Chapter 2
Emma
She paused, her back still to me. "Excuse me?"
"How much would make you the right person?" My voice came out harder than I intended, almost sharp.
Jenny turned back slowly, wariness written all over her face. "How much for what, exactly?"
"To have a conversation with my boss. To tell him you met at the charity gala. That's all." My heart was pounding again, that familiar panic rising in my chest.
She hesitated, studying me. "How old are you?"
The question threw me off balance. "Thirty. Why?"
"And your boss?"
"Thirty-two." Where the hell was this going?
"Jenny, how old are you?"
"Twenty."
"And your family?"
Her eyes dropped to the floor, and I saw her throat work as she swallowed hard. "My mom has stage three breast cancer. Insurance doesn't cover the experimental treatment that's her best shot." When she looked back up, her eyes had hardened with determination that made her look older than twenty. "How much, Mrs. York?"
Something twisted in my chest. Damn it. "If you do this, your mother's medical expenses won't be a problem anymore."
Jenny took a deep breath, and I watched her make the calculation, watched her choose her mother over her pride. Just like I had three years ago.
"Then I accept your offer, Ms. Wells. If it will help my mom, I'll do it."
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. My throat felt too tight.
Later, Tara and I walked along the High Line, the elevated park offering a momentary escape from the city below. The cool evening air helped calm my frayed nerves, but barely.
"Are you sure about this?" Tara asked, concern etched across her face. "What if Noah actually likes this girl? She's pretty, and she seems smart."
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, my shoulders hunching against more than just the wind. "The prenup expires in several days. After that, we go our separate ways. What happens next won't matter to me."
Even as I said it, I knew it was bullshit. Of course it would matter. Everything about Noah mattered, had always mattered, even when I desperately wished it didn't.
Tara stopped, turning to face me. Her hand caught my arm, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Emma, be careful. Not just with Noah, but with this girl too. She might develop her own ideas about this situation."
"I know what I'm doing," I said, though my voice shook and I wasn't entirely convinced myself. Hell, I wasn't convinced at all.
We sat on a bench overlooking the city. The lights were beginning to twinkle across Manhattan, each one a tiny beacon in the darkness. Tara reached over and squeezed my hand, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease just slightly.
"You know, I still remember when you stood up to that sleazy gallery owner who kept 'accidentally' brushing against me. You threatened to call every donor in his contact list."
I smiled at the memory, a real smile for the first time all day. "He deserved worse. Fucking creep."
"My point is, you've always been there for me. I've got your back in this, whatever happens. Even if I think you're being completely insane."
"Thank you." I leaned my head on her shoulder, suddenly exhausted. "If I ever have kids, you're definitely going to be their godmother."
Tara laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "And if I have kids, yours can marry them. We'll arrange it all, just like the old days."
"No way," I said, shaking my head fiercely. "In this day and age, children deserve the freedom to choose their own paths. Not to be trapped in some arrangement they never asked for."
Like me. The unspoken words hung in the air between us.
As Tara left for her gallery opening, I remained on the bench, watching the city lights multiply. My hands were still trembling slightly as I pulled out my phone. I had set my plan in motion. Now I just had to see it through, even if every instinct told me I was playing with fire.
[Two weeks earlier]
Pain was the first thing I registered—a deep, throbbing ache radiating from my core to my thighs. I blinked slowly, the morning light filtering through the half-drawn curtains of the Four Seasons suite, each sunbeam feeling like a personal assault on my pounding head.
Where was I? The question lingered only for a moment before the weight of a muscular arm across my waist answered it for me.
Noah.
Oh fuck. Oh God.
Memories from last night crashed over me like waves—violent, unrelenting, drowning me in their intensity. Noah, stumbling into the hotel suite after too many drinks at the charity gala. His eyes, usually icy blue, burning with something desperate and dangerous. The way he had looked at me—not as his chief strategy officer, not as his contract wife, but as a woman.
I shifted slightly, wincing at the soreness between my legs. My pussy still throbbed from his rough entry, my inner walls tender and swollen. Noah's arm was heavy across my bare stomach, his breathing deep and even in sleep. I turned my head carefully to look at him, my neck protesting with a sharp twinge.
Even unconscious, his face held that arresting power—sharp jawline, perfect features arranged in an expression that was never quite peaceful. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger, almost vulnerable. Almost.
The sheets were tangled around us, Egyptian cotton now stained with evidence of what had happened. My blood. Because despite being thirty years old and technically married for three years, last night had been my first time. A pathetic confession I'd never made to anyone, not even Tara.
I closed my eyes, biting my lip until it nearly bled, letting the memories wash over me again. Noah's hands—always so controlled in boardroom meetings—tearing at my black cocktail dress with animal desperation. His mouth hot against my neck, my collarbone, trailing fire down my body. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress. His cock, thick and intimidating, pushing insistently against my untried entrance.
"Please," I had whispered, not sure if I was begging him to stop or continue, my nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
He hadn't stopped. Neither had I tried very hard to make him. Instead, I'd arched up against him, my nipples hard and aching as they brushed against his chest.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered under my breath, pressing my trembling fingers to my temples. The room still smelled of sex and expensive whiskey. I carefully lifted Noah's arm and slid out from under it, my body protesting every movement with sharp stabs of pain. My thighs felt sticky with dried fluids—his release, my blood. Standing beside the bed, I could see the full extent of what had happened.
Bruises were forming on my hips where his fingers had dug in. My inner thighs were marked with what would become dark purple evidence of his passion. My breasts bore the imprints of his mouth, red marks that would soon darken.
I needed to get out of here. Now.
