Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon

Chapter 5

Word Count: 783 | Released on: Today at 14:04

the massive guest bed, staring at the ceili

her appetite at dinner. She had barely eaten half he

her backpack, unzipped the front pocket, and pull

t. If she dropped a single red crumb in here, it w

down the dark hallway. She assumed

s. She gripped the top of the chip bag and pulled. The plastic tore open wi

ips, and stuffed them into her mouth. The spicy, artificial crun

he corner floor lamp flared to life, ca

shadows. He wore a black silk bathrobe. A crystal glass of am

pounding her chest, nearly

stood up and walked slowly toward the kitchen. T

ked out the light. He looked down at her fingers, whi

ched the bag of Cheetos

protested, re

authority in his gaze made her freez

el trash can, stepped on the pedal,

is a fast track to destroying your stomac

p. "I was just a

igerator and pulled out a loaf of whole wheat b

fficient movements, he assembled a sandwich and pressed th

strange, confusing feeling. He didn't act like a husband. He acted exact

ut it diagonally, and slid the plate across the marble is

"Get that red dye off your sk

crubbed her hands with soap, and dried them on a towel.

tretched, warm and savory. It

is chest. He watched her eat every single bite. He did not l

A thick ring of white milk

a fraction of a second, his eyes darkened. Then, he blinked, reache

ur face,

scrubbed her mouth, her face flu

o flee back

at night, tell me. I will prepare something proper for you. Eating those chemical-la

a defeated nod and scurried down the h

Chapter End

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Bound By Contract To The Secret Tycoon

Yan Huo Modern

“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.”