Talented actress and billionaire husband

Aria's eyes snapped open.

The blinding Manhattan sunlight stabbed her retinas, forcing a sharp, desperate gasp from her lungs. She choked on the conditioned air, her chest heaving as if she had just been pulled from the bottom of a freezing ocean.

Her fingers curled inward, digging into the mattress. The fabric beneath her nails was impossibly soft. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton. The physical friction grounded her, sending a jolt of reality through her nervous system. She was alive. She had a body.

A flat, synthetic voice echoed directly inside her skull.

"Handler 377 confirming successful binding to Eternity Inc. system."

Aria clamped her hands over her ears, but the sound wasn't coming from the room. A spike of pure agony drove itself into her right temple. Her spine arched off the mattress as a massive stream of data forced its way into her brain.

The Sterling Contract. A lifestyle agreement. A bankrupt Long Island family. A ruthless Wall Street predator.

Her stomach rolled. The physical toll of the information dump left her muscles twitching, but the cold, hard truth settled in her chest like a stone. She was a dead Hollywood actress. If she wanted to breathe real air again, she had to play the role of the tragic, helpless female lead in this pathetic script.

Aria dropped her hands. Though her temples still throbbed with a dull, echoing ache, she forced her chest to rise and fall in a steady rhythm. The panic drained from her veins, replaced by the icy, calculated focus she always felt right before the director yelled action. It was the professionalism carved deep into her bones.

The sound of running water stopped.

Aria froze. The physical noise broke her internal connection with the system. She looked toward the far end of the massive suite.

The frosted glass door of the bathroom swung open. A thick cloud of white steam rolled out over the dark hardwood floor, and a tall, broad-shouldered shadow stepped through it.

Aria pulled her knees to her chest, dragging the heavy duvet up to her chin. Her body naturally folded into a defensive, trembling posture. It was muscle memory. Play the victim. Look small.

Bowen Greene walked into the light. He wore a black silk bathrobe loosely tied at his waist. Drops of water fell from his dark, messy hair, landing on his collarbone.

He stopped at the edge of the rug and stared down at her.

Aria looked at his face. Her professional brain immediately categorized him. Strong jawline, intense dark eyes, a straight nose. It was a perfect movie face. A ten out of ten.

Bowen rolled his shoulders back. He opened his mouth, and his voice came out in a forced, gravelly tone that sounded like he had practiced it in front of a mirror.

"You need to wake up and face reality."

It was the exact cadence of a cheap internet Alpha Male tutorial. Aria almost cringed.

A transparent blue screen popped up right in front of her eyes. It was the system interface, displaying her required reaction: [Tremble. Look away in fear.]

The sudden flash of the screen caused Aria's eyes to pause for a fraction of a second. She stared blankly at the space near Bowen's chest.