The rain wouldn't stop.

I stood at my tiny kitchen window, watching it pound against the cracked glass, turning Brooklyn into a blur of gray and shadow. The leak in the corner had started again—a steady, mocking drip into the bucket I'd placed there three months ago. I couldn't afford to fix it. I couldn't afford anything.

I pulled my threadbare cardigan tighter around my shoulders and stared at the stack of bills on my counter. Medical bills. Rent. Student loans. The numbers blurred together, an endless sea of red ink that threatened to drown me.

Mom's surgery was in two weeks. Fifty thousand dollars I didn't have. Fifty thousand dollars I'd never have.

I'd sold everything. My good brushes. My laptop. The ring my grandmother left me. None of it was enough. It would never be enough.

The kettle whistled, and I poured the boiling water over the cheap tea bag, watching the liquid turn a weak, sad brown. I didn't even have milk. I hadn't had milk in three days.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen.

Brooklyn Hospital: Payment reminder. Balance due: $47,832.00.

I closed my eyes and breathed.

This is your life now, Aria. This is what you get for being stupid. For running. For thinking you could escape the world you were born into.

The bell above the building's entrance buzzed—loud, jarring, pulling me from my spiral.

I frowned. I wasn't expecting anyone. The landlord had already come for rent last week, and I'd barely convinced him to wait another month. The neighbors never visited. I had no friends left. They'd all drifted away when my mother got sick, when my desperation became too heavy to carry.

The buzzer rang again. And again. Whoever it was, they weren't leaving.

I shuffled to the intercom, pressing the button. "Hello?"

No response.

I waited. The rain kept falling.

Then—three sharp knocks on my door.

Not the buzzer. My actual door. Who had gotten past the building's entrance? I hadn't heard anyone come up the stairs.

My heart started beating a little faster.

I tiptoed to the door, pressing my eye to the peephole.

And froze.

The man on the other side was tall. Impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to take up the entire narrow hallway. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. His hair was dark, swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth set in a hard, unforgiving line.

And his eyes. Even through the warped glass of the peephole, I could see them. Dark. Cold. Burning with something I couldn't name.

I knew those eyes.

I'd spent five years trying to forget them.

Cyrus Kane.

My hand fell from the door. My knees felt weak.

No. No, no, no. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

I hadn't seen him in five years. Not since I was seventeen, standing in his penthouse in Manhattan, watching his face shift from love to rage as I handed back his ring. Not since I told him I couldn't marry him. Not since I ran away from the only man who had ever seen me as something more than a charity case.

I'd thought I'd escaped. I'd thought I was free.

I'd been a fool.

He knocked again. Harder. Three sharp, demanding raps that echoed through my tiny apartment like a death sentence.

"Aria." His voice was low, smooth, and carried the unmistakable command of a man who was used to being obeyed. "Open the door."

I didn't move. I couldn't.

"I know you're in there. I heard you breathing."

How could he hear me breathing? I was barely making a sound.

But that was Cyrus. He noticed everything. He always had.

"Aria." His tone dropped, softer now, but somehow more dangerous. "I'm not leaving. Open the door, or I'll break it down."

I believed him. Cyrus Kane didn't make threats. He made promises.

My trembling fingers found the lock. Turned it.

The door swung open, and he was there—all six-foot-something of him, filling my doorway like a dark god descending on a mortal world. The rain had caught him slightly, his shoulders dotted with moisture, but he looked utterly untouched by the chaos around him. Impeccable. Intimidating.

And cold. So impossibly cold.

His eyes swept over me. My ratty cardigan. My worn-out leggings. My tangled hair that hadn't been washed in two days because the hot water had stopped working.

"You look terrible," he said flatly.

I should have slammed the door in his face.

Instead, my throat tightened. "What do you want, Cyrus?"

He stepped inside without an invitation, his cologne invading my small, broken space—something expensive and masculine, a reminder of the world I'd left behind. The world I'd never belonged to in the first place.

He walked past me, surveying my apartment like he was assessing a crime scene. The leaky corner. The pile of bills on the counter. The sad cup of weak tea I'd abandoned. The couch that was held together with duct tape.

He saw it all.

I saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Satisfaction? Triumph? It was there and gone in an instant, replaced by that cold, perfect mask.

"You're living like this," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Living like what? Like someone who doesn't have a billionaire bankrolling her life?" I crossed my arms, trying to summon some of the fire I'd had at seventeen. "Sorry to disappoint you, but not all of us have trust funds."

His eyes narrowed. "You're not disappointing me, Aria. You're proving my point."

"And what point is that?"

He turned to face me fully. And for the first time, I saw what I'd missed in the peephole. Beneath the cold rage, beneath the flawless exterior—there was something raw. Something damaged.

Something that looked almost like pain.

"You should have married me," he said quietly. "You would have had everything. A life. Security. A future."

"I was seventeen," I whispered. "I was a child."

"You were old enough to break my heart."

His words struck like a slap.

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could I say? He was right. I had broken his heart. I'd seen it in his eyes that night, watched the light die as I handed him back his ring.

But I'd been so young. So scared of a world I didn't understand.

I'd thought I was saving myself.

Now, looking around my crumbling apartment, I wasn't so sure.

Cyrus reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a folded document. He tossed it on my cluttered table—a thick stack of papers that landed with a heavy thud.

"Read it," he said.

I hesitated. Then, slowly, I walked to the table and picked up the papers.

My eyes scanned the text. Legal jargon. Numbers. Names.

My name. Aria Mitchell.

And his. Cyrus Kane.

Marriage contract.

I dropped the papers like they'd burned me. "What is this?"

"I think it's pretty clear."

"A marriage contract? Are you insane? You want to marry me? After everything?"

"I don't want to marry you, Aria." His voice was ice. "I want to use you."

I stared at him. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"Read the terms," he said calmly. "All of them."

My hands trembling, I picked up the contract again. And I read.

Contract Terms:

1. Aria Mitchell agrees to marry Cyrus Kane for a period of one year.

2. During this year, she will fulfill all duties of a wife, including attending social events, appearing in public, and living in his residence.

3. Cyrus Kane agrees to pay all medical expenses of Aria's mother, including the upcoming surgery, and all associated debts.

4. Upon completion of the year, Aria Mitchell will receive a divorce and the sum of one million dollars.

5. Aria Mitchell will not fall in love with Cyrus Kane.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It came out broken and hollow.

"You can't be serious," I said. "You want to own me for a year? Parading me around like a trophy, a puppet on your strings?"

"A trophy you would be," he said flatly. "My trophy. Which is more than you are now—nothing."

The word hit like a knife.

Nothing.

I looked at him, this cold stranger who had once looked at me like I was his entire world.

"What happened to you?" I whispered.

"Heartbreak happened to me," he said. "You happened to me."

For the first time, his voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough for me to see beneath the mask.

He really had loved me.

And I had ruined him.

I looked down at the contract again. My mother's surgery. My debts. A million dollars.

All of it was right here. Everything I needed. Everything I'd prayed for.

In exchange for one year of my life.

"Don't do it," I whispered to myself. "Don't. You'll regret it."

But when I thought of my mother in that hospital bed, pale and weak, her hand reaching out for mine...

I had no choice.

I'd already failed at everything else. What was one more failure?

"One year," I said quietly. "And you pay for everything. No hidden terms. No additional requirements."

"One year," he agreed. "And you belong to me, completely. In every way."

In every way.

My stomach clenched. I knew what he meant. I knew the price.

But my mother was dying. And I was already dead inside.

I picked up a pen.

"You'll regret this," I told him.

He smiled—a cold, cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I already regret everything about you, Aria. One more year of regret won't change anything."

I signed the contract.

And the moment I did, I knew I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

The Billionaire's Cruel Vow.

He vowed to destroy her.

He didn't vow to fall in love.

---

[END OF CHAPTER ONE]