Claimed by My Ex's Father

Elena Vance's POV 

I must have lost my mind.

How did I become this person? Elena Vance, 4.0 GPA, two robotics patents pending, reduced to—what? A high-class prostitute? Except prostitutes at least got to choose their clients.

And the man I'd sold myself to? My ex-boyfriend's father.

 Well, uncle technically, but Julian had called him Dad his whole life.

God, if that wasn't the punchline to the world's sickest joke, I didn't know what was.

The presidential suite felt like a cage made of glass and luxury. Pretty. Cold.Impersonal.

 The kind of place where people came to make deals or have affairs, not to start marriages.

 But then again, this wasn't really a marriage, was it? It was a transaction.

 And Arthur Sterling's world ran on transactions. 

Arthur stood at a long glass table where the conArthur stood at a long glass table where the contract lay open.

He wore the same charcoal suit from the Sterling Global Capital annual report, the fabric absorbing the light.

He did not waste time on pleasantries.

My eyes moved across the final clause on the screen.

*Signing bonus: ten million dollars, transferred upon execution.

 Monthly spousal maintenance: one million dollars for the duration of the contract.

 All medical expenses for your grandfather's care will be covered indefinitely, including any specialized treatments or facility upgrades.

 All outstanding legal matters involving your family will be resolved through Sterling Global's legal team.

 Your position at Aegis Tech will be protected, with quarterly performance reviews conducted independently of any internal politics.* 

Grandfather's round-the-clock nursing care at Greenwood.

 Jake's lawyer fees and the settlement for his hit-and-run.

 The patent lawsuit that had been threatening to bankrupt me for six months.

As long as I sign, all the trouble can be solved.

Public appearances were restricted to three per quarter—carefully curated events where I'd smile on Arthur's arm and play the perfect wife.

 Normal sexual relations were listed as an expected baseline.

The contract lasts three years.

 If I file for divorce within three years, the penalty would triple, thirty million dollars I'd never be able to repay.

 I studied the final signature block on the screen, then looked up at the man across the table.

 “Why me?” I asked.

 Arthur’s expression remained neutral, his voice low and measured.

 “I need a wife to satisfy the family’s marriage pressure. You’re intelligent, attractive, and highly educated—ideal for the role.”

Arthur's expression remained neutral. He paused, and something flickered in his eyes.

 "And I imagine you'd be quite willing to get back at my son Julian." 

 I kept my face blank, but my fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

Julian.

Even thinking his name made something hot and acidic rise in my throat.

I initialed each page, then pressed my signature against the final line.

 The contract was executed.

 Arthur slid the documents into a leather folio and closed it with a soft, final sound.

 I turned toward the guest corridor.

 “I need to rest.

 The day has run too many threads already.”

His hand closed around my wrist before the sentence finished parsing.

 “The contract is now in effect, Elena,” he said, voice low and resonant.

 “You are my wife. You fulfill a wife’s obligations.”

Arthur drew me backward with controlled force until the back of my knees met the sectional facing the floor-to-ceiling window.

 His palms settled at my waist, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of my blouse to trace the skin above my hipbones with deliberate pressure.

 Arthur’s mouth curved against the shell of my ear.

 Arthur drew me backward with controlled force until the back of my knees met the sectional facing the floor-to-ceiling window.

 My mind still attempted to classify the moment as another line item in the prenup.

 “This is merely the normal sexual relations clause,” I said, voice low and flat, as if reciting code. “Nothing more.”

His palms settled at my waist, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of my blouse to trace the skin above my hipbones with deliberate pressure.

 Arthur’s mouth curved against the shell of my ear.

 “You should focus a bit more now.

” His breath was warm.

 He kissed the angle of my jaw first, then the pulse point beneath it, each contact measured and unhurried.

 One hand moved upward to cup my breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling the nipple until it tightened into a hard peak.

 The other hand slid between my thighs, pressing the seam of my skirt against the dampening flesh beneath until I felt the heat of his palm through the layers.

 I felt the thick ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, hot and insistent.

 He did not rush.

 He mapped me with the patience of an engineer testing tolerances, unbuttoning my blouse one slow increment at a time until cool air touched bare skin.

 His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, tongue tracing the curve of my breast before closing around the nipple with firm, wet suction.

 A low sound escaped me.

 Arthur answered with a quiet hum of approval and slipped his hand beneath my skirt, pushing the fabric higher until his fingers found the soaked edge of my underwear.

 He stroked once, twice, dragging the fabric aside, then sank two fingers deep into the slick heat between my legs.

 The penetration was smooth and unapologetic.

 He curled his fingers with precise pressure, stroking the sensitive spot inside until my thighs trembled, while his thumb worked slow, firm circles over my swollen clit.

 I gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive wool of his jacket as wetness coated his fingers.

 When he withdrew them I made a small sound of protest, but he was already freeing himself.

 The blunt, thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, hot and heavy.

 He paused, eyes locked on mine.

 “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said quietly.

 I did not answer with words.

 I sank down instead, taking him in one long, stretching glide.

 The fullness was immediate and overwhelming, my inner walls clenching tight around every inch as he filled me completely.

 Arthur’s hands tightened on my hips as I began to move, each rise and fall driving him deeper.

 Wet sounds filled the room.

 He met every descent with an upward thrust that struck the same sensitive place his fingers had found, the head of his cock dragging against it with each stroke until I was dripping around him.

 He shifted us without breaking rhythm, laying me back on the sectional so that my shoulders rested against the cool glass.

 The city lights fractured across his shoulders as he drove into me harder, deeper, one hand braced beside my head while the other slid beneath my knee to open me wider.

 Every thrust sent sparks behind my eyelids.

 My rational framework is fragmented.

 I came with a broken cry, inner muscles clenching and pulsing around him in rhythmic spasms that milked his cock.

 Arthur followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt as heat flooded inside me in thick, pulsing waves.

 For several seconds, the only movement was the rise and fall of our chests.

 Arthur remained above me, breathing measured, one hand still cradling the back of my skull.

 We made love three times before Arthur finally stopped.

 I rose on unsteady legs, the throw clutched around me, and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window.

 Behind me, I heard him moving—the quiet rustle of fabric as he straightened his trousers.

 Arthur Sterling's reflection hovering behind mine in the glass, I knew one thing for certain: I'd sold myself into this marriage to survive.

 The question was whether I'd still recognize myself when the contract finally ended.