The contract sat between us on the polished mahogany table like a loaded gun.

I stared at it, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The words blurred on the page — one year of marriage, public appearances, shared living, no real intimacy required unless both parties agreed. At the bottom, two signature lines waited. One already had his bold, sharp signature.

Viktor Kane.

Forty-two years old. Billionaire. Ruthless. The man who had been my late father’s biggest rival… and now, apparently, my future husband.

I was twenty-two. Fresh out of university. Drowning in debt from my father’s failed company. And apparently, this was the...