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Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon

Chapter 3 

Word Count: 843    |    Released on: Today at 14:04

her cardboard boxes onto a brass luggage cart. She pushed the heavy cart

45th floor. The elevator shot

until she reached a massive oak door with a digital keypad. She s

de, she raised her hand

m inside. The lock clicked

nley shirt with the top two buttons undone. The fabric stretched tight across h

t his collarbone. She immediately looked

es on the cart. His brow furrowed. There was

eaviest box of books with one hand. His bicep flexed,

," Chloe said,

f the brass cart. She lost he

d caught her by the elbow. His grip was lik

of her trench coat. Chloe gasped and yanked h

xpression did not change. He turned around, p

windows overlooking the city skyline. The furniture was minimalist, all dark leather and cold marble. It looke

own. He pointed down a

nd door on the right. That

te bedrooms. The knot of anxiety in her stomach loosened, thoug

om was spotless. The bed was massive, covered in crisp, h

her. He held out a silve

or the front door," he said. He adjusted his cuff. "I wake up at six. I

elivering the rules l

rapidly. "I

d and walked away, headin

her back against the solid wood and closed her

loset. The space was the size of her old bedroom. When she finished hanging her garments, they took up l

left her room and walked into the livi

were built into the sleek black cabinetry. She

It was stocked with organic vegetables, premium c

clicked open. Harrison walked o

u demain matin," he said, his voice

. French? A project manager sp

he phone away from his ear and tapped the

chen island. "Are you hu

t just a freeloader in this expensive apartmen

tense shoulders. He g

nto his study, shuttin

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Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon
Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon
“To escape my greedy stepmother, I signed a marriage contract with a cold, rigid construction manager, expecting a miserable life of poverty. But the moment the ink dried, I realized I had severely misjudged the man I just married. He wasn't a broke blue-collar worker. He lived in a multi-million-dollar penthouse, spoke flawless business French, and cooked gourmet meals while forbidding me from doing chores. Most bizarrely, he dodged my physical touch like it was a live wire. He gave me a massive separate bedroom. When a speeding bike nearly hit me on the street, he yanked me to safety, only to violently shove himself away a second later, seemingly terrified of holding a woman. I decided to test him, stating I wanted to delay having children for our fake marriage. "I will respect your wishes entirely and shield you from my family," he answered perfectly. The puzzle pieces snapped together in my mind. The immaculate apartment, the commanding presence, the absolute refusal to be intimate. I was absolutely certain: my wealthy fake husband was gay, and I was just his beard. Relieved that I wouldn't have to sleep with a stranger, I happily relaxed into my new role as his supportive best friend. But as elite job offers mysteriously began landing in my inbox, I started to realize my "gay" husband was hiding a much deeper, far more dangerous obsession.”