilled for him. But lately, these celebrations felt more and more exclusive, happening in a world of glittering penthouses and expensive champagne, a world I wasn't invited into.

*It's just for now,* I told myself, pushing the thought away. *Once he's established, once my career takes off, we'll be in that world together.* I had to believe that. It was the cornerstone of my faith in him, in us.

I began carefully rolling up the blueprints, my movements precise. The crisp rustle of the paper was a satisfying sound. I'd drop these off at the courier's office and then head home. Maybe I'd buy a bottle of our favorite cheap red wine and have a glass waiting for him, no matter how late he was. A small, grounding ritual.

As I slipped the rolled-up designs into their protective tube, I heard his key in the apartment door. My heart gave a little leap of surprise and pleasure. He came home after all.

"Mark?" I called out, stepping out of my small home office nook. "You're back early! I thought you were celebrating with Daniel."

He was standing in the entryway, his back to me, shrugging off his coat. The dim light from the hallway cast a long shadow that seemed to swallow our tiny living room. He hadn't heard me. He had his phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

"I know, I know," he was saying, his tone syrupy, intimate. It was a voice I hadn't heard him use in months. "I just had to get away. I needed to hear your voice."

My hand, which had been reaching for the light switch, froze in mid-air. My breath caught in my throat. He was talking to Daniel. Of course. They were close.

*Stop it, Clara. You're being paranoid,* my inner voice chided. But I couldn't move. I stood there, shrouded in the evening shadows, an unwilling eavesdropper in my own home.

"She's just... so much, you know?" Mark sighed, and the sound was a physical blow. He was talking about me. "Clingy. Always talking about 'our future,' our 'stable home.' It's suffocating. I needed someone who understood the demands of an artist's life, not someone trying to build a picket fence around it."

The air in my lungs turned to ice. Each word was a perfectly aimed dart, piercing through five years of carefully constructed belief. Suffocating? I thought I was being supportive. Clingy? I thought I was being loving.

"No, of course she has no idea," he chuckled, a low, cruel sound that vibrated through the floorboards and up into my bones. "She thinks her little park design is going to be our ticket to suburban bliss. It's almost sweet. She's been... convenient. A good stepping stone. But my life is starting with you now, Daniel. In London. Just like we planned."

London. Stepping stone. Convenient.

The words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the room. The blueprints in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy, like a tube filled with lead. My reality, the entire world I had built my identity around, fractured. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. The betrayal was so absolute, so profound, it stole the air from my lungs. It wasn't just the affair-it was the casual, brutal dismissal of my love, my sacrifice, my entire being. He had taken everything I'd given him and valued it as nothing more than a temporary convenience. It was the same cold, transactional feeling I remembered from my childhood, being passed from one family member to another, a burden to be managed until I could be moved along.

I must have made a sound-a choked gasp, a stumble-because he whipped around, his eyes widening as they landed on me in the darkness. The phone clattered from his hand.

"Clara," he breathed, his face a mask of panic. "I... I can explain."

But there was nothing to explain. I saw it all in his panicked eyes: the truth, the lies, the five years of my life I had poured into a man who saw me as a stepping stone on his path to someone else.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. A strange, terrifying calm washed over me. I turned without a word, walked back into my office nook, and shut the door, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the silent apartment. My hands were trembling so violently I could barely operate my computer mouse. My gaze fell on the screen, still open to my email inbox.

And there it was. An email that had arrived an hour ago, buried beneath spam and work notifications. The subject line glowed like a beacon in the gloom.

*"Finalist Notification: The Leveson Prize for Architectural Innovation."*

My heart hammered against my ribs. The Leveson Prize. A world-renowned foundation. I had applied on a whim three years ago, a desperate, hopeful shot in the dark, and had completely forgotten about it. My fingers trembled as I clicked it open.

*"Dear Ms. Evans,"* the email began. *"We are thrilled to inform you that your submission has been selected for the final round of the Leveson Prize. This includes a fully-funded, two-year residency in Rome to oversee the construction of your proposed project... We require your confirmation and a new, updated portfolio submission within the next 48 hours to secure your position."*

Rome. A new life. An escape.

Outside the door, Mark was starting to knock, his voice a low, pleading murmur. "Clara? Baby, please. Let's just talk about this."

I stared at the glowing screen, the words blurring through a sudden film of tears. Forty-eight hours. It was an impossible timeline. It was a lifeline. A glimmer of a world that was entirely my own, a future he hadn't tainted, a path he couldn't follow me down. It was a chance to escape the ruins of the home he had just bulldozed.

The knocking grew more insistent. But for the first time, his voice sounded distant, like it was coming from a long, long way away.

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